Billy Kitchen accepted the whiskey Jimmy poured, both men settling into the uncomfortable ritual of conversation neither particularly wanted but both recognized as necessary.
The office felt smaller with Billy's presence—another person occupying space Jimmy had come to think of as his isolation made physical.
"You're wondering why I'm here," Billy said, not quite a question.
"I'm wondering several things. Why you're here is among them." Jimmy lit a cigarette, buying time to assess the situation. "Last I heard, you were in Glasgow. Thomas Bennett, successful merchant, son recovering from tuberculosis. That was the life I arranged for you."
"It was. It is." Billy turned the glass in his hands, studying the amber liquid. "The boy's healthy now. Strong. I have work, a home, something resembling normal life. You gave me all of that, Mr. Cartwright, and I'm grateful."
"But?"
"But I've spent eighteen months watching your operations from distance. Receiving your occasional requests for Glasgow intelligence. Understanding how you work."
Billy met Jimmy's eyes directly. "And I've figured something out that's been bothering me since the day you faked my death."
Jimmy waited, already calculating responses to various accusations Billy might make.
"You saved my life by making me your asset," Billy said quietly. "That's not salvation, Mr. Cartwright. That's recruitment."
The observation landed with uncomfortable accuracy. Jimmy kept his expression neutral, professional. "I gave you a second chance. Identity, resources, passage to safety. Your son got the treatment he needed."
"You did. All true." Billy leaned forward slightly. "But let's be honest about what actually happened. I betrayed the Shelbys because Section D offered to pay for my son's treatment—the only way I could afford the sanatorium.
You discovered my betrayal, and instead of letting Arthur kill me, you arranged something that looked like mercy but served multiple strategic purposes."
"Such as?"
"Such as demonstrating to the family that strategic thinking could solve problems violence would only complicate. Such as creating asset in Glasgow who'd provide intelligence out of gratitude.
Such as establishing yourself as the merciful alternative to Arthur's brutality." Billy's voice carried no anger, just weary recognition. "The helping was real. But it was never only helping."
Jimmy stubbed out his cigarette, reaching for another. "You're alive. Your son is healthy. Does the motivation behind that matter?"
"It matters because it's pattern." Billy pulled folded papers from his coat. "Section D approached me again two months ago. Offered money, protection, asked me to resume intelligence gathering on Shelby operations."
Jimmy tensed despite himself. "And?"
"I refused. Told them I'd left that life behind." Billy spread the papers on the desk—correspondence, meeting notes, recruitment attempts. "But in refusing, I learned something interesting.
They didn't understand why I'd refuse. Said I had 'existing relationship with Shelby intelligence operations' and should be 'motivated to continue that relationship given how it had benefited me previously.'"
"What's your point?"
"My point is that everyone you 'help' becomes piece on your board, Mr. Cartwright. The helping is genuine—I'm not denying that. But it's never only helping. There's always strategic purpose beneath the mercy. Always calculation behind the compassion."
Billy gestured to the office around them. "You've spent eighteen months treating every human interaction as strategic opportunity. Ada, Webb, everyone—they're all variables you're managing while they believe they're making their own choices."
Jimmy stood, pacing to the window, looking out at Small Heath's darkened streets. "I protect people. Ada's conscience is clear because I shielded her from consequences of her betrayal.
Webb is helping Birmingham families because I positioned him for success. You're alive and your son is healthy because I found alternative to execution. Those are good outcomes achieved through strategic thinking."
"Are they?" Billy's voice was gentle rather than accusatory. "Or are they violations disguised as protection? Ada doesn't have clear conscience—she has false conscience based on reality you manipulated.
Webb doesn't have independence—he has managed autonomy within parameters you established. I don't have freedom—I have gilded cage where I'm grateful asset rather than dead traitor."
"You're alive. That's not metaphor or manipulation—it's literal fact."
"I know. And I'm grateful." Billy stood, moving to stand beside Jimmy at the window. "But I'm also worried. The people you've manipulated—Ada, Webb, others I probably don't know about—they're going to figure it out eventually.
And when they do, you won't be able to manipulate your way out. Some broken things stay broken, Mr. Cartwright. Some violations can't be strategized away once they're recognized."
Jimmy turned from the window, studying Billy's face for signs of threat or extortion. Finding neither—just genuine concern from someone who understood manipulation because he'd been on the receiving end.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because despite everything, I think you're trying to be decent. You're just so clever you've forgotten how." Billy returned to his chair. "And because there's trouble coming. Real trouble that's going to require trust you've systematically eliminated from your operations."
"What kind of trouble?"
"IRA trouble. I have connections in Glasgow Irish community—family ties, old friendships. Word is that Birmingham IRA has been discussing Martin Webb. Specifically, discussing him as symbol of Shelby political expansion that needs to be eliminated."
The information cut through Jimmy's philosophical discomfort like knife through fog. Strategic threat. Concrete problem. Something he could actually address through intelligence rather than impossible requests for emotional presence.
"How credible is this intelligence?"
"Very. The Glasgow boys talk to Birmingham boys, and Irish don't joke about this kind of thing." Billy pulled out another paper—names, dates, fragments of conversation. "They see Webb as puppet, you as puppet master, and the whole operation as Shelbys corrupting legitimate government.
They're planning to hit him. Make statement about staying in streets and out of council chambers."
Jimmy's mind was already racing ahead—protection protocols, security measures, threat assessment, strategic responses. "When?"
"Soon. Maybe weeks, maybe days. That's all I know." Billy stood, preparing to leave. "I came to Birmingham to warn you. And to offer help, if you want it."
"Under what conditions?"
"Same as I refused Section D under. Genuine partnership where you don't know what I'm going to do three moves ahead because I'm not performing scripted cooperation."
Billy met Jimmy's eyes directly. "I'll help protect Webb. Not because you've manipulated me into it. Not because I owe you. But because it's right, and I remember what being decent felt like before you taught me everything was strategy."
"I can't work with variables I don't control."
"Then you can't work with me. That's the offer—genuine cooperation where I'm making my own choices, or nothing."
Billy moved to the door. "Think about it. When the threat becomes real, I'll help protect Webb. But only if you work with me as equals. No manipulation. No managing my decisions. Real trust, which I know terrifies you more than any IRA threat."
Billy left, his footsteps echoing down the stairs.
Jimmy stood alone in his office, the blood seeping through his ceiling marking Morrison's late-night work below, and recognized the terrible pattern emerging.
Eleanor had found documentation of his manipulation. Mrs. Price had asked for presence he couldn't provide. Billy had called out his strategic mercy and offered help he couldn't control.
Three people, three different ways, all pointing at the same fundamental problem: Jimmy had optimized away the human elements necessary for solving human problems.
He poured another whiskey and sat at his desk, beginning the work of designing security protocols for Webb that didn't require trusting anyone he couldn't control.
The work never ended. The complications never stopped.
And the cracks in his perfect systems kept spreading.
---
Morning came too quickly. Jimmy had worked through the night, designing protection plans for Webb and analyzing IRA threat patterns.
When Danny Whizzbang arrived at the betting shop at eight o'clock with urgent intelligence, Jimmy was already there, reviewing his strategic assessments.
Tommy called immediate family meeting.
They gathered in the back room—Tommy, Polly, Arthur, John, Jimmy, and Danny. The atmosphere was tense, everyone recognizing that Danny's "urgent intelligence" meant serious trouble.
"IRA's planning to hit Webb," Danny said without preamble. His shell shock made him direct, unable to waste energy on social niceties. "Intelligence is solid. Multiple sources confirming. They see him as symbol of Shelby political expansion. Want to make statement by eliminating him."
"How immediate is the threat?" Tommy asked.
"Days, maybe a week. They're coordinating with Birmingham IRA cells, planning something visible that sends clear message."
Arthur stood immediately, energy shifting to violence-readiness. "We hit them first. Find out who's involved, eliminate the threat."
"That escalates into gang war," Jimmy said. "IRA isn't small-time operation. They have resources, international connections, political support. Starting war with them costs more than Webb is worth strategically."
"So what do you suggest?" Tommy's question was genuine, looking to his chief strategist for solution.
Jimmy pulled out his overnight work—comprehensive plan documented with his usual precision. "We manipulate Webb into leaving Birmingham temporarily. Create cover story suggesting he's fled from corruption charges—plant false evidence, leak to journalists, make it appear he's escaping investigation.
IRA backs off because target is already discredited and gone."
"Then?"
"We stage elaborate exoneration. Webb returns to Birmingham with enhanced reputation—the innocent man who was vindicated, stronger position than before. Crisis solved, Webb protected, political advantage gained. IRA gets nothing, we get everything."
The plan was elegant. Multi-layered. Exactly the kind of strategic brilliance Jimmy had perfected over six months of political operations.
It solved every problem simultaneously while advancing Shelby interests.
Everyone waited for Tommy's approval. This was classic Jimmy Cartwright problem-solving—intelligence over violence, manipulation over direct confrontation, perfect outcomes through perfect planning.
Tommy studied the documents for a long moment, cigarette smoke curling between his fingers.
Finally, he looked up. "No."
The single word hung in the air like physical presence. Jimmy felt his stomach drop.
"No?" he repeated, certain he'd misheard.
"No more manipulation. Webb stays in Birmingham. We protect him through honest security protocols, or we let him make his own choice about the danger."
Tommy's voice was calm but absolute. "I'm tired of perfect lies. Sometimes brutal truth is better."
"This plan is perfect," Jimmy protested, hearing the desperation in his own voice and hating it. "It solves everything—Webb stays safe, IRA gets nothing, we maintain political position. It's the optimal solution."
"It's also manipulation that treats Webb like puppet rather than person." Tommy stood, decision clearly final. "You've become too good at lying, Jimmy. So good you can't tell the difference anymore between strategic positioning and violation of agency."
"I'm protecting him!"
"You're controlling him. There's a difference." Tommy moved to the door. "Webb deserves to know he's in danger and choose whether to run or stay. Ada deserves to know you manipulated her.
Mrs. Price deserves honesty about whether you're still capable of being her son. I deserve a strategist who can tell me truth, not just manage my perception of it."
Polly spoke for the first time, her voice carrying weight beyond the words. "The system you've built is perfect, boy. But perfect systems fail catastrophically when they fail.
You've eliminated every messy human element—trust, honesty, genuine connection. Now you need those things to solve this problem, and you don't have them anymore."
Jimmy looked around the room, seeking support. Arthur shrugged—he'd wanted violence anyway, never understood the strategic approach. John studied his fingernails with affected disinterest.
Danny waited patiently, shell shock making him neutral in family politics.
"You're choosing crude honesty over strategic elegance?" Jimmy heard himself asking, still unable to process Tommy's rejection.
"I'm choosing sustainable relationships over brittle control," Tommy corrected. "Do it right, Jimmy. Tell Webb the truth. Let him decide. We'll protect whatever choice he makes."
Tommy left. The others followed, leaving Jimmy alone in the back room with his perfect plan rejected, his strategic brilliance dismissed for simple honesty.
For the first time since joining the Shelbys, his intelligence had been insufficient. His carefully designed solution had been vetoed not because it wouldn't work, but because the method was wrong.
Jimmy gathered his papers mechanically, mind struggling to process the rejection. He'd spent six months proving intelligence was better than violence, strategy superior to brutality, careful planning more effective than crude directness.
And Tommy had just told him that sometimes crude honesty was better than strategic brilliance.
The foundation of everything Jimmy had built himself into was being questioned by the authority who'd enabled that building.
He walked out of the betting shop in a daze, papers clutched in hands that shook slightly from more than exhaustion.
Outside, Polly watched him go, then turned to Tommy with troubled expression.
"He's not going to handle this well," she said quietly.
"I know." Tommy lit a fresh cigarette. "But it's necessary. He's been brilliant, Pol. Too brilliant. He's optimized himself into someone who can't solve problems any way except through manipulation. Sometimes you have to break something to save it."
"And if breaking him breaks him permanently?"
Tommy had no answer. They stood in silence, watching Jimmy disappear into Small Heath's morning crowds, carrying his rejected plans and his shattered certainty that intelligence always had the answer.
Inside the betting shop, the blood kept seeping through ceilings, the violence kept lurking beneath surfaces, and Jimmy Cartwright's perfect systems kept cracking under the weight of their own brilliance.
The first domino had fallen.
But it was Tommy's veto that made the rest inevitable.