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It’s kinda funny, seeing Luciano hanging around with a couple of Yids these days. When Gyp met him, Charlie couldn’t have been more than sixteen, seventeen maybe. His pop kicked him out, tough break, ain’t it a shame - and Gyp had tripped over the kid’s ankles, catching him asleep under a table at the pool hall.
“The fuck are you doing?”
It had taken Charlie - though he still went by Sal then, didn’t he - about a half a second to regain himself as Gyp dragged him out from under the table.
And he promptly kicked Gyp in the balls.
Which led - after some scrambling, a broken pool cue and Rosetti swallowing bile before he got thrown out for vomiting all over the floor - to Gyp throwing the kid against the wall in the alley out back and fully intending to beat him within an inch of his life.
Except Charlie pulled a knife.
“...You little shit.”
It’s a half laugh out of Gyp’s mouth, enough to make Charlie drop his guard - still on his toes, though, with his back against the wall.
But he’d ended up staying at Gyp’s place anyway, for a while - because Gyp offered him hot water, food and a place to sleep besides the floor of a pool hall, and he was a good while away from affording even one of those on his own.
That little arrangement though, was how he found out Charlie’s dirty little secret.
Because the kid - sure, he was tough. Still is now, more than ever, and Gyp would never think different from nothing. Still carries a knife, too, no matter what Rothstein taught him.
After all, fellas like Gyp taught him first.
But Charlie, Gyp knows, he’s still got that thing about him he didn’t seem to shake. The one that had him crawling into Gyp’s lap after a few glasses of cheap wine, waking up in the morning and doing it again without it.
He’s a dirty little queer.
Of course, Gyp is too - no two ways about it, because he got so hard his balls hurt when Charlie asked for it.
The difference is that little Charlie Luciano won’t admit it.
Doesn’t keep him from it anyway, though. Gyp found out quick that the kid liked sucking him off - or just the feel of something in his mouth, since his fingers would do just fine to get him going too.
He’d bristle a little at the nicknames, sure. Gyp calling him Toto when he pushed him up against the counter, manico when he’s on his knees, effe when he’s mewling, pounded til he’s shaking and striped with Gyp’s come and the prints from where he smacked him.
But he always shrugs it off the moment they’re right there in it, when he’s sprawled over Rosetti’s chest with three of the older man’s fingers stretching him open, when Gyp finally takes them out and makes him ask for it. The kid’s always real tight, sliding down onto him inch by little inch, and Gyp’s always a little surprised that he can fit it all.
That’s a sight though - Charlie Luciano sitting on his cock. A privilege, maybe, since the kid don’t play around with nobody else that he’s seen.
At least, until he sees the way Charlie looks at Rothstein - and if it had been a few years back, a kid with a knife in an alleyway, he’d have laughed in his dirty little face.
But instead he saunters up, motor oil under his nails, and the dog squirming under his arm because he still smells blood.
“You gonna introduce us to your date?”
It’s gonna be like that, then. Of course it is.
They aren’t kids anymore, after all.