A/N: Nina Vale (jaynefray) and emyy250 once wrote about film noir!Dante doing investigative work on Tumblr, and since I am a sucker for anything Prohibition era-related, I (predictably) wrote about it instead of like, focusing on my other odd-number drafts sitting in my folder.
This one is set in New Orleans a few days before Mardi Gras, with guns instead of magic. For more information on the prompt ( search/club-singer-zhalia). Slang is used gratuitously, and I've written the meanings out on the bottom of the fic, if anybody's confused. Please review, they water my crops and fuel my life. Title is from Lana del Rey's "Kinda Outta Luck".
The streets are glowing, pulsating with an ethereal light as the cobblestone pavements reflect the gas streetlights, complementing the picturesque state of the area. Sitting at the turn of the decade, New Orleans blooms like a fresh-faced deb at her first ball, all jeweled lights and colors popping out as Mardi Gras approaches with each ticking second. Her rich culture oozes out of every alley and every stone terraced rooftop, the sounds of jazz ever-present throughout the city. Even the light drizzle- usually irritating, the humidity bringing on a bout of colds and not enough to fully water any plants- only serves to make the city more dreamlike, surrounded by a haze.
Dante Vale can still smell the petrichor, wafting up and through the half-opened window in his investigator's office. Escaping here in his sanctuary, New Orleans sitting outside looking pretty and the comfort of his cushioned leather seat proved to be doing wonders for his growing headache, Montehue's ever-booming laughter now muffled by the closed doors. The celebration downstairs is absolutely roaring and very much enjoyable, and Dante would've kept on mingling along with the rest of them if Metz hadn't reminded him of the files on his desk concerning the latest kills and reports from around the city, murders and missing warrants and- as it seems- another mob working to get into the bootleg business.
New Orleans is a beautiful city. Beauty always comes with a catch, Dante, Metz offhandedly said to him when he brought him to the Americas, always a double-edged blade. Hers just happen to be terror.
Dante hadn't believed it back when he was a boy of barely-ten, when the S.S. Antique had arrived at the port at night and he ran the length of the ship to see the lights of the city slowly winking at the bay. Metz's hand was on his shoulder, steadying him, and the promise of a fresh start fizzes at the tip of his tongue. The world was different decades ago.
Dante can understand the need for liquor, especially since the krewe in charge of this year's parade is rolling in dough and known for their rather extravagant celebrations. It'd be a downright shame if it would be anything short of a bacchanal revelry. Ah, but the things people will do just to avoid being sober…
Thumbing through the thick stack, he pulls out the first manila folder with a red seal and rips it. The piece of paper inside is blank, thankfully, because just as soon as he pulls it out the door to his office opens and a spiffy-looking dame lets herself in, surreptitiously locking the door behind her.
"Excuse me Miss, but if you're looking for the bathroom it's two doors down the hall," he drawls, hand immediately covering the red-sealed folders as the dame turns around and levels a glare at him.
"Pipe down, will you, my brother might hear," Sophie Casterwill says, British accent surprisingly retained even through five years of living in New Orleans. Her cropped strawberry-blonde hair bobs as she casts a wary glance at the door. "I'm not supposed to be out of the house for anything."
Dante assesses her with a cool stare as she takes a seat and tucks an ankle behind the other, the princess always finding her throne. She lifts her chin and matches his stare, so unlike the fifteen year-old girl who once had a crush on him and made it clear to everyone, to the shock of her brother.
The girl's retained her nerve, daring to cut her hair like the flappers in this country, given that the Casterwills had a reputation for being traditionalistic despite the money and the lavish parties. Though it might be a statement of sorts, given that her brother is this year's King of the Mardi Gras.
As for escaping the compound, going away from her bodyguard before her ball, in order to go to a private investigator…
"What do you want, kid?" he asks. Tight-lipped, and she's absentmindedly twisting a red-jeweled ring on her left hand.
"I need you to find someone for me." Of course. He's had his share of parents coming in his office and asking him to find a suitable young man to accompany their debutantes before (and a lot of debutantes that asked him to come instead), but Sophie looks too worried for it to be something as trivial as that.
Dante thinks hard about the scotch hidden in his desk, and questions his decision to save it for an occasion. "I'm not the one for the missing person's case." He gestures to the pile of reports. "As you can see, I'm busy."
"I'll pay you," she says, predictably. "Triple your salary even, or whatever your usual pay is."
"All the money in the world couldn't write off these reports, and I don't have time for beating gums. There are other dicks in this ci-"
"They won't find him," she cuts him off. "Trust me, I'd know."
"You could try."
"They won't," she insists. Her hands have stopped their fidgeting and are now clenched, bone-white in her lap. "This person, they, they kidnapped him, and left a… ghastly calling card as they did. His family's the one asking the lams about the situation but I know that they don't have the resources for this."
"Then you should give them yours," he replies. "Might speed up the investigation a little faster, and I really don't have the time-"
"Lok Lambert's been kidnapped by the Blood spirals yesterday morning in his office because he found out about their speakeasy to be opened during the parade and was caught."
Dante shuts up.
She takes a deep breath and straightens in her chair. "I don't know where he is and I fear the worst, and they wouldn't have found him had I not said anything about the matter." Her hands clench together, the ring visibly digging into her hand. "So tell me, Dante Vale," she holds eye contact steadily in contrast to her watery voice, "will you use all of your contacts at your disposal to find him, and bring him home safely?"
He looks at her mad-bright stare, the stack of coded reports, hears the hustle-and-bustle of New Orleans outside his window, and the raucous party downstairs. Takes in her desperate state and wonders about her real motives about Ethan Lambert's kid, if it's really worth finding out. Thinks about the scotch in his desk.
Dante nods.
If he was appalled at the poorly-written official statements the police have released about Lok Lambert's disappearance, he was in no way prepared for the unofficial ones.
In the published statement, the authorities confirm that Lambert was kidnapped as he went home after his shift at the office, and that they are sure the boy might still be alive, although the family has confirmed that they weren't given any ransom notes. The statement also had a paragraph from the editors promising to help and stand by the family in these times, as Dante had found out that the nineteen-year old boy was well-liked in the small publishing company despite (or maybe because of) his age and enthusiasm.
The unofficial reports, however, make it clear that the statement was released in order to calm down the family and the journalists, as the police have gossiped during their bull sessions that they saw the infamous Blood spiral mark in the alley where the boy was presumed missing, and have put the case in the hands of the federal agents. Smart move, but calling in the feds from several states over would mean that the investigation would be put on hold for weeks without anyone allowed to take up the case. It's no wonder Sophie was as desperate as she were.
The officials considered the situation a lost cause, now. Might as well have marked the boy down as 'dead' and closed their case, for all they cared.
"Knock 'em down!"
The boxer jogs around the ring while his opponent watches him with a wary eye. He feints a small punch to his opponent's left flank before going in for an uppercut, sending the opponent staggering on the floor.
The bell rings as hoots and Bronx cheers resounded throughout the cramped gym they call a boxer's ring. Money exchanges hands, and a man pats the boxer on his back as he goes under the ropes and steps out of the ring.
"Y'know, I didn't really believe in you when you said you wanted to punch people for a living," he says, throwing the boxer a towel that he catches in mid-air. "'Too simple,' I said, 'not for someone of Kilthane's caliber!' Were my exact words, I think."
Kilthane laughs, pulling the towel around his neck. "Can't say I didn't follow my dreams, now can you, Mickey?"
"I don't go by that no more," Mickey grins at his former colleague, baring his teeth like a shark's, the smile falling flat due to the man's deformed kisser, a souvenir from a mission gone horribly right. "I'd say it's good to see you, but-"
"Harley Kings ain't a pretty sight for anybody, right?" Kilthane asks, jokingly.
"Yeah, sure." Mickey's smile turns brittle at the edges, and he falls into step with Kilthane. "Is this what ex-hired guns do now, jump from one illegal activity to another?"
"Seems like it, from the looks of you and me." He stops to wave as his opponent waves to him from across the room and cups his bandaged hands to his mouth. "Good game, you club-footed sack of shit!" he shouts.
"I'll send your sorry ass to the hospital another time, 'Thane!" the guy shouts back, threat softened by the good-natured smile on his bloody face.
"Sure, C," Kilthane drawls, "I'll hold you to that." He turns to Mickey whose brows were furrowed as they continue on walking. "That's Caliban, rookie with plenty of potential. Great technique, but he ain't got a single pragmatic bone in his body."
"Are y'all buddy-buddy with your opponents now? Might say, I'm getting jealous. You just get all the friends." Mickey fake pouts as they enter the locker rooms. Kilthane puts his head under the sink and turns on the tap, washing off the blood from his face and wiping himself with the towel. Mickey lights up a cig, ignorant of the 'no smoking' sign on the door.
He blows smoke circle after smoke circle as Kilthane walks over to a bench and drains his water bottle. "Why, the other Harley Kings not up to your standards?" he holds out the bottle to Mickey, who shakes his head.
"Us loan sharks don't get along too well with our own kind."
"It's not too late to join Gigi and the others, you know."
"The big cheese might not appreciate me going back to my former employer," Mickey drawls, the smoke rolling over his weirdly-shaped mouth. "'sides, isn't her place protected by that midnight murderer? Think I might be on his hitlist."
"It's midnight killer, Micks, and I didn't peg you for one believing in ghost stories." Kilthane holds Mickey's stare, trying not to blink under the loan shark's unsettling gaze.
The locker metal is cool on his back. "What the fuck do you really want Micks?"
"What I want to talk about isn't one reserved for sweat-filled locker rooms. Come with me, take you out to a nicer pig sty."
Kilthane lets himself be dragged to the watering hole across the street. An unnamed place, just the right amount of secrecy and full of customers as was the usual in these sober times, but as soon as he approaches the counter Mickey pulls him to the back corner of the room, dark enough that they wouldn't be seen, and where they both had a good view of all the people in the room.
A bucket of beer is slid across the table, and both men took a bottle, downing the drink in one sitting. Kilthane warily eyes his companion, who has never liked beer and proven himself time and time again to be the lightest lightweight to ever lightweight.
"You heard 'bout that kidnapping on Kipperin street?" Mickey asks, voice sliding into slang and local accent.
Kilthane raises his eyebrows and does the same, raising his voice an octave for added effect. "Who hasn't? Only talk goin' round these days."
"Poor kid. Knew his mother from the bakery downtown. Sweetest dame I ever met, and that includes Marvin's wife!"
"Only you consider Marvin's wife sweet." Whoever the fuck Marvin was, anyway. Kilthane opens another bottle and takes a sip. "Shows what you know."
Mickey rolls the neck of his dead soldier.
"What I know 'bout a lotta things would get us pinched by them lams. Y'know they didn't talk about it in the paper? The spiral mark found in the alley? Saw one of them ragamuffins gettin' paid to scrub it off the sidewalk 'fore anyone tried to look for it."
Kilthane's eyes widen at his former colleague's reckless namedropping of his current employers. "Dry up." He looks around to make sure no one is listening in. "Shit. Man, you gotta be kidding 'bout that. The spirals targeting a kid," he whistles. "Heavy stuff."
Mickey's eyes are bright beneath dark circles. "Methinks the sister might be why. Always suspected that Jane to be a moll, with the long gams on that pretty thing…" His drawl is a stark contrast to his fidgeting hands tearing the table napkin to pieces.
"His sister ain't a dumb Dora. Whole family's too smart and honest to get tangled up with the lowlife." Kilthane says and means every word, having done the necessary research. "Though I heard the kid's sweet on that British princess, might be it."
"Thought the Casterwills weren't royalty."
"Her brother's the King of the Mardi Gras, you sap. And they're rich, might as well be."
"Still, the paper said 'no ransom' didn't it? Might not be the money the spirals lookin' for. Or, they might not even be the ones to kidnap the kid." Mickey takes another bottle and brushes two fingers under his chin- a code, from way back. Kilthane almost chokes on his stale beer.
No bullshit.
Mickey might just be a loan shark, but bull runs around mobs pretty damn quick, and if he says that the spirals didn't do it…
He discretely rolls out a pen and paper from his pocket and writes hastily as Kilthane talks and scans their surroundings. "The paper's sellin' a damn lie. We know there's a spiral mark-"
"Yeah, hidden, remember?" Mickey cuts off, sliding the paper underneath the table and into Kilthane's hand. Looking as disinterested as possible, he reads the scrawl in the dim light.
"Since when did the spirals try to hide their stuff?" Mickey continues.
The boy found out about the op. They were going to take him for a ride, but the group got intercepted. No boy, no spirals, no trace. And I think you know what happened. Don't do anything stupid while this isn't settled.
"Nah, methinks this might be the work of them bounty hunters from a'fore-"
"The organization's been 'bout as active as a dead fish these past few years." Kilthane firmly cuts off, rubbing the paper over the table and on the bottle's condensation, messing up the writing. "They ain't makin' a comeback, and if they did it sure as hell wouldn't be this low-profile."
After a lengthy conversation with Metz, exhausting every single detail from the reports and rehashing the added problem of Sophie Casterwill's request, Dante feels like getting drunk off his ass, damn the Prohibition laws.
But since he has a reputation to keep, even in the comforts of the foundation's not-so-legal speakeasy, he refrains from jumping across the counter and taking all the hooch for himself. The slamming sound of the folders on the counter is a weak comfort.
"Well aren't you in a bad mood."
Dante looks up to see Lin Storm, long-haired still, setting aside the shaker and taking a bottle of scotch, pouring three fingers in a glass that he gladly accepts. "That obvious?" Dante asks.
"No, I'm just really skilled at reading people," Lin replies, flatly. She wipes the table, abandoning the shaker which Dante suspects contains one of her deadly experimental cocktails. "What's eating you, baby grand? Did the big cheese try 'ta set you up again?"
"I don't need to add a blind date to my schedule."
"But you do need to add a blind date to your schedule." Lin pulls her hand back from the counter, narrowly missing Dante cuffing them with a folder. "And I'm not the only one to think so."
"I'm going to write you both off my will."
"Like I'd want your useless trinkets. Montehue would bury them in a mountain somewhere, get rid of it all."
Dante points an accusing finger. "Hey, you don't get to mistreat my amulets like that, even hypothetically."
"Then stop hiding my weapons, asshole," says Lin.
He pointedly stays silent and ignores Lin making faces to open a folder, skims the contents, closes it again. He downs the scotch in one go, the liquid burning his throat and making his eyes watery- the way only bootleg alcohol can.
Lin whistles. "That bad?"
"It's all the usual hooey. Dead in a ditch, run off with money, probably lost his way around the Bible belt. None of it adds up with the accounts of the kid's personality- smart kid, always on the up and up, good with directions." He waves an envelope containing copies of well-wishes and lost-and-found posters made by half of downtown New Orleans. "Lambert's less likely to make an enemy too."
Lin slams a cabinet closed, the sound echoing throughout the empty halls of the bar. It was daylight still, and all of the regulars in their company only comes and goes when it's morning. Which is why he deemed it safe even when Lin asked out loud, "You're taking on Lok Lambert's case?"
She looks surprised. "I was asked last night. I've got about three days to finish the job." Sophie hadn't given him a time limit, but he should try to bring the kid back before her deb. He likes to set challenges for himself, and if it means that he'll get to bail out on finding a gift for the girl, then all the better.
Lin clears the bar counter, refills Dante's scotch and pours herself one. She swirls her glass, not taking a sip, glaring at the bottom as though it would reveal all the secrets in the world. "Sandra Lambert asked for help in finding him. High priority of course, I should've expected you to take on the case. But that was filed just this morning." She tips her glass in his direction. "Who hired you, Dante?"
Dante raises an eyebrow. "Can you be trusted?"
"Baby grand, I am hurt that you would think otherwise."
"I meant 'trusted not to spill all the details'."
"Now that is just being rude."
He slides an envelope to her, marked Personal Correspondence in red ink. "Don't say anything until you've finished it."
Lin takes out a sheet of paper and sniffs it. "Rose-scented?" she asks. Dante nods.
Silent seconds pass as Lin reads, the only sounds in the empty juice joint the shuffling of Dante's folders as he re-arranges them. He looks up and takes a sip to stop himself- from grinning or grimacing, he isn't sure.
Lin's expression is comical- eyes wide, mouth slightly hanging- and Dante would have laughed had he not known what the exact contents of the letter were. Sophie Casterwill had nerves of steel, of course, but he didn't expect something so… scandalous as that. Or that Lok Lambert would obliviously respond in kind.
Ah, young love. Wonders will never cease.
Folding the paper, she puts it back in the folder and downs her shot. "Shit. That's one piece of beeswax I wouldn't poke my nose in. Does her family know?"
"I'm not that sure. Sophie wanted to keep this out of her brother's eye. Santiago refused to say anything, but LeBlanche gave me these." He picks a few letters from the folder and slides them to her, who slides them back.
"I really don't think I should pry."
"I really do think you should pry." Lin glares at him half-heartedly. That shows she's willing. Dante goes in for the kill. "Talk to him and I'll stop stealing your weapons as a bonus."
"Can't I just give you one of my contacts?"
"I already have a lot of those," Dante says. "At least Santiago's a reliable source."
"And so is this one."
"If you want an in to the investigation, then you should go and ask him."
He brushes off her glare easily. Her rage at being called out for her ulterior motives would've been effective had Dante not been the subject of it for the last nine years. "Fine, I'll ask him, but," she raises a finger, "I'm sure as hell not going to go through this alone," she says, arms crossing and taking a stance Dante silently refers to as the 'brace yourself, motherfucker' pose, reserved for crashers and particularly insistent males.
Still, Dante can't help but quip- "You won't be alone, you'd have Santiago."
"I meant you, dipshit."
Dante immediately shuts up. Lin goes in for the kill. "I'll go and ask Santiago about everything and anything that you'd need for this investigation, serve as backup whenever you'd need one, and I'll even find a way to erase Mrs. Lambert's request from the mission board without anyone knowing. But," Lin interjects as Dante opens his mouth, "you'll have to use the contact I gave you."
Dante sets down his files and stares at Lin. "That's the catch?"
Lin shrugs. "It's as you said, we both need to add blind dates to our schedules."
"You said that, not me-"
"-and she'd be a really good match for you," Lin steamrolls over Dante's protest and leans back, seemingly satisfied with the terms.
"That's been said before," Dante points out. "Need I remind you of Madea, Paula, Grier, Hannah from the bakery downtown, Otto, and Scarlett that one time-"
"All Montehue's ideas." Lin waves it off. "Which, considering he's liked Scarlett for a while by then it was kind of awkward."
"Yeah well, 'kind of awkward' doesn't begin to describe it," says Dante. Montehue's many subtle attempts at showing off to her almost cost Dante a mission and left his arm sore for days due to arm-wrestling competitions- and this was after he broke everything off.
"I know. Everyone does. You complained about it loudly for weeks before locking them and Tersly in a room." Dante snorts. "Oh come on, Dante, I haven't set you up yet," Lin says. "At least give me this one chance."
"The way you're saying that makes me think that everyone in this juice joint is lining up for a chance to set me up with their friends." Dante pauses. "Or children."
"What I'm getting from all this protest is that you're not really rejecting my attempts to set you up."
"I don't need to add another blind date to my schedule, Lin. Especially with this urgent case."
"Like you can't solve that in half the time."
"I'm not having any of that applesauce."
"Come on, Dante. Just once?"
Lin has never asked for anything from him that required much of his personal preference like this before. Hands clasped, voice pitched higher than normal- this is the Lin Storm equivalent of begging, a rare thing.
Dante spares a glance at the files, sitting inconspicuously on the table. It was a handful even if he used all of his contacts- and boy, was he almost close to using up all of his contacts. And it was true, Lin's judgment is more often than not a solid one…
"Fine." Lin pumps her fist. "But this first meeting is a solid business date only, okay? I'll pass heavy judgment, and if it doesn't work out then you won't do anything about it."
"Oh, don't worry." Lin grins. "She's the cat's meow, alright."
"And I better hear good things about your date with Santiago."
"Can't promise you anything."
"So who is this contact of yours?"
deb - debutante
bootleg/hooch - illegal liquor manufactured during the Prohibition
krewe - organization that puts on a parade or ball for the Carnival season
flappers - the 'modern woman' of the 1920s, wearing short hair and sporting shorter skirts
beating gums/beating one's gums - to gossip
dicks/lams - slang for private investigators/police
speakeasy/juice joint - illegal clubs that sell bootleg
bull - gossip
Bronx cheer - resounding 'boo's
kisser - mouth/lips
big cheese - important person, top dog
dead soldier - empty beer bottles
moll - a mobster's girlfriend
long gams - long legs
sap - idiot
'take him for a ride' - literally to take the person for a ride to kill him
baby grand - endearment for a stocky or well-known man
hooey - nonsense
on the up and up - honest
crashers - unwanted guests/visitors