Chapter Text
When he’d come to New Orleans, searching for an up-and-coming new star, Vincent Daniels had expected a bustling, thriving city—not New York, of course, nothing can compare to his beloved Uptown Manhattan. But something vibrant, something…less incredibly fucking smelly.
The concierge at his hotel had mentioned the lovely scent of sweet olive bushes, lining the roads as a man made his way along Canal Street towards the Roosevelt, where the WXL studios are located. Sure, fine, sweet olives, there are bushes and shit, but Vincent doesn’t know how he’s supposed to smell anything over the rancid mess of piss and stale beer, among much worse things, lining the actual streets.
His boots have seen better days. Worse, when he gets to the Roosevelt, the bellhop informs him that the broadcasts have been shut down for the entire weekend, courtesy of some fucking Feast of some fucking Saint or another. He’d really meant to leave Catholic school far behind years ago.
“But if you’re lookin for Mr. Devaux, he’s always down on Chartres and Bourbon,” the bellhop adds, giving him an up-and-down look, his hand twitching.
Vincent knows this game. He draws a couple of coins from his pocket, holding them up. “And would you happen to know how one gets into the clubs that Mr. Devaux frequents, on a night like this?” Bellhops are always safe to ask. They know where all the juiciest speakeasies are, and how to get in.
“Might, mister. I might.”
A pair of coins crosses his palm, and disappears. “The Muddy Cat,” the boy assures him immediately. “Ask for Sweet Lorraine, tell her you’re lookin for cooking classes. She gon’ ask you if you know how to skin a crawdad. You gotta tell her the skin’s the sweetest part.”
“Fucking weird, but fine,” Vincent mutters. The rain outside starts to pound the streets and the roof, and he grabs a newspaper from the stand as he leaves, unfolding it over his hat.
By the time he reaches the Muddy Cat and makes it past Sweet Lorraine, he’s soaked, his hair is a mess even under the paper and his hat, his coat is drenched, and his boots are awful. There is at least a boy shining shoes, and Vincent flips him another coin, eyeing the disgusting state of them before the boy gets to work.
That done, he finally makes his way into the club proper, where a pianist accompanies a few girls onstage, wearing as much as they’re legally required to and not a stitch more, mostly-male patrons watching, drinking, socializing.
Vincent grabs himself a drink, and starts scanning the crowd. No one jumps out at him—but then again, would he? Hopefully. No one has been able to tell him much about this guy yet, but from what he’s heard, that force of personality will be easy to spot.
At a break in the set, he sets his drink on the top of the piano, leaning down to snap his fingers at the Negro tickling the keys. “Boy, do you know a gentleman that comes around here, called Alastor Devaux?”
The stare that snaps over to Vincent is as sharp as a knife for a split second, softened only because of the glitter of the finely rimmed glasses perched atop the man’s nose—and only then, because those eyes rake up and down Vincent in an instant and clock him as, not from around here.
A couple of the girls whisper and giggle from nearby, as if they’ve seen this song and dance before (and they have). The pianist’s lips stay curved in a smile, in spite of the irritation that clearly flickers behind his eyes. “I might,” he says in an easy, New Orleans drawl, and then, because he simply can, he adds, “but I’m not your ‘boy’, if you’re asking.”
Vincent’s eyebrows raise. Back in New York, that would get a colored man a beating, talking like that to a white man. His lips curl upwards—he does kind of have a thing for a cheeky little fucker. His eyes sweep over the bar, and then over the pianist himself, up and down. “I bet you know everyone in here, huh? You hear everything?”
“Weeell, you could say that.” The pianist pulls the cover down over the piano keys before leaning forward onto it, his expression deeply amused. Fancy Yankee, he decides with absolutely one glance, which does little to improve his initial, kneejerk opinion and reaction. “What are you looking to know about him?” His eyes slit, sharp as a cat’s in spite of being large and dark and green and strange in his face. That, and the upturned nose and the sharp cheekbones and jaw, make it very apparent he’s ‘other’, in spite of his dark skin and tell-tale hair, side-swept and immaculately styled. “I’ve heard he’s a might bit difficult to get a read on.”
“Difficult to find, is what he is,” Vincent says, exasperated. “I tried at his apartment and the Roosevelt, and walked here in that nasty goop they call streets down here. You people do know how to throw a party,” he adds begrudgingly, eyeing a couple of the dancer girls in particular.
“Oh, you’re really interested, then. I wish I could say you aren’t the kind of person that usually comes looking for him, but…” The pianist climbs to his feet—easily taller, albeit considerably narrower, lean and narrow-waisted—and smiles as he plucks Vincent’s drink off of the top of his piano. “That would be a lie.” He leans into the side of the piano, and drinks from Vincent’s glass like it’s his own. “What do you want with him, anyway?”
Vincent’s eyes drop immediately down to the pianist—no, up, because he’s got a couple of inches even on Vincent, and a sly, willowy look to him that makes him think of a couple of flat-chested girls he’s fucked. Or maybe it’s the way his dick twitches in his pants that makes him think of them. Weird.
To distract himself, he pulls a business card from the inside of his jacket pocket, handing it over between two fingers. “Vincent Daniels. You’ve heard of me.” It’s not a question. He is the voice behind the Nightly News on CBS, after all. Everyone has heard him, and heard of him. “We’re looking at bringing on some regional up-and-comers, and someone sent in one of his reels.”
Those long, pianist’s fingers neatly pluck the card from Vincent’s grasp without touching him. “Goodness, aren’t you a regular butter and egg man,” he drawls, looking down at him over his glasses. “I thought that voice sounded familiar. Someone like you is looking for someone like him?”
Vincent has absolutely no idea what a butter and egg man is, but he’s pretty sure he not only wants to be one, but he certainly is one already. “Yeah. So where is he? I’m about to change his whole damned life.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
The pianist drains the rest of Vincent’s drink, and neatly presses the glass back into his hold with a smile, leaning very close to him as he does. “Your taste is terrible, by the way.”
“Alastor! Alastor, sweetie, if you’re already drinkin’, it needs to be with me!”
A short, curvy girl shouts for him across the floor, giggling as she dangles a glass in one hand, and the pianist offers Vincent a wink before he turns away.
“Hey!”
Vincent catches the pianist’s wrist. Even down here, even in New Orleans, one or two men side-eye him for that. He ignores it. “Are you him?” he demands, with that intensity that usually, people find it very, very difficult to refuse. “Are you Devaux?”
The briskness with which Vincent’s wrist is dislodged is impressive, considering how wiry and delicate it must feel in his hold. “Well,” he says snippily, “I’m certainly not your ‘boy’, so I will tell you that your guesswork is improving by the minute.”
Vincent’s breath catches. He wants to—
I don’t know.
Something. Wants to something. Maybe give this man a beating. Or give him money. Something, he’s having some impulse he can’t name. “Have a better drink with me,” he says, a bit louder when there’s talking, laughing nearby. “You pick. I’ll pay. Let me tell you what I’m offering.”
The look that settles upon Vincent now is contemplative, albeit sort of—amused. Put out, certainly, but also amused. “If you stick around until the end of the night, I’ll think about it,” he says airily, fluttering a hand as he turns away entirely. “But I’m afraid my dance card is already full, Mr. Daniels.”
Vincent’s expression is aghast with disbelief. “A lot of men like me would treat you…very roughly, if you acted like this with them,” he manages to say. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Is that not what you also want to do to me right now? Treat me…very roughly?”
Alastor’s voice drops as he turns back towards Vincent, his eyes locking with his, intense and sharp and entirely unafraid. “Don’t act like you’re some gentleman, waltzing into my city and trying to convince me of what I want and need,” he softly says. “Take your offer and walk out the door with it, I don’t care. The look on your face alone tells me everything I need to know about what it would be like working for you.”
Oh, Alastor knows what he’s doing. One tiny inch farther over the line and Vincent would be slapping him in the face and calling him a queer. Or defending himself, insisting he isn’t one. But Alastor isn’t quite over that line…
Which is the exact kind of obnoxious tact that an excellent reporter needs.
His grin widens, as his pants get a little tighter, which doesn’t mean anything. Nothing at all. Alastor just looks like some girl he enjoyed spending time with. “Oh, I’ll wait until the end of the night. Who’s the best girl here? I’ll show her a good time while I wait.”
“You look like the kind of man capable of finding that out himself.”
It’s snide, and with that, Alastor spins away for good, striding across the floor to cheerfully embrace a very tipsy woman that won’t stop calling for him. “Marie, darling, don’t be so needy, you know I wouldn’t abandon you—“
Alastor might make a point of being extra friendly and personable with all of the girls tonight, just to prove a point that he is far from the outsider here, and Vincent is absolutely in enemy territory if he tries to push too far.
It wouldn’t be the first time, nor will it be the last. When Alastor does return to his piano, it’s without a single sideways glance in that man’s direction, though he does keep an ear out for any protests that might go beyond the usual squeals of a girl playing it up for the effect. He doesn’t want to start something tonight, but he isn’t above it.
Far from it.
The club slowly starts to clear out, and annoyingly, it seems this guy is persistent, still lingering, still waiting. Alastor’s lips purse as he wipes the piano down, pulls the cover down over the keys, and steps away from it, rolling down his sleeves. Well, he didn’t say he would personally stick around and listen; just that he’d think about it.
“Hey, Al.”
Sweet Lorraine, as she’s known, is a woman four inches taller than Alastor and more than twice as broad, in a shimmering gown that clings to her in a way most women of half her size could only dream of. She fans herself slowly, leaning one elbow against the piano. “That sleazy Yankee is still hanging around, says he’s waiting for you. Run up a pretty big tab, too. Says he’ll pay when you have a drink with him. I’ll throw him out if you want me to.”
There’s a hesitation in her throaty voice, that Alastor has heard many times before, hinting that people who look like the two of them do not get far in life by inviting trouble from men that look like the one currently chain-smoking at the club’s only occupied table. An outsider—and no one knows what outsiders will do. Tip off the cops about the speakeasy? Get a gang together? Make trouble for the girls? Nothing? It’s impossible to say what a white man will try to get away with.
“No, no. Don’t trouble yourself, I’ll…” Alastor’s eyes roll, hard. “See to him.”
It’s one thing when it’s his problem only. When it’s his problem, he cares little for the repercussions—he’s a fast enough talker to get out of most things, and anything that he can’t get out of…well, he doesn’t let it get to that point. Case in point, quite possibly. This, he wearily thinks, is why his mother worries.
A sigh, and he straightens his bowtie before striding away towards the sleazy Yankee in question, a smile firmly on his face as he leans over where Vincent sits, his eyes lidded. “Look at you, actually waiting for me after all that.”
“What can I say?” Vincent pushes out the other chair with his foot, eyes on Alastor’s green ones. “I go after the things I’m interested in. And you’re interesting. Sit, have a drink with me.”
Ugh.
Alastor can’t suppress another eye roll. Something about this man makes him particularly annoyed with every single word that comes out of his mouth. “How quaint,” he deadpans, but takes a seat. “Compliments, from the likes of Vincent Daniels. I’m flattered.”
“So you are paying attention.”
Vincent leans in, braced on his elbows, blue eyes glittering in his pale face. He stabs out the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray, pouring whiskey for the both of them. “I’ve heard your show. I like it.”
The sarcasm was apparently missed on this one. That’s fine, even though he pours whiskey like he can’t even begin to appreciate it properly. Alastor takes the glass all the same, sliding it across the table to have it closer. “Always elated to hear from a fan,” he quips, and he lets the soft New Orleans drawl melt away into the sharper, Transatlantic accent that Vincent must be used to hearing from him. All the better to confirm his identity, he supposes. “A touch off the beaten path, perhaps, but I do try to be unique.”
Vincent swirls the drink, before swallowing half of it down. It’s hardly his first of the night. “Come to New York,” he says bluntly. “I’ll give you a show on CBS. I’m not just the voice of the Nightly News, I’m an investor and producer in the station. And I’ll make you famous. Even if…” He trails off, gesturing towards Alastor. “I bet you’ve gotten told you have a face for radio a lot.”
“Who, me?” Alastor drops his chin down into his hand, staring back at Vincent with mock surprise. “Never. Not a day in my life. I can’t imagine why anyone would ever want to tell me that.” He takes a sip of his whiskey, and then says, “No, thank you. I’d rather not.”
This little bitch.
The avaricious grin on Vincent’s face dims, and he frowns, lighting another cigarette. “Afraid? I can keep a secret, no one has to know that you’re a mulatto.”
Alastor smirks back at him, as if he fully expected this particular progression of the conversation. “I’m not afraid, Mr. Daniels. I simply don’t want to. Do you really think you’re the first white man from up north to come down and offer me a job?”
“They’re not me.” Vincent’s eyes flash. “They can’t offer what I can. Not CBS.”
“I’m still not interested, but thank you.” Because he has manners. “I’m popular enough that you’ve heard of me, so I think I’m doing just fine on my own.”
“You’re popular regionally. What are those priests paying you?”
“Why, are you going to one-up my salary?” Alastor asks, idly running a fingertip around the rim of his glass. “You’re not used to being told ‘no’, are you?”
“Let’s just say I’m good at turning a ‘no’ into a ‘yes,’” Vincent says, eyes tracing that fingertip and it’s circular progress. “One-up, sure. Or multiply. Everyone likes money.”
“I make enough already.”
Vincent blinks. “Right,” he says slowly. He didn’t think Alastor was slow, but he’s having to rethink. “But more is better. You’re not some kind of Quaker or whatever, who doesn’t care about money.”
“No, but I make enough. And I do it not working for someone like you.” Alastor’s head cocks, pressing his cheek into his hand as he stares back at Vincent as if he’s a small child. “Not everything is about money, Mr. Daniels.”
“Someone like…”
Vincent feels cold anger rolling in, but he keeps a tight rein on it. No reason to start trouble. Yet. “Fame, then. You’re reaching maybe two thousand people. I’m talking national. Millions of listeners. Be careful before you say no to that.”
“I’m afraid I don’t appreciate your tone, Mr. Daniels.” Alastor’s voice is cool and calm, and he holds Vincent’s gaze as he brings his glass up to his lips, drinking slowly. “‘Be careful’? Of what? What are you intending to do if I tell you ‘no’ again?”
Vincent’s fingers tighten. A sudden pain flares through his fingers, and he looks down, realizing he’d squished his lit cigarette in his hand. Whatever. He’ll light another. “I could be a very powerful friend,” he says, trying not to lose his temper. “What do you hate so much about that?”
Alastor shrugs. “I’m sure you would be, if I was willing to lower myself to that level…but you’re terrible at first impressions, and I don’t have the time or energy to entertain a second one tonight, so.”
He finishes off his whiskey, and smiles sweetly as he sets the glass onto the table again. “I’ll have to decline your offer, Mr. Daniels.”
Vincent’s hand shoots out, grabbing Alastor’s wrist, harder this time than before. He isn’t a small man, and his grip is powerful. “You think you’re too good for me?” he hisses, incredulous. “You think you can do better than a business partner like me in your corner?”
Alastor’s eyes narrow behind his glasses, but he doesn’t immediately try to pull away. This is the second time Vincent has laid hands on him tonight, and he is not going to be the one accused of doing the same. “I’m a solo act, Mr. Daniels. I don’t need a business partner, I never have.”
This fucking ingrate.
Doesn’t he realize how busy Vincent is? How much money he could have made in the time he took to come down here? What any other man in his situation would do, to a Negro acting this far above his station? What he’s doing to himself, to his chances of success in this world, by turning Vincent down? “I could make life very easy for you, or very difficult,” he says, his voice low. “One phone call from me, and—“
“Hey, boss. Cab’s coming around.”
The speaker is a tall, broad-shouldered, deep-voiced man, with skin several shades darker than Alastor’s and salt-and-pepper facial hair, wild on the sides. He doesn’t lay a hand on anyone, but his bulk itself is something of a warning, sliding up behind Alastor. “The rain’s getting worse. You want me to call you one, too? Sir?” The honorific doesn’t sound very respectful.
“You should let us do that.” Alastor’s stare remains locked on Vincent, entirely unwavering. “Wouldn’t want your shoes to get muddy, would you? Mr. Daniels?”
He reaches over with his other hand, plucking Vincent’s hand off of his wrist by the cuff of his jacket instead of actually touching any part of him. “And make sure to settle up at the bar before you leave.”
Vincent stares up at Alastor, his eyes blazing. “You think you know what you’re doing? You have no fucking idea who you’re messing with.” He pulls his wallet out, and removes a couple of bills, tossing them at Alastor. “But you will.”
“I’ll get you that cab,” the big man says, and steps forward.
Before he can do anything else, Vincent throws his hands up, turning to stalk out of the club. He trips on a stray piece of unfinished carpet, and lets out a snarl of frustration, kicking the bar so hard he clearly hurts himself, biting his lip on the pain as he limps out to the curb.
The man raises an eyebrow at Alastor. “The hell was that about?” He doesn’t have the same soft drawl as the other patrons.
Alastor shrugs, and straightens his shirt as he climbs to his feet. “A Yankee throwing a temper tantrum,” he says, amused, and gives the other man a light tap on the chest with one finger. “Good timing, Walter. Look at you, paying attention for once. I’m proud of you.”
Walter scowls, and hands over Alastor’s greatcoat. “You wanna watch your back. Guy like that, they always know where to hire some muscle.”
“You’re starting to sound like my mother, and for once, that’s not a compliment.”
Alastor shrugs his coat on, adjusting his collar neatly. “Lorraine, darling?” he calls across the now-empty floor. “If he comes back and hassles you any, let me know.” It would not be the first time, nor will it be the last. Life often feels like a steady stream of disruptive white men that he has to consistently field—or not field, as it were. They aren’t usually from CBS, though. That’s new.
“What you gonna do about it if he does, Legs?” Lorraine asks, amused. “Run on home, don’t make your momma worry. Tell her I’ll send over that strawberry bread tomorrow, Lord knows Bobby made more’n enough again. Oh—you mind checkin’ on Dottie, on your way home? That man’s been comin’ round again.” She doesn’t need to say which man. They all know. The one with the badge.
“Again? Yes, I’ll check on her.” He should have been out the door nearly an hour ago. Now it’s late enough that his routines aren’t exactly in line with where they should be, and Alastor sighs, pulling out the card Vincent had handed him earlier, snorting softly at it before tucking it back into his pocket. “What a joke,” he mutters, buttoning up his coat. “Walter, you can head out without me. I need to make a detour. Oh.” He pauses, glancing up at him—because even as tall as he is, Walter is taller. “That Yankee. He went by the apartment looking for me, just so you’re aware.”
Walter’s eyes widen. “Shit. She didn’t open the door, did she?”
“I feel like I would’ve heard about it, if she had opened the door with her usual, ah—“ Alastor flutters a hand. “Manner of greeting. Maybe she was sleeping for once.” He’s not quite sure the ‘live-in maid’ ever sleeps, or walks around without a knife in her hand, but it is charming to consider.
“If that guy wasn’t bleeding, she was probably sleeping. Or hiding.” Walter grimaces. “Still. I should go check. You, uh…mind if I go out tonight? After I check on her?”
“Do whatever, but I’m not bailing you out if you do something stupid.” Alastor pauses, and eyes him. “Again.”
“Who asked?” Walter mutters, looking as though he would very much like to glare at the younger man. He doesn’t, though. It’s less a matter of knowing which side his bread is buttered on and more a matter of knowing who knows where the bodies are, in this particular case. “I really did get a cab, use it if you want. I’m walking.”
“The assumption my newest fan didn’t steal it. Bonnuit!” Alastor calls over his shoulder, flipping his hand in a wave before he brushes past Walter and out into the rain, which really is extraordinary. He snatches up his umbrella, left outside of the speakeasy under its overhanging canopy, and ignores the cab as well, starting his own walk in the opposite direction he’d normally go home—which is only about fourteen minutes away, in good weather.
It really is perfect stalking weather, after all.