Chapter Text
Ollie stood outside of the two metal doors that blocked off a large room once used for storage. Now it was used for whatever purpose Alfie had at whatever time he needed it. Today Ollie knew that Alfie found out who had been sneaking information from the bakery to Sabini and he was not happy about it. They’d been at it for hours. The shouting, and wailing, hadn’t stopped for more than a minute. Despite the stone walls and metal doors, Ollie could make out exactly what he was saying; none of it was pretty.
He had instructed Thomas Shelby to stay at the entrance, but the Blinder refused and followed Ollie to the metal doors. He remained quiet and planted himself firmly against the wall, just to the left, and waited for the younger Jew to enter and draw Alfie’s attention. Ollie raised his hand to knock on the doors, but stopped when he heard Alfie shouting again. He winced and waited for the tangent to be over before he heard a whimper of pain and the sound of something heavy hitting the stone floor.
Then, there was a brief moment of silence. Ollie inhaled deeply and pushed the door open, stepped inside the room and stared at the blood spread around. Though the room was dimly lit by a single bulb with no windows to assist it, he could see the shades of crimson littering the area.
“Alfie - uh - Mis - um - Mister Shelby is here,” Ollie timidly announced from the door.
Alfie was hunched over the treacherous employee tied to a chair, while three of his subordinates stood around him; two of them moved to lift the victim into an upright position off the ground. The man’s face was bloodied and bruised, and his breathing was all but audible. Red residue splattered most of Alfie’s white shirt, even the backside, and his face. His hands were red and his cane was slick from the amount of viscous blood running down it. The handle was especially sticky from the number of impacts it had made on the man’s body and face. The baker spit on the battered victim and held out his cane to be taken by the man on his right. He wiped his hands on his shirt and glanced over his shoulder at Ollie.
“Tell him I’m busy. Fuck off.”
“I – I did, Alfie. He won’t leave.”
With a huff, Alfie leaned down to eye level of his current victim and grabbed him by the chin. Though he couldn’t see into his swollen eyes, the baker acted as if he could. “I’m not done with you yet. Hm? You hear me? The boys here will keep you alive until I get back,” he spoke gently before he pat the man’s cheek which elicited a gasp of pain from him. Alfie stood up straight and made a hand gesture to the others in the room. The only sounds heard were the panicked whimpers of the traitor.
“Where’s he at – I’ll tell him to fuck off, myself,” Alfie grunted. Focused on the distillery ahead of him, he hadn’t even noticed Tommy as he stormed out of the room.
“You can tell me that all you like, but I’m not leaving,” Tommy mused with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He cocked a brow and gave Alfie’s bloodied attire a once over.
“Little preoccupied right now, mate. Handling it,” Alfie retorted sharply. “Come back tomorrow.”
“Can’t do that,” Thomas nonchalantly returned his gaze to Alfie’s face. “I’ve got things to do tomorrow.”
“Well I ain’t putting this off for you, I’m getting it done now.”
“Then I’ll wait,” Thomas gestured to the unoccupied office he and Alfie usually met in, across the distillery.
Alfie rolled his eyes and gave Ollie a shove, leaving a faded, pink hand print on the other’s white sleeve.
“Take him over there. Don’t let him touch anything. When I’m done, I’ll be in.”
Ollie obliged and Thomas stared at Alfie for another moment before he nodded. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and put it out on the bottom of his shoe.
The baker returned to the storage room and resumed the savage assault of the man he’d already spent three hours interrogating and battering. The man was going to die whether or not Alfie got the information he wanted; particularly because he was already confident he knew the answers. He played on the man’s fears, shouted, cussed, spit, and threatened him with his own religion.
Although betrayals and backstabbing were essentially anticipated in the business, Alfie took particular offense to the betrayal he’d been encumbered with. It was personal and not simply a ploy for power or ascension in the gang. In fact, betraying Alfie at the level Gersham – the traitor – was at would have done nothing for him on the Jewish side. The only possible gains were monetary, until Sabini ran out of use for him. Surely, he had to know that. His motivations were made clear, through strained breaths, gasps, and between pleas for his life. He was more upset at himself for trusting Gersham and that slow-creeping self-loathing wasn’t something the baker felt often.
He didn’t bother to do the man a courtesy of putting him out of his misery easily. He made certain to cause as much physical harm as possible to him before he made a false promise to set him free. Then, when he was finally done and had gotten his fill of aggression out, Alfie choked him to death with his bloodied hands. When he finished he kicked the corpse and, between panting breaths, gave detailed instructions on what to do with the body in delivering it to Sabini, mutilated and gory.
The baker entered his office, ignoring both Ollie and his guest. Thomas observed that Alfie was substantially bloodier than he had been before. He didn’t comment, however, and simply smoked his cigarette while he watched Alfie fumble around his office for an off-white rag, appearing to be more dirty than sanitary. The baker removed his vest and the bloodied shirt, revealing a slightly cleaner, white one underneath. He dropped the wet shirt to the floor and chose to ignore it. He turned his back to the two and departed the office, disappearing into the restroom where he spent some time scrubbing at the blood on his hands and face.
By the time he returned, it was an hour later. His suspenders hung by his sides and the white shirt he wore was tucked into his trousers. He looked like a man ready to call it a night, as opposed to get started on conversation. He still clutched the damp, off-white rag and scrubbed at his face. He turned toward Thomas, though didn't say anything aside from dismissing Ollie from the room with a quiet “fuck off.” They remained in silence for another moment, until the Blinder finished his cigarette and decided to speak up.
“How did you get blood on the back of your shirt,” he asked, cocking his head and gesturing to the clothes on the floor.
“… fuck if I know,” Alfie muttered, though assumed it must have happened when he was resting his cane on his shoulder. “Why are you here, again?”
Tommy took a short inventory of Alfie's expression and tried to read as much as he could. The man was obviously angry and still full of fire, but he seemed a little off and Tommy wasn’t about to discuss business with a man that couldn’t center himself; particularly over the details of a new potential deal. With Alfie being as unpredictable as he was, there was no guarantee that he would be doing himself any favors trying to take advantage of a somewhat vulnerable Alfie.
“Consider it a courtesy visit,” Thomas mused, sitting upright in his chair. “I was going to talk business, but I suppose you’re not in the mood for that.”
Albeit Alfie would never admit it, he was thankful to avoid the topic of business for now. “Yeah? So what the fuck do you want,” he demanded.
“How about a drink, to start us off,” Thomas suggested, withdrawing a new cigarette and placing it between his lips. He used a match to light it and watched Alfie’s face. Although he was scrubbing at dried blood beneath his beard, he managed to convey an affirmative nod and gestured to the cabinet behind Thomas.
“Right. Get us a glass,” he murmured. He spent a few more seconds scratching the reddened skin, then he placed the cloth down and lowered his hand to retrieve a bottle of white rum from the desk drawer as he took a seat. When Thomas placed the two glasses down on the desk, Alfie poured liquor into both and raised his glass to halfheartedly toast his companion.
“So,” Thomas mused, quickly finishing his drink and placing the glass back down. “Do I get to know what this mystery employee of yours did to set you off?”
“No,” Alfie barked back without hesitation.
“I suppose that’s fair. Your business is your own, though, could you answer me one thing –”
“It ain’t affecting our business,” Alfie mumbled, refilling the glasses and sliding one to Thomas. “It’s personal.”
“Good to know. That’s an awful lot of clothing gone to waste,” he gestured to Alfie’s abandoned attire. “And a lot of time to spend cleaning up, I’m sure.”
Keeping his glare on Thomas, Alfie drank the contents of his glass and waited for Thomas to do the same. He raised the bottle of rum again, this time filling one glass with more than a few fingers worth and pushing it toward the Blinder. “I don’t worry about that, mate. I don’t worry about nothing.”
“Ollie said his name is Gersham.”
“Was Gersham.”
Thomas finished the cigarette he’d been smoking between drinks and put it out in the ash tray ahead of him. He kept his gaze on Alfie as he slowly nursed the glass of rum he’d been given. Alfie, on the other hand, took a long drink directly from the bottle and exhaled sharply after he swallowed. The best way to fish information out of Alfie was to let him talk until he ran out of steam, something useful he'd learned from the many meetings with his partner.
“Yeah. Turns out, right, he’s been feeding stuff to the Italians this whole fucking time. I knew someone was doing it, yeah, obviously. No honor among thieves and all that but – mate,” Alfie paused and turned his attention to the wall before he began using his free hand to make some grandiose gesture as he leaned back in his chair. “This fucking man – I helped him throw a bat mitzvah for his fucking daughter, eh? I don’t do that for all the lads. I trusted him, right, and I didn’t see it fucking coming.”
Thomas sat quietly and let Alfie rant about Gersham, including some tidbit about ‘Gersham’ meaning ‘exiled’ in Hebrew. Alfie, though he was furious about the betrayal in general, seemed rather accepting of the act itself. What he wasn’t happy with was his own judgment of Gersham. He mentioned several times in his raving that he hadn’t “seen it coming.” Tommy knew exactly what Alfie was talking about; the precise emotion he was feeling on top of betrayed. The one that made him question himself far too many times; the one that felt like a stabbing, jarring pain in the gut every time he tried to make a decision. This particular feeling couldn’t be dispelled even with all the liquor and opium in the world; no medicine could wash away the pain in the head; it ached from the very base of his skull to the front. It was something to make even the most hardened gangster doubt himself.
Finally, Alfie’s aggressive ranting calmed down and as he was taking a drink to finish off the bottle of rum, Thomas decided what he was going to reply with. He sipped from the glass before he lit a new cigarette and placed the glass down.
“I thought they were called bar mitzvahs,” he casually stated, his eyes focused on the cigarette.
“What –” Alfie paused and returned his attention to Thomas. “No, well, yeah. Bar mitzvahs for boys, right, and bat mitzvahs are for girls.”
“I didn’t know that. What's the difference?”
“Same thing, mate, just different names for the boys and girls.”
“I see,” Thomas mumbled, then took a drag of his cigarette and blew smoke toward Alfie. “You learn something new every day," he referred to both the -mitzvah difference as well as all the candid information Alfie had given him.
“Yeah – right.”
“I don’t suppose that’s the only bottle you’ve got to share,” he motioned briefly to the now-empty bottle of rum Alfie placed on the desk.
“Whisky or rum,” he asked, rising from his seat and turning his back to Thomas once more.
“I thought 'whisky was for business,'” he borderline mocked.
“You boys like your Irish whisky, don’t you. Figure I can make an exception.”
“Rum is fine,” Thomas said before he finished what was left of his drink.
The pair poured the liquor relatively evenly between their glasses. Alfie made some bitter conversation about his former employee and Thomas simply listened. When it came time to talk, Tommy only mentioned little things and expressed that he understood Alfie’s disappointment in himself. Though neither would ever admit to openly second-guessing themselves, they understood each other on a level that only they could. Before they knew it, they were already opening a third bottle to share.
The conversation departed the topics of self-loathing and insubordination, in favor of lighter topics. They compared notes on the differences between Jewish and Gypsy parties. Alfie briefly brought up Arthur, to which Thomas informed him of his brother’s new attachment to religion. He then quickly discarded that piece of conversation and picked up another; making more inquiries about the bakery front. Things quickly dwindled down to the two sharing fond memories of a post-war England, the parties they’d attended, casual use of cocaine, and generally good feeling conversation.
Towards the end of the third bottle, Alfie began making jokes about Tommy’s Gypsy heritage.
“Maybe I should’ve asked you lot who was going to be led astray, eh,” he laughed as he finished off the last of his glass and shook the empty bottle.
Thomas cracked a smile at the suggestion and placed his glass down, not having touched it for several minutes. He felt warm inside and knew he was drinking a bit too fast in comparison to his normal rate. The liquor had crept up on him and he was powerless to make the incoming intoxication abate.
“Maybe you should have,” was all he could muster in response.
“Mate, you gonna drink that,” Alfie asked, gesturing to the abandoned drink.
Thomas looked down at it and shook his head, then pushed the glass toward Alfie. The baker inhaled the drink in a single swig, and then placed the glass down.
“So, what’s it. Do you lot actually tell fortunes or is that all just a big fucking scam like I said,” Alfie returned to the conversation.
“Depends who you ask,” Thomas mused and raised his shoulders up, a bit too inebriated to further elaborate.
“Okay, what’s my fortune then, eh, Tommy? Do I got another one of these coming?”
Tommy stared at Alfie for a moment before he managed to retrieve a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. He turned his gaze away only to light the stick; afterwards his glossed-over stare was directed back to his companion.
“Give me your hand,” he demanded, standing up and rounding the desk to stand next to Alfie.
The baker obliged, with his right hand, and turned in his chair to face Thomas. Taking the offered hand, Thomas held it palm-up and lowered himself to a squat in front of Alfie. He kept the cigarette between his lips as he ran a finger over the various lines on the other’s hand. After a brief series of ‘hm’s, Thomas pulled the cigarette from his lips and cast the smoke downwards. He touched the center of Alfie’s palm and followed a line toward his forefinger.
“This one says your future is full of hardship and pain,” he spoke, then shifted his eyes up to meet Alfie’s. “You have a hard life ahead of you.” He then looked back down as he traced another line that led toward the middle finger. “This one says you’ll experience some betrayal and you will betray,” his slurred muttering elicited a laugh from Alfie and he returned the cigarette to his mouth. “But,” he spoke, lifting his gaze again, and laid his palm flat against Alfie’s, effectively caressing his entire hand with both of his own on either side. “You will find fortune - whether or not it’s enough for you is beyond my vision.”
The two stared at each other in silence for a moment before Thomas could no longer refrain from smirking; his attempt at reading palms an obvious joke. They both let out a short burst of drunken laughter before Alfie grabbed a hold of Thomas’ hand and leaned forward, cocking his head to the side. “Right, and what about fucking, eh?”
“Of course, one of those lines says ‘you’re Alfie Solomons of Camden Town, you can fuck whenever you want.’”
“And what do those lines say about tonight, mate.”
“I was going to suggest cash for your reading, but I suppose that's one form of payment.”