1920s Noir AU - Strange Magic
Bog King is the mob, Marianne is a singer in his club, and while she's married to Roland, it doesn't mean she can't have some fun - or is there another reason she can't keep her hands off the mysterious King?
Going to be a series of one-shots
The Way She Looks Tonight
The cold rain hits him hard down to his bones. His jacket hangs over his arm, but he makes no move to put it on. He keeps his pace even and doesn't falter as he looks up at the old sign hanging above, The Dark Forest. What a name for a joint. If he were a smarter man, he could probably think of a better one. But lately, he hasn't been too smart. He wonders if he ever has been.
His hand, hidden underneath the jacket on his arm, lingers at the holster on his hip. He scans the area carefully, looking for any new faces, or old ones, that may raise some alarm. But all he sees is drunk patrons that are too far into their bottle to even notice him. Good.
He looks toward the stage as he takes a seat at the bar. Looks his mother is just setting up for the next performer. He vaguely remembers her talking about some new girl that she managed to rope into the business and he wonders what poor girl got suckered into it this time. Another wannabe singer probably. If it's a dancer, he may at least have some dim chance of seeing some entertainment tonight.
He shouldn't get his hopes up too high. At best, it's going to be another one that takes one look at him before quickly terminating their employment. At worst, it's another poor, young thing that's getting into the wrong type of business too early. Either way, no girl would look twice at a guy that has a mug like him unless they have something good to get out of it. Hell, there's not a whore alive that would even take his money even if he wanted to.
"She's supposed to be pretty good."
Stephanie, 'Stuff', Eupora is wiping a glass at the bar and looking at him with a cocked brow. Her hair is thinning, whether it's from stress or age, he's not sure, but it's cut shorter than most dames would even dare to try. She's bigger than most dames too, but like hell he would say that to her face.
He can see Theodore, 'Thang,' bustling around behind her with a tray as he scrambles to serve the clients. Every time he wonders why he hasn't fired that buffon yet, Stuff reminds him pretty quick that if he goes, she will too. And damn it, no makes a better drink.
Besides Thang is one of the few who haven't been scared off yet and despite how talkative he can be, he doesn't ask the wrong sorts of questions that will get him buffed off.
"Your usual brown," she asks and he barely nods before a whiskey is being handed to him. She doesn't have the decency to pour into a glass and frankly, he wouldn't want her to.
He takes too big of a drink than you should out of a bottle, but he likes the way it burns his throat.
"Not another poor little bunny then?" He pauses. "Or a quiff?"
He wouldn't put it past his mother to hire another quiff. They bring in business and his mother is pretty nice about only taking a small percent of what they make. She's soft like that. Doesn't know how real business works. But at least she knows how to protect herself, otherwise he might be a bit more worried.
Stuff snorts, "Oh no, she's a real McCoy. Got the voice of an angel and the doll's got a face to match too."
He downs another part of his bottle, "Do I have to worry about you stealin' another one of my girls?"
He hates the way that rolls off of his tongue. Ain't one of those girls that step on the stage is really 'his'. All except one and he's not going to make that mistake again.
He hears something shatter and Thang is scrambling to pick up the pieces of a glass, muttering apologies with a flush. Funny, he never noticed how noticable a blush is on dark skin. A few patrons turn their head but at his glare, they turn away pretty fast.
"Somethin' tells me that manacle of hers means that she's spoken for," Stuff huffs.
Married, huh? He's tempted to tell Stuff that a ring doesn't mean shit. That it never means shit. It doesn't keep anyone in your arms and it doesn't keep them from running to someone else the second they can. But he knows that Stuff isn't like him, she keeps the 'sanctuary' of marriage close to her chest. She isn't like him, she's not willing to be some doll's second choice and isn't going to ruin a marriage in the process.
So he keeps his mouth shut. There isn't any reason to start any fights, not now when he can hear the music slowly starting up on stage.
He watches the curtains pull apart as a dim light starts to focus on the stage. A bit queer for a dame up there to be married. Most married dames are too busy doing what newlyweds are supposed to be doing to be up there. Unless her husband either doesn't know what she's doing or encourages it a bit too strongly. The idea of the later makes him frown.
Pimps spreading their girls to his territory could spell trouble and while he's all for the dames doing what they need to do to get by, he doesn't like the dewdroppers that force them to do it so they can make some dough. Especially if that dewdropper put a manacle on their finger.
An upbeat melody rings throughout the bar takes him out of his thoughts. She comes out like a siren, calling men to their death at the edge of a rocky shore. She has the body that any man would kill for and he wonders just how many bullets he needs in his gun. Her brown locks are a bit too messy to be neat and her eyes are a golden flame that look like they burn anyone who does her wrong. She doesn't wear the typical dress either. It's more form fitting and a bit longer than most flappers' wear with a slit that goes high enough to reveal the pistol in her garter. Somehow that adds to the appeal.
He wonders how much makeup his mother had to put on her and why she even bothered. The dame has a water-proof face, one that could make a man's knees weak without so much as lipstick. She looks like a bearcat, a real fire ready to burn. Something about her feels familiar, like he should know her, but if he ever saw a face like hers, he's sure he would have remembered.
Everything about her, from the way her hair bounces at her neck to the swing in her hips to the manacle on her finger spells trouble.
He could use a little bit of trouble in his life, but he didn't know just how much trouble he's in until her pretty little lips open to sing.
"Fool, death ain't nothin' but a heartbeat away. I live life, do or die, what can I say? I'm 23 now, but will I live to see 24? The way things is goin' I don't know."
Christ on a stick, he hopes that she isn't as young as she sings. His heart beats wildly in his chest and he can feel something else pulsing along with it. He downs the rest of his bottle and hits it hard on the bar to signal for another one. He tells Stuff to keep it coming. With the way the dame is singing and dancing, he's going to need a hell of a lot more.
"Told you she was a doll, Bog," Stuff slides him another bottle, "Better close that mouth of yours before you catch more than a fly."
He glares at her but they both know that his glare doesn't hold any substance. Though he has a few choice words he'd love to say to his mother right about now.
His mother doesn't pay any attention to his words, why should she? She never listens to him, not when it comes to the girls on the stage anyway. It's one of their arrangements. Bog doesn't have the time to manage a full bar and the entertainment on top of his more shady businesses. His mother took to management like butter does to bread.
"She's got a manacle, mother," he stresses, but she waves him off like she has been for the past hour, "You don't know what type of trouble her husband could bring. If he doesn't know, he shoots either her or the place up. Or both. If he does know, then it could bring other sorts of trouble."
"Well it's it your job to find that out and take care of it," Greselda huffs, "Besides, she loves singing here and I've met that bastard of a husband of hers. You ask me, that man just lets her be here because he's a real drugstore cowboy."
She ignores the way he points out that he never asked her. So he ignores most of the ramblings of his mother, who goes on and on about how awful this dame's husband apparently is, and how he's ruining 'marriage', and that the 'poor bunny doesn't know'.
He's almost sorry he ever started this conversation in the first place. He takes the first opening he can to excuse himself and he can hear his mother mumbling to herself even as he leaves her. He takes the back exit and fumbles for a moment to get his cigarettes out of his pocket.
He has one in his mouth as he's reaching for his lighter, but in a flash, a delicate hand snatches it out of his mouth and puts it between her own lips. She's brave enough to snatch his own lighter to light it too. She takes a long drag and blows the smoke through dark, perfect lips.
It takes him a moment to speak. He didn't expect it to be her - he prayed that that delicate hand belonged to anyone but her. He thinks about heading back in just so he doesn't have to keep breathing in that perfume of hers that seeps into the air underneath the smoke.
"Don't go getting your lipstick stains on my cigars," he grumbles, but she merely looks at him with a twinkle in her eyes.
"Good thing I'm not wearing any lipstick then."
"Bushwa, there ain't a soul alive that has lips like that."
He has to be careful. He's treading some dangerous territory here. His mother said that her husband is a lady's man. That doesn't mean that he'd appreciate some man going after his wife. Especially one whose morals are as gray as his jacket.
Though he's not sure what surprises him more, the fact that she has yet to turn away from him or the fact that she's stepping closer to him. There's a dangerous look in her eyes that makes him swallow hard.
"You can always test it if you don't believe me."
He holds his breath. He doesn't know what answer she wants from him, if this all some sick joke of hers.
"Take it easy there, tough girl."
She steps back and he feels like he can breath again. But now there's a wickedness to her grin when she blows another drag out, closer to him this time. As if she's teasing him, testing him. He's not used to dames teasing him, not like this, not without some ulterior motive.
So the real question is, what is it that she wants out of him?
Buffed Off - killed
Brown - whiskey
Bunny - endearment term for someone who's lost/confused
Quiff - slut/prostitute
Real McCoy - genuine item
Manacle - a wedding ring
Dewdropper - a young man who sleeps all day and doesn't have a job
Water-proof - a face so pretty it doesn't need makeup
Bearcat - a hot-blooded or fiery girl
Drugstore cowboy - a well-dressed man who loiters in public areas to pick up girls
Bushwa - Bullshit