Chapter Text
The fog has lifted enough for him to slow down without losing sight of the man in front. When his subject stops, Alastor does the same, reaching for a cigarette to provide himself an excuse for standing still. Only his gaze follows the man, who crosses the street and disappears between two decrepit buildings.
Unwilling to taint himself by coming any closer to them than he already has, Alastor feigns being lost. Acting out confusion, he looks around and manages to catch a glance of the particular building the man enters. It is a tall one, and slightly less dilapidated than the others, with a none too subtle sign above the door, suggesting it might be a ringer house. Alastor would not know; his target however seems to have an affinity for such seedy establishments. All for the better, as that should make Alastor’s task significantly easier.
Just as he straightens, some kind, destitute woman stops by and decides to take mercy on a lost gentleman, offering him directions to a park he asks about. Having thanked her and twice noted his target’s location in mind, he sets off according to the woman’s advice.
After a while, he turns back to be swallowed again by the filth of dark alleys as he heads home. On one of them he passes a scarlet woman. At least he assumes she must be such, dressed inappropriately in every sense of the word, no shawl or coat covering her bare shoulders.
His suspicion is confirmed a few steps later, when her hand lands on his shoulder as she asks, “Ya lost, handsome?”
Alastor whirls around, throwing the hand off himself. He contains his revulsion and answers as politely as one can through gritted teeth, “I am not, no. Thank you for your concern, ma’am.”
“Ah, who says ‘m one?” his harasser’s voice drops an octave, never losing its lascivious sweetness. The combination of male and female attributes brings to Alastor’s mind the ever-salacious loa of Guede Nibo. “Round here ya a lil’ safer from unwanted attention when ya look like one – ‘n I ain’t mobbed up for the while. But less about me. Whateva brings ya here must be somethin’ big…”
As they speak, the scarlet man? woman? soul? perform a sort of a dance around him, moving to the rhythm of their own words. They might be appraising what they could steal, not that he is going to allow it.
“—‘m a pretty decent guide too, if ya jumpiness ain’t just ‘cos of the open space. And the greatest guide to closed – ‘n tight – spaces—” they wink, “—if that's what ya lookin' for.”
Although feeling somewhat trapped – what a ludicrous situation for him of all people to find himself in! – Alastor does appreciate that they do not try to touch him again. Once more, he strives for politeness. “Thank you, but I’d much rather you simply were on your way.”
The prostitute cocks their head, blinking at him for a second or two. “Ya too civil for a cop, ‘n sound too fancy for an upstart from ‘ere,” they judge before finally stepping back and out of his path. “Whateva ya lookin’ for, good luck. Though I could bring ya better.”
Given the opportunity to leave without causing a scene, Alastor does just so, and it is not until he is by another block that the scarlet person’s words register with him fully. He does not melt well with the surroundings, that is true, and if his subject forces him to spend more time here, it would do to have an alibi. Besides, the poor quarter of the city enchants and repulses him in equal measure. A chaos reigns here that is lost on the upper classes and at some level Alastor misses the flavor of it.
Ever since the world began rebuilding itself after the crash of 1929, nothing has tasted the same.
Halting, he calls behind himself, “Wait!”
To his pleasant surprise, the scarlet person has remained within earshot, leaning against the wall. They do not move immediately, waiting instead for Alastor to come back to them. “Yeah? Changed ya mind after all, handsome?”
“No.” Alastor shakes off the thought. “But I believe I may have an offer for you.”
With an expression Alastor cannot even begin to decode, the prostitute blurts out, “It involve suckin’ ya dick?”
“My–God, it does not, no.”
“Ya fascinating,” they declare, crossing their arms over the skimpy dress. “’M listenin’.”
Speaking with his hands, Alastor shares his brilliant idea. “I propose that you talk to me in order to provide material for a radio show, a sort of fantasized version of the true events of the underworld and the stories of its people. With added color for the audiences, of course.”
And that is how he gets laughed down by a scarlet person in an empty backstreet.
Despite the outrage, he reigns in his temper and waits until his indecent fellow composes themselves enough to speak.
“Changed ma judgement,” they breathe, wiping tears of laughter out of the corners of their eyes, “’ya fuckin’ insane. Which don’t go well with pretty or handsome, I'd know—”
“If you're not interested—”
“Oh, no, ‘m very interested. Intrigued, ya could say,” they drawl in a tone he does not wish to know what else is used for. Then, having dropped the façade, they seem to truly consider his offer. “I could be ya person for it, ya right ‘bout that. None of the gossip miss ma ears.”
“Excellent.” He claps his hands in satisfaction. “It’s settled, then. It could not be right away, since I will insist you look less…”
“Like a floozy?”
“—shocking for polite company—”
“I can do that for ya.”
“—as we shall meet in an establishment that could accommodate the both of us comfortably and discreetly,” he continues, racking his mind for the name of the bar he had once met Husker in. “There is one not so far from here that should suit us, alas I cannot remember what it is called.”
“’N again, ya sounding awful lot like ya do wanna buy me.”
Unnerved by the suspicion, Alastor grinds his teeth in another forced smile this afternoon. “I would appreciate it if you gave a rest to making advances on me, as your occupation is not something I am interested in paying for.”
“That a condition?”
“Yes.”
“Jus’ to be clear, ya 'll be paying me for talkin’?”
“Yes.”
They run their hand through unruly hair. “And that place I’ll be dressin’ up for, all fancy ‘n proper, is it warm?”
“I believe so, yes. It was the last time I were there.” Things might have changed through the crisis, but he supposes if the bar still stands open, it does remain heated as well.
“Got ya a deal, then.” They reach enthusiastically to shake his hand. “Ah shit, forgot ya don’t wanna touch me—”
Alastor offers his own hand before they’ve drawn away. “It’s not exactly so,” he explains. Their grip is firmer than he had expected, though he remains at a loss as to what gender they are. “This, I do not mind. We ought as well to introduce ourselves to each other eventually.”
“Ya don’t hafta if you don’t wanna.” The prostitute shrugs. "'M used to that."
“It would be quite inconsiderate of me not to. You may call me Alastor—”
“Like the presenter mamma listens t—oh shit, ya ARE the presenter!”
“Why else would I be working on a radio program?” Alastor asks, befuddled by the selectivity of his new fellow’s intellect.
“That’s where ya got the fancy talkin’ from!”
“Speech is certainly a tool at my work, that is true. And what shall I call you?”
Caught up in their musings about where they heard Alastor’s voice before, the scarlet person needs all three repeats of the question to answer it. “Ya may call me Angel.”
The bar fortunately turns out to have survived the last few years. It has lost some of its former glory throughout, but that is only an asset in the current situation, as Alastor dreads being noticed by someone from high society. It sure would be a nuisance to have to explain his presence and company.
That being said, Angel delivers on their promise and awaits him by the place Alastor directed them to, dressed in a surprisingly elegant suit. Between that change and their current lack of long hair or makeup, one could take them for a completely different person. Yet the fascinatingly unpredictable core of them remains.
The two of them find a quiet spot for their conversation and the fellow proves extremely talkative. Alastor, however, suspects Angel of lying.
It would not be unreasonable to think so. Angel would be justified in not telling him the truth. Even their fable gives Alastor a sense they indeed know a lot, more than a simple street-person should. Whatever ties they have to the mobsters, they are not keen to reveal them, which makes Alastor surmise that their safety in the underworld could be at risk if they were any franker.
But lies do not make for a good show! Nor do they help Alastor in choosing future targets.
Feeling as though he has only wasted time, Alastor brings that up as they leave. "Be as honest as you possibly can the next time," he urges, "for it is of utmost importance that I know the whole story before beginning to tweak it."
"Oh yeah?” Angel crosses their long arms over their chest. “And what guarantee do I got that ya ain't gonna sell it to the first one that asks? 'Cause ya cute, but I ain't dyin' for cute, sweetheart."
"You have my word."
"Uh-huh," they hum, unconvinced.
"We have made a deal, that is certainly worth something."
"Yeah. But it ain't worth a coffin. If ya get somethin' on me, I should get somethin' on ya."
Alastor looks around, careful of any accidental listeners. There are none, yet still he hesitates much unlike when revealing his radio identity. That one was able to be traced without his assistance; this one is not and could bring the end of him if the scarlet person proved untrustworthy after all.
Reassuring himself that no one would believe their word over his, Alastor does the unthinkable and drops his radio voice. "Ya right ‘bout dat, Angel. It’s mo’ fair if ya do get somethin’ on me.”
Angel watches him with bulging eyes. "That–either ya an actor on the side or… Ya ain't fancy 'n from here, are ya?"
"I am not, non," he confirms. “Not by birth in any case.”
"Louisiana?" Angel guesses in a tone of revelation, getting another nod from him. “Ya look quite…” they pause, searching for a word, “…Yankee white.”
“Look being the operative word,” Alastor confirms, and in the same breath adds, “But it ain’t a ting to be shoutin’ out in the streets.”
“Oh—of course—sorry!” they cover their mouth with a hand, then lower their voice as they ensure, "This the exchange, then? I shut up about where ya from, 'n ya don't get me killed with ya radio show?"
Greatly amused by how unaware they are of the true stakes on his side, Alastor smiles at them. "I suppose so, yes."