Chapter Text
What kind of agent is Abby anyway? What right does he have to call himself an agent, even. This schmuck. Why do they pay him the kind of money they pay him if he can’t even get Dean out of a stupid, pointless, two-week gig back in New Jersey when they’re right in the middle of of a goddamn twelve-week run in Chicago? At the Chez Paree no less, which is a beautiful club with elegant clientele who are absolutely gagging for Dean and Jerry three times a night. Jesus Christ, Abby.
Plus, Dean'll have to go over to Manhattan at least a couple times and Jerry knows how much he hates making that journey across the George Washington Bridge, sitting in the traffic, stuck. And that's if he even makes it back east in the first place! He’s a goddamn liability when he has to travel by himself. If no one's there with him he’ll probably end up in Delaware, or Australia or on the fucking moon. Jerry kicks the desk in frustration.
“When I said ‘get him out of it’ Abby, I meant get him out of it. What part of that did you not understand?”
“Jerry, Jerry. Sit down for God’s sake. Make less of yourself.”
They’re in the back office at the Chez. Abby’s folded his cadaverous frame into a plush wingback and is smoking calmly while Jerry rants.
“I don’t want to sit down! I want my partner to stay here, working with me, where he’s supposed to be. We have a contract, Abby. You negotiated it! What the hell are you thinking?”
There’s a big leather swivel chair behind the desk and Jerry flops down into it, swinging around so that he has his back to Abby and doesn’t have to look at his stupid skull face anymore.
“Jerry,” he says, like he’s explaining something to a child. “It’s Bill Miller, and you know as well as I do whose pocket he’s in. You do not say no to Miller, especially when you owe him a favour. And Dean owes him a big favour.”
Jerry does know exactly whose pocket Miller is in: that’s why he’s scared half out of his wits. He doesn’t turn around, just slumps lower in his chair and kicks the wastepaper basket into a corner. Abby winces.
“Believe me Jerry, this is the best solution for everyone. Miller’s, hmm, 'associate' gets Dean singing at his daughter’s wedding, he’s happy. Miller gets Dean for singing for free at the Riviera for a few nights either side, he’s happy.” Abby starts counting the points off on his spindly fingers. “Mike and Joey are making a truckload of cash regardless, plus they get a few nights where the Chez doesn’t get destroyed by you two maniacs, they’re happy. Dean gets one more wiseguy off his back, he’s happy. I don't have to figure out how to make my ten percent off a dead client, I'm happy.”
"Don't joke about that."
"I'm sorry Jer." He lets his hands drop into his lap. “But who's not happy here? You. You're the only one. It's just two weeks. Wouldn't you like the spotlight to yourself for once?”
“No. That spotlight’s half Dean’s.”
“Look, I know you’re worried about him,” Abby sighs, “but ol’ Dino can take care of himself. You know that better than anyone.”
“I ain’t worried about him,” he says petulantly. “I’m worried about the act.”
“Sure you are.”
“This is the worst possible time to be taking separate engagements, Abby. We're really taking off. We need people to know we’re a team, me and Dean. I need to know we're a team, and you're not gonna just keep... taking him away.” He tails off.
“Sure, sure. Which is exactly why I’ve booked Dean onto the Jack Eigen show right in the middle of each week. He’ll do a couple numbers, chat to Jack and tell the good people of the East Coast all about where they can come see you fellas when you’re back in town, and what a great time they’ll have. It’s all figured out Jerry, trust me. You don’t need to be worrying about this, that’s what I’m here for. Now quit sulking.”
Jerry swings the chair around to face Abby.
“I’m not sulking,” he says, sulkily.
Abby’s face takes on a kinder expression. Levering himself up from the chair he gathers his cigarettes, his hat and his battered old briefcase. He’s getting ready to leave.
“So this is fine now, okay? We understand each other?”
Jerry nods reluctantly, which Abby correctly interprets as the closest thing to agreement he’s going to get.
“Okay, good. So. Dean leaves for Fort Lee tomorrow; you stay here in Chicago. He goes and sings like his life depends on it, which it does. You stay and emcee like your career depends on it, which it does. And Dean will be fine: he’s doing exactly what they want, so no one’s going to bother him. Okay? No one's going to hurt him. In two week’s time you can have a beautiful reunion, fall on each other’s necks, and then ride off into the sunset together. Till death do you part. Simple. Okay, Jerry?”
“No, not okay. But I guess I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“No Jerry,” Abby shakes his head, “you do not. You’ll make sure he gets to the station?”
“Yes.”
“And onto the correct train?”
“Of course.”
“Good, good.”
Abby leaves, letting a blast of nightclub hubbub into the office as he goes. Jerry pouts after him, swings the chair around a few times and kicks the desk again for good measure. Goddamn it.