Chapter Text
“Alastor! Al, buddy, over here!”
Loud, grating, a voice tripping over its own tongue like a too-eager dog — ah, Bill, his sycophantic copy-editor. Alastor turned to find the man waving him over to a round table, a dopey smile on his perpetually ruddy face.
(A complexion born of the burst capillaries of a heavy drinker, Alastor had concluded on first meeting, but having spent nearly a year in forced proximity, he’d amended his assessment to include unfortunate genetics.)
Without missing a beat, Alastor returned his colleague’s grin and sauntered over. The air within the riverboat’s ballroom, despite the decent size of the main deck and the advancing evening, straddled an uncomfortable line between muggy and smoky, and the radio host already regretted the maroon jacket topping his three-piece suit. It was August, and he knew better. Alas, it was the first time he’d been invited to spend time with anyone from the station outside of work and, regrettably, Alastor wasn’t immune to the desire to impress.
Franklin, his station manager, was already at the table. The older man eyed Alastor’s approach with a dulled steel gaze, choosing to nod his reluctant greeting rather than remove the cigar from his lips. He was meticulously buttoned into the only brown linen two-piece Alastor had ever seen him wear, sporting short, brown-grey hair, sharp cheekbones, and a bony jaw that, at least while he was around, seemed forever clenched. An ascetic personality, old-fashioned, whose personal motto surely began and ended with the word ‘moderation’.
(Ah, but with a weakness for sweets, judging by the man’s dentistry; his smiles, rare as they were, were always close-lipped.)
“Why, hello, chums! Lovely evening for a paddle ‘round the river,” Alastor greeted, dodging Bill’s attempt at a side-embrace by offering a light pat to the shoulder as he passed behind. He took the furthest seat, his bright gaze flicking to the drinks on the table. “My, bar service already? Our gracious host must be quite certain no bulls have jumped the dock to swim after us!”
“He owns the bulls,” Franklin said gruffly, still looking put-upon to be exchanging words with Alastor outside the office. “At least in this parish.”
“And,” Bill chimed in, eyes twinkling like a boy who’d raided his old man’s stash, “long as the anchor’s up, certain, uh, ‘guidelines’ get more flexible, if you know what I mean. The guy hosts these cruises every few months, invite only. This is the third one the station’s been able to join.”
“Quite the exclusive then! I’ll have to toast you for my own invite, Bill, once I join you fellows in a round.”
Alastor turned his head, pretending to look towards the ballroom’s mingling bodies and the band still setting up while he greedily supped on his companions’ reactions: Bill, that affable moron, yet again proved himself a gentle touch, his eyes lit at the recognition, while Franklin scowled as though he’d stepped in something foul. Despite Alastor’s undeniable financial contributions to their little professional family, ol’ Frankie remained a stubborn boulder in the stream of Alastor’s charm. Rather than credit him with any shrewd insight, the radio host had fingered the man’s terminal dearth of whimsy and aversion to melanin as the likely culprits.
“About that,” said Franklin, prompting Alastor’s attention to return with a reptilian tilt, “I’m sure one of the porters already told you when you boarded, but I wanted to apologize for forgetting to book you a room.”
A blatant lie. Franklin held onto details with such a grudge, Alastor wouldn’t be surprised if the bastard still remembered the face of the doctor who’d slapped his rump as a babe.
“But,” his manager continued, the barest hint of crooked teeth at the corners of his faux-apologetic smile, “since it’s only for the night, I was assured there would be room among the crew’s berthing if —”
“Oh, no need,” Alastor laughed brightly. “That’s all been settled. Once I explained the honest mistake, they were able to shuffle things around so you and I were sharing quarters!”
He slid a key across the table, savoring the rising color on that thin, pale neck. A true shame their connection was so obvious – he’d love to slit it open someday. Perhaps once the man retired.
“The service here is truly impeccable; I believe they’ve already moved our bags.”
“Hey, now that’s a stroke of luck,” said Bill, predictably oblivious.
“Isn’t it just!”
Franklin only glowered, unmoving, before eventually tapping off a wad of ash from his cigar nearly the length of the roll.
In truth, the old racist needn’t have worried – Alastor was an insomniac even when his own room was available, so there was slim to no chance he’d waste any of this one-night engagement in bed. It was devilish fun to let him believe otherwise, though. The man made for such easy entertainment! Certainly he was more fun to rile than the other personalities he worked alongside; Bill was too soft (and slow) a target, and their producer, Walter, had the infuriating habit of laughing off or taking in stride Alastor’s sharper japes.
“Will Walter be joining us?” he inquired, reminded of the man.
“Oh, no,” Bill answered. “He was supposed to, but apparently the missus is set to go into labor any day now.”
“Shit, all the more reason to be nowhere near land!”
The three men turned at the new voice. Yet another middle-aged white man grinned down at them, a squared, handsome face with green eyes and slicked back, salt-and-pepper black hair. He stood with a glass of some amber liquor in one ring-adorned hand, the other tucked casually into a very nice navy suit. Alastor’s gaze cut with a surgeon’s accuracy, noting a blue gem set into a tie pin (a family crest), trimmed and healthy fingernails (good diet, little to no physical labor), and a relaxed, confident set to the shoulders. A man of means (generational, if he had a guess).
Immediately more interesting, however, was the man’s shadow. As the first figure rounded towards one of their unoccupied seats, a second, darker one stepped to follow. He was a much younger man by far, perhaps even a few years behind Alastor himself, shorter in stature, the charcoal grey of his suit jacket complimented by the pop of a gold bowtie. His features were intriguing – sharp eyes, the iris a brown so warm it bordered on amber, with wide cheekbones, prominent eyebrows, and thick black hair that fanned into a scruff at the sides, clearly tamed with some intention for the more formal outing.
Whereas Alastor had quickly catalogued the older man, he found he couldn’t stop alighting on new, stimulating details concerning the younger. While similarly slim in build, he contrasted Alastor’s willowy grace with an alley-cat leanness (an inherited stature or due to malnutrition in development?), and his fine suit showed signs of fraying at its edges, a small tear in the right sleeve (ah, likely the only clothing he owned of this caliber).
His eyes had just settled on the man’s surprisingly large hands, each of which carried a beverage, noting the calluses on what looked like deft fingers, when he realized with some surprise that he was being watched in turn. Alastor stiffened, and then nearly bit his tongue in two when the stranger winked at him.
“Mr. Whittman!” Leave it to Bill to be the first to stumble into a clearing. The editor stood with an unnecessary amount of urgency, embarrassing even the intended recipient of his excited, forcefully offered handshake.
“Mr. Travers,” the older man returned with only a little hesitation, returning the handshake before settling fully into a seat. “William, right?”
“Oh, Bill is fine, perfectly fine!”
“Richard,” Franklin greeted pleasantly, clearly more familiar with the man. “Glad you could make the trip out.”
“I already had passage abroad booked out of this port, if you can believe it, but it’s always worth swinging into this charming stretch of swampland for the local flavors.” The man grinned like a shark, all teeth and dead eyes. “The owner of this fine vessel’s a friend of mine though, so I'm glad the timing worked out. But where are my manners, this young buck must be our hot new talent, right?”
Alastor straightened, offering the sort of grin his manman had said would lead to marriage, if he didn’t watch where he aimed it. “I’m charmed to receive the title, sir, truly! Alastor, and it is a pleasure, Mr. Whittman.”
The same Richard V. Whittman who owned their station – one of several under the man’s belt, if Alastor wasn’t mistaken. A minor media magnate, one of those new and exciting breeds of robber baron hoping to elbow their way in among the ranks of those capitalists concerned with finance, transport, steel, and oil. Audacious, considering their far less tangible product, but radio’s impact was undeniable. A newspaper that one could set a dial to? Forever up to date, never out of print, accessible and enjoyable to boot? Certainly there was money to be made in such a thing.
“Alastor! Yes, that’s right. Good to meet you, son. Frank has already told me all about you, of course, I’m glad the station got you signed on. I believe my man and I listened to your show just this morning, very enjoyable. You’re so articulate; I can’t say I was expecting it.”
Alastor’s grin – twitched.
“Aha. Well, what can I say – I do love to defy expectation.”
Catching sight of a white-toothed smirk, Alastor leaned into the table, resting his chin on a fist as he fixed their fifth, unacknowledged guest with a closed and curling smile. “Oh, but forgive me, I don’t believe you’ve introduced yourself. Mr. Whittman’s man, I take it?”
The figure paused mid-sip, an unpleasant twist to his mouth before his eyes flicked to his companion. Richard only huffed a half-laugh and nodded back, encouraging.
“…Mm, sorry about that,” the amber-eyed man returned with a grin so easy it sparked an immediate, infuriated tension in Alastor’s jaw. “Guess the good hospitality had me forget my manners.”
“I noticed! Hospitality so good you had to double up, hm?”
“Double–? Oh, shit, no,” the man purred a chuckle, and his fingers motioned towards the second glass he’d brought with him – a glass that had, at some point, made its way to sit in front of Alastor. “That one’s for you. Couldn’t help but notice you were without.”
They were miles from the station, not a receiver in sight, and yet the radio host swore he heard the thrumming, buzzing feedback of dead air in his skull. He chanced a glance down and there, nestled near his elbow, sat a seemingly innocuous glass of red wine. His tongue pressed against the back of a frozen smile.
“My, how… presumptuous,” he murmured.
“Still not a name.” Franklin looked out of patience, his features tight and suspicious. If Mr. Whittman hadn’t been the one to walk the man over, he’d likely have already asked why he wasn’t with the other ‘help’.
“It’s Jack. Jack Freeman.”
Oh, if that wasn’t a fake name Alastor would dig up his mémère’s remains for a midnight waltz.
“Mr. Freeman’s my translator for this business trip,” Richard chimed in, self-pleased as he packed a silver-tipped pipe with tobacco. “Hired him for a song out in Illinois. You wouldn’t guess it to look at him, but damned if the boy doesn’t know something like five languages.”
“Seven,” Jack smirked back. “And I’ve said it before, Mr. Whittman, but what you call a song sounds an awful lot like a musical to my ears.”
“A translator?” Bill cast a confused look between the men as Richard barked a laugh at the bon mot. “Does your business take you that far out, Mr. Whittman?”
“Here, there, and everywhere. Your station, darling as it is, is just one of many playing in the airwaves. This radio train is set to take off, but for that to happen men like me need to keep laying the tracks. Jack here already helped me set some deals with our friends South of the border, and there are some… enterprising sorts in Chicago who prefer to use a mother tongue when discussing business.”
“Quite the extended journey,” said Alastor, swirling the wine he’d yet to taste. “Eager to be away from home?”
“Hah! Who isn’t?” Richard leered. He puffed his chest as he puffed on his pipe, clearly reveling in the table’s attention. “Don’t get me wrong, the missus is a fine woman, and my boy Vincent’s old enough to not be underfoot anymore, but you know what they say – variety is the spice of life, and there’s a lot of good food to be sampled on the road. Hell, our next stop will even have Jack talking me through Shanghai. – That’s in the Orient, for the uninformed.”
Franklin and Bill both showed some impressed interest in this, and conversation rolled naturally into the minutiae of business and travel, with the two Southern natives seemingly happy to accept Richard Whittman’s cosmopolitan opinions as pure, unvarnished gospel. Alastor tuned them out fairly quickly. The band on stage had finally started playing, which initially piqued his interest, but he was quickly disappointed to realize the riverboat’s owner clearly preferred dance band ditties over his more favored jazz and ragtime. What poor entertainment.
…Well. The wine was decent enough, he supposed, finally taking a sip. A richer body than he’d expected, and without any of the sweetness he’d been concerned would follow the floral notes in its scent. He cast a sidelong glance at ‘Jack’, considering him again. Now that the young man’s employer had finished discussing him like some talented, adopted pet, he seemed content to sprawl and drink, watching the musicians with a bored expression, the fingers of his free hand tapping against the table like they were begging for something to occupy them.
Alastor tilted his head, eyes narrowed, then abruptly moved his chair to an uncomfortably close distance. “Why the wine?”
Jack abruptly straightened, raising his brows. “Huh?”
“The wine. Was it your employer’s suggestion?”
“My –? Oh, nah, man.” He shook his head, pleasantly confused, looking like he was trying to puzzle Alastor together.
Infuriating.
“No? Truly?” He clicked his tongue, his smile thin and forced. Considering. Then, in French, “I think I deserve more of an answer, I’m so curious. Why bring a stranger a drink? Why wine?”
Jack had his mouth in his hand, his elbow on the table. Smiling behind his fingers. After a moment he snorted softly, shrugged, and returned in more textbook French, “Why not? You looked thirsty. The color matched your suit.”
Hmph.
“Well, just so you know,” he said, leaning in to pluck Jack’s own glass and take a sip, “this would have suited me just as well.”
“…I’ll remember that.”
“Your French is passable,” he offered, returning the tumbler (after a last, savoring lick at the rim) and pretending as though comparing European to Creole French was anywhere near fair to begin with, “if horribly stilted. Impressive enough, I suppose.”
Jack’s eyes finally looked up from his mouth. “I didn’t know I was supposed to be tryin’ to impress you.”
“Oh? Is that not what you were actually trying to do, with the wine? Do you just bring drinks to everyone you notice without one?” Alastor laughed, haughtily adjusting his glasses. “My, you’re awfully lucky to have Mr. Whittman’s employment – the toll that must take on your wallet!”
“Damn, I didn’t realize I’d ruffled your fur that bad. Tell you what, you can get me a drink next time, to make it even.”
He was going to bite this man.
“You have an awful lot of nerve for –”
A young, dark-skinned woman in serving uniform came to collect the table’s emptied glassware and replace their ashtrays. Franklin, Richard, and Bill continued their conversation without acknowledgement, but Alastor was hardly going to continue hissing around a lady. He thanked her, moving his chair to accommodate as her cart circled the table.
Jack polished off the rest of his liquor and grinned as he passed his glass.
“Thanks, sugar. Appreciate it.”
The woman blushed, bright-eyed, before averting attention back to her task.
Alastor watched Jack’s gaze dip below her waistline as she left, and felt his own interest cool by degrees. He sat back. Other men continued to prove themselves disappointingly predictable.
“Say, now that’s a decent tune.” Richard looked to where a small contingent of dancers had gathered near the stage. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, the night is young, and I think I’ll try my hand at coaxing free a wallflower.”
With too eager an attitude (and a face further flushed with drink), Bill got up after him and announced he’d join in the endeavor. Alastor nodded in polite acknowledgement of their leaving, lifting his wine in silent toast. He doubted there would be many unaccompanied women aboard to couple with, but then again, perhaps there were enough accompanied ones whose partners were willing to let them cut a rug with someone else if it meant they didn’t have to.
Franklin, quickly realizing who he’d be left at the table with, also grunted a half-hearted farewell and made his exit. Off to his new cabin, if Alastor had to guess, just going by the wary glare he gave as he passed (and the angry way he finally snatched the key from the table).
Not long after, Jack announced he was getting a refresher, the tone of his voice playfully inviting a return to their earlier banter, but Alastor answered with deliberate indifference. Not even the acknowledgment of a look. Jack lingered a moment still, but eventually the scrape of chair legs declared he’d gone.
The band played, people danced.
Somewhere beneath the cadenced brass and the merry play of piano keys, the distant thrum of the riverboat’s paddle lapped into the water at a rhythm that could be felt beneath the floorboards. Pale and pink bodies swayed at a jaunty tilt to a tuxedoed front man’s uninspired crooning.
The radio host sat in silent judgment of the whole sad affair. He was unused to being on the outside of music and merriment, at least in this stage of his life. A sour taste spread behind the shield of his smile which the wine couldn’t wash away.
He found himself missing Mimzy. Even if he could no more dance with her than any of the other women aboard – not here, not outside the safety of their speakeasy haunts, where more ‘mixed’ company was commonplace – she would at least be a gas to jabber with. No one had a tongue more primed for funny, wounding gossip than Mimzy. The bold bluster she rolled with into every engagement always promised an interesting time, even if not a necessarily ‘good’ one. As it was, sitting in solitude at the edge of a dance floor he was condemned to observe at a distance, Alastor knew he stared down the barrel of a potentially long and tedious night.
Could he hunt, perhaps? The risk of trying anything here was great (although there was some thrill in the danger of that thought), but maybe if he only used tonight to choose a target, to gather enough information to stalk some foul wretch after they’d safely docked…
“Hey, you wanna catch some air with me?”
Alastor cast a surprised look behind him. Jack stood with his head cocked towards a side door, his smile half-shy.
“C’mon. I know you don’t think much of it yet, but I promise my company’s better than watchin' a bunch of high-hats try and fail to dance a foxtrot.”
Alastor arched a sharp and perfect brow, unconvinced. “‘Yet’?”
The smile grew bolder. “I’m used to havin’ to prove myself.”
…Hm.
He pretended to think about it, his head rested against his knuckles. The music behind them had become downright maudlin. Finally, he allowed a theatrical sigh and rose easily to his feet, pleased to note that his earlier estimation was correct – he had at least two inches on the other man.
“Ah, well, I do love to rate amateur performances. Fair warning, Mr. Freeman, I’m considered something of a harsh critic!”
“Fair warning,” Jack smirked, “I’d already guessed that.”