All that Jazz
By Simarillion

Fandom: SPN RPS
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, Jared/Sandy
Rating: R/NC-17
Beta:
Warning: Language, Violence, M/M
Wordcount: 2,981 (3,749 overall)
Summary: It’s Chicago 1929 and it’s the age of Prohibition and Jazz, of Al Capone and gang wars, it’s the time where the American Dream is a dream no longer, but has become reality. In these days everything is possible if you want it to be, but nothing goes.
Disclaimer: Some of the persons mentioned are real, same goes for some events and places. The plot though is not real. So, no, Jared was and/or is not a Consigliere for the Italian Mob, and Jensen’s no jazz singer either.
This story is made up and I do not claim to know anything about the characters privat life and/or their sexual preferences. No money is made with the writing of this piece of fiction.
Author’s Note: This is actually a prompt that I found on SPN Bunnies posted by Sinner_thatbe. I’m not sure if the story is what was being asked for, but it’s just the way it wanted itself written by me.

[Masterpost]



Chapter One - A Change in Management


The interior of the Poison Ivy Club is ripe with the smoke hanging in the air. Milky white lamps hang low into the room. Small tables and chairs fill the floor. There’s a small stage at the other side of the room, opposite the entrance, and the small band heats the room with hot jazz tunes. In the front a man wearing a snazzy suit tips the microphone and sings along with the lively music.

The tables are full, all of them, the noise of the crowd almost drowns out the band and its singer, but nothing shakes the musicians on the stage, no cheer, no quarrel, and even none of the fights that break out over drinks, women or business.

The Poison Ivy Club is famous, but no tourists are found in the establishment, because the fame of the Club is more related to the mafia connection it has. Everyone in Chicago, and not only from there, knows that the business is Al Capone’s, and it’s his favorite possession real estate-wise. Almost every night the police visit the Club, but even though it has been raided five times in the past, nothing was found that could be used against the boss of the city.

In the years since Al Capone’s rise to the city’s most powerful mafia boss, the small establishment has slowly turned into a venue where the crime world of Chicago meets to do talk about agreements, negotiate terms of covenants, and do business.

Work at the Poison Ivy Club is hard, and all of the people employed have to meet with the owner’s standards. Every last one of them. But getting the job is easy compared to keeping it. The rate of mortality increases with the level of the rank, and in the last fifteen months, the Club has seen no more than five changes in management.

Two weeks ago, Billy Bortolocci, the last manager of the Poison Ivy, died in a bar fight. Rumor has it that Billy tried to steal money from the Club, but nothing’s been said for sure. The only thing that can be confirmed is, that he tried to stop a fight that had broken out, and somehow he had gotten stabbed. Unsurprisingly enough, the murderer was never found out. A jazz club full of eye-witnesses couldn’t remember who stuck the knife into Bortolocci.

So the last fourteen days there had been no real management. This was about to change. There had been much talk about who would take over at the Poison Ivy, and the decision that was made surprised everyone. It is no-one else but Jared Padalecki, the big boss’ very own Consigliere, who was to run the Club from now on.

This piece of news started many speculations. Some said that the big boss was trying to get a tighter grip on the establishment and the neighborhood by sending his right hand. But there was also the talk of Al Capone trying to get rid of his Consigliere, by placing him at the most dangerous place possible. Whatever the real reason for this move was, nothing was said by anyone, and therefore rumors were all that anyone knew about the affair.

So, when Jared Padalecki arrives at the club that Friday evening, many of the guests present were more curious about the new manager than this nights music and entertainment. Not really because there was any change to be expected around the club, but more so because it was something of a mystery that needed solving.

The man everyone talks about, some openly, some in hushed voices, is well aware of the interest in his person. It is one of many reasons why he feels nervous walking into the Poison Ivy Club. Jared has been here before. Of course he has. He didn’t become the big boss’ Consigliere without being to the Club at least a dozen times. It’s different though entering the establishment as a guest, or as the one responsible for it.

One look around the dimly lit club is enough to see that the club is fuller than usually. Together with the civilian crowd, the adventurous lovers of hot jazz and performers, many gang members have found their way to the Poison Ivy tonight, and there’s barely enough space for the waiters to find their way from the bar to the tables.

All this excitement about his own person is something Jared abhors, but he knows that it’s not possible to get where he is without gathering publicity’s attention. He tries his best to ignore the looks he gets, fighting the shiver that all the eyes resting on him causes, and makes his way through the club to the stair next to the bar.

Usually two or three men would accompany him on business errands, but Jared had begged off, pointing out that the club is full with men working for the Outfit, that do just fine as protection for him. Truth is that he wants to do this job without always having someone breathing down his neck.

The staircase leads, into a small corridor, and up to the office. The entrance is a glass door, but blinds hide the interior. This comes as a relief. It would be uncomfortable to sit in the office, being on display, for everyone to see.

The door rattles slightly when Jared pushes it open. He enters, his hand searching the wall next to the entrance for the light switch. One flick with his hand and the lamp sheds some more light on the office room. It’s not a lot of illumination, since the lamp seems to be of the same design as the ones in the club downstairs, but at least it spends enough light to prevent Jared from stubbing his toes on any corners or pieces of furniture.

Surprisingly the office is of a nice size, filing cabinets against the wall, a small bar in one corner, and a long glass front that enables him to watch the people in the club. The blinds are down, and Jared is certain that there won’t be many times that he’ll pull them up.

The desk is sturdy and there’s already a hefty pile of papers sitting in the middle of it, waiting for him to go through them, to balance sheets, place orders and go through the program of the club.

Jared heaves a deep breath and shrugs off his coat. He hangs it up and puts his fedora up on the hat stand. He’s tired after today’s meeting at the Lexington, but he feels like he has to get some work done at his knew work place. There hasn’t been anyone taking care of things in the last two weeks, and it’s high time that someone does.

It really is too dark in the office to read anything, and so he switches on the small lamp on the desk. His eyes immediately fall on the papers in front off him. Deciding to get it over with, Jared walks around the desk and sits down in the leather chair behind it. At least the chair is comfortable.

Reluctantly he starts rifling through the bills, letters, documents and notes. There’s no real order in the pile, and he starts by sorting everything by type and then by date.

Jared’s eyes flick to the thick book resting at the right corner of the desk. He isn’t really that good with numbers, and maybe he should get Mike to help him with the financial aspect of this job. It’s not like his friend has anything better to do, being his accountant after all. Michael Rosenbaum, “Mad Mike” for his friends, has been with Jared on this thing from the beginning, right from the first day he joined the Chicago Outfit. There’s no-one he trusts more than him.

Since he can’t do much on the money front without Mike, Jared takes the pile of bills and puts it on top of the book, he’ll come back tomorrow with his friend and they’ll go over things then.

Next is the stack of notes that include inventories of the establishments stock, as well as notes about employees. Most of the papers are written in the same scraggly handwriting. The letters are slightly squished and there are more spelling mistakes in them than anything else. Each and every one of them is signed with T.W. The writer was nobody else but Tom Welling, the head bar keeper.

It might be a good idea to have Welling continue with the inventory. Jared has not the slightest interest in spending his precious time counting whiskey bottles and keeping track of the amount of cigarettes that are still stocked. With the added responsibility Jared can pay the bar keeper more. Higher salary ultimately results in higher motivation and eventually in more loyalty. And loyalty is something that’s worth more than all the money in this world. The notes and the lists are mind-numbingly boring after a couple of minutes, but Jared forces himself to at least scan them, for any in detail information he’ll have to ask Tom Welling anyway.

When he looks up from the list of beverages in front of him, his gaze lands on the bar in the opposite corner, and Jared decides that he really needs something to drink if he’s to get through a night of paperwork. It’s not like he never did any of it before. As the Consigliere of the Big Boss, he sees more papers and letters, and such, than he can stomach, on most days, but at least with the paperwork he is responsible for usually, he gets to do something interesting with. Here, the only excitement is in misplacing a bill, or maybe even two.

Leaning back, he ponders the merit of getting drunk on his first evening as the club’s owner, but another glimpse at the heaps of papers and books in front of him, makes this decision for him. There’s a large selection of rum, whiskey, gin and other distills in the bar. Jared picks the biggest bottle he finds, and armed now with a bottle of whiskey and a snifter, he heads back to the desk, and his work.

The drink is smooth, and he’s got to compliment the previous club manager on the perfect choice, drink-wise. The alcohol burns slightly as it runs down his throat. The feeling leaves behind a comfortable warmth and mellows his darkening mood. Another sip, and his stomach is all relaxed and warm too.

Jared sits back into the leather chair and closes his eyes. Times like these where he actually has the time during work to enjoy some of the comforts that come with the job of being the Big Boss’s Consigliere are rare. Far too often over-eager lowlifes, and in more cases than there should be, even Capos of the Outfit, are far too busy wreaking havoc, to let Jared do anything else but work all around the clock. Being the one responsible for taking care of the public image of the group is hard and demands all of his waking hours.

When he joined the Outfit more than ten years ago, he’d been nothing but a scrawny teenage boy with scraped knees. True, he had not understood the full consequences and meaning of his actions, but there hasn’t been a second so far, when he’d regretted the choices he made back then. His chosen family had been good to him, and if today the quarrels and the politics seem to suffocate him, or drive him insane, he thinks back about the alternative options he had had, and he’s once more content with everything.

It had taken some time for Jared to work his way up, from a measly pocket thief and errand boy, to the top of the chain. There’s no-one with a higher rank. Only the big boss is of greater importance, and he’s also the only one, he takes orders from.

During his fight to the top he had to make many enemies, and he’s done a lot of things other people would judge him for, but he just can’t find fault with his past deals and actions. He knows that many ‘honest’ people, who condemn the organized and the unorganized crime, are not the tiniest bit different. Behind their closed doors, they cheat, beat, whore, and kill, just the same.

The best example for the goodness of the people of today is the Rule 21. It is actually amusing to watch how Al Capone can earn 60 million dollars a year by selling bootlegged alcohol to the good and god-fearing people of this country. Jared knows no criminal who drinks half as much as the crowds that flood the saloons and speakeasies, the blind pigs and bars.

His responsibilities have changed over time, and he hasn’t been directly involved in hits and executions for some time, years even. His work resolves more around the public representation of the Outfit. Besides keeping an eye on the monetary dealings, he spends most of his time creating the image of a friendly, sympathetic organization, led by a charming man. The public loves their crime lord, and the Big Boss loves being adored by the citizens of Chicago.

With the addition of the Club to his charges, Jared knows that his already precious time will be even less, but he also realizes the implications of the act. He doesn’t believe for a second the rumors that have been spreading everywhere, and that have him portrayed with a target painted on his back.

Jared is aware of the importance of his installment at the Poison Ivy. For quite some time Moran and his men have been nipping at Al Capone’s heels, robbing alcohol trucks, and stealing from the Outfit. So far there haven’t been any greater reprimands. All accusations were answered with denial and lies, and the situation is slowly but surely getting out of hand. It is not possible to openly seek retribution for the insults that they had to suffer, but it is possible to make it harder for the Irish to continue their dealings.

The last letter is read and Jared stacks them neatly at the side, taking the book that rests on top of the pile. More figures and lists, and the figures start to blur in front of his eyes. The hour is getting later with every minute that passes, and when he almost nods off, pouring over salaries of musicians and singers, he has to admit defeat.

There are times when he stays up much longer, but today he just can’t stay awake. Sorting the read papers, letters and books from the ones he still has to go through, he picks two folders to take home, and then puts the whiskey back to the bar.

The soulful whailing of a trumpet has him glimpse down at the stage. He stumbles slight forward, and rests his head against the cool glass that separates him from the establishment below. Hidden from sight he closes his eyes and lets the music wash over him. The piece is rather slow, and the singer spins a tale about night, clubs, and a beautiful girl.

It’s some time later that Jared wakes from his doze. His forehead is indented from the blinds, and his neck and back ache from the awkward position he’s been standing in. His eyes tear lightly and his presses his fingers against the closed lids.

This time he ignores the music and grabs the folders from the desk, and the hat and coat from the hat stand. Smoky air fills his lungs as he descends the stairs. He squints against the blue mist hanging like a presence in the room, only being swirled around by the ventilators on the ceiling. The crowd has thinned a little since he arrived. Less tourists, more Outfit members.

Jared nods his goodbye to Welling and makes for the exit. He’s read some more files at home, in bed, and then get some rest before he has to show up at the Lexington bright and early in the morning. The night air hits him in the face with its coolness. He shoves the folders into the interior pockets of his coat and tugs it closed.

Thankfully his driver shows up quickly. Murray, who just like Jared is not Italian and still a member of the Outfit, navigates them through the empty streets of Chicago. Usually the man would be talking nonstop about one thing or another, but at night he often keeps quiet. Maybe too tired to keep up a one-sided conversation.

As they draw nearer to his home, he feels himself sinking deeper and deeper into the seat of the car. The leather is warmed up by his body heat and feels soft against him. Jared has trouble keeping his eyes open till they stop in front of the two storey house. His limbs are heavy and his movements somewhat sluggish.

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Mr. Murray. Tomorrow we leave for the Lexington around six o’clock.” He climbs out and stretches lightly.

“Yes, sir.” The reply is almost cut off from him closing the car door. He walks up to the door, ignoring the sound of the car leaving, and fumbles for his keys in the pocket of his slacks. A couple of seconds later he’s inside, and throws the entrance closed. There’s more silence and darkness that greets him, but he’s grateful that there’ll be no interruptions to his sleep.

Coat and hat deposited at the coat tree, shoes toed off on the stairs, Jared shrugs out of the rest of his clothes before his face hits the pillow on his bed, and drifts off without taking so much as another glance at the work he took home with him.

Soon the sound of snoring fills the room.



Continue: Chapter Two - Minnie the Moocher