II
The hunt begins. Or it would be, if Alastor wasn't stuck in a recording booth all day long. He's spinning a pencil in one hand, watching the yellow wood balance between his fingertips as he thinks. The station has approved him to write a short segment about this "Rougarou." It was indeed a common legend around Louisiana, and particularly popular with children. The coverage would be nothing more than cutesy filler, but for Alastor's own curiosities, it offered a good deal more. The beast had killed at least four men and hadn't been spotted by anyone. Save for one other person in town...
Case in point, there is a timid knock on his office door. Followed by a young woman with short black hair peeking in on him. The station secretary gives him a small wave with one hand.
"Al, Mrs. Gardener is here to see you."
"Thank you, my dear Diana! Do show her in?"
"Right away, Sir!"
He held something of a small celebrity status around town. His voice was recognized by and large in every home this side of New Orleans. It was fairly easy to ask around about this creature because of that. His adventures in this kind of socializing hadn't turned up much profit until he'd found Mrs. Gardener. A small stocky woman in a pink dress and a Sunday cardigan steps into his office. Her blonde hair is pinned up in a nice bun at the top of her head. She doesn't even seem much older than himself, if only be about five years or so. Immediately Alastor hops up to his feet and adjusts his bow tie.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Gardener. You look lovely as ever," He says with a polite bow and a light kiss to the back of her hand. A little charm can go a long way, he's always been taught.
"Oh thank you, Mr. Dapremont! You're as handsome as always yourself~" She greets him cheerfully, twiddling her hands as if she might be unsure of what to do with them. Alastor pulls up a seat beside his own desk, offering to it with one hand.
"Please have a seat."
He waits for her to do so, placing her coin purse on her lap and gingerly holding her hands over it. Alastor takes up the other chair, notepad at the ready and pencil finally being put to a proper use. He taps the eraser against his chin thoughtfully as he considers how to approach this.
"What did you want to interview me for, Mr. Dapremont? Is it for a radio show?"
"Why, yes indeedy! That's a very astute guess. I was hoping to ask you about something you saw."
"Ahah. You must be talking about the werewolf."
"You're two for two, my dear. I've been told you saw it firsthand."
"I didn't see it personally..." the woman looks down at the floor, haunted look in her eyes before she goes on, "My son likes to go fishing near a pond in the Southern Bayou. He's the one who saw it."
"What can you tell me about the incident? I'm doing a story on the creature sometime soon and I'd appreciate such a valuable account."
The woman leans forward in her chair, blonde curls falling slightly from their elegant placement atop her head as she does. She looks directly into his eyes before she speaks again, clearly troubled.
"It's a vicious animal... Like a demon... It left huge paw prints in the mud. And it tore apart a big buck all by itself. Those things I did see."
"Oh, really? Surely other animals could do things like that."
"Ohhh no. Not like this thing. My boy said it looked like a giant wolf, but walked on two legs like a man. And it made a screechy howling sound, like a banshee. I'm just thankful my boy got out of there alive."
"That must have been scary for him."
"Sure it was. He was so scared by it, he doesn't leave the house at night anymore. And especially not on the full moon."
As she speaks, Alastor writes down a few notes of the details she provides. His research has been extensive ever since they got back home that night. He's only got one more day until the next full moon. And he intends to have a solid plan of action by then. He can't call himself an expert yet, and therefore, every small piece of information he could get was a step in the right direction. Thus far, he's got several pieces of proof of the after effect of the creature. But never an actual picture or even an account from anyone who has seen it in action...
"Would your son be willing to talk about it with me, Mrs. Gardener?"
"Heavens no. He's been superstitious ever since it happened. He thinks anyone could be the werewolf in hiding, and he won't meet with anybody now."
A werewolf masquerading as a human being... What an interesting idea. Beasts could be tamed, with the right amount of effort. And humans were even easier to manipulate. Having both at the same time could prove to be a real treat. All assuming that the creature was actually out there in truth... This would take a real field test next. He had to be the first one to see it in action—and then live to tell the tale.
.
.
The Blind Tiger was still picking up the pieces from the recent heist. It wasn't their only booze supply, luckily, but it was one of the bigger ones. Not to mention with their recent "wolf" problem, it was much harder to use any of the storage compounds near the bayou. It was a commonly known fact that the speakeasy belonged to a Mr. Dio Galletti, and less commonly known was that he went by "Big Daddy Dio" under ground and was in good ties with the Mafia under such a name. You didn't want to make him angry. No one knew this better than his right hand man, Cyrano Arnaud. The loss from the other night is an especially heavy blow because of this. He's still considering what to tell Galletti when he meets with him tomorrow night...
Cyrano was a dark creole man with a white lined scar all across his knuckles. He lit a cigarette with it to show off the past cut, while the other hand carded through a messy mop of dyed blonde hair that was already starting to tint brown at the roots. He was standing alone in the partly lit board room that day, having noticed right away that the files they left on the table were missing. The answer was obvious. The bootleggers took them. The question was why... While there was nothing in those files that could directly incriminate the Blind Tiger speakeasy, all of the men who were murdered in those photos worked there before they died. It wouldn't take long for a detective to figure that out and come looking for trouble. It could mean the end of their entire business, if it got into the wrong hands.
The door swings open behind him, allowing in a white man that went by Ricardo. He was done up in a suit vest and tie, the same as his boss. His ginger hair is slicked back, beady green eyes sunken with dark circles beneath them.
"The Blue Rose Bouquet, Two Shakes, and The Foxes Lounge are all clean," Ricardo reports with a gruff monotone.
"Shit..." Cyrano mumbles, puff of smoke leaving his maw like a dragon lazily exhales. They're investigating all the speakeasies this side of New Orleans, searching for the guys who stole from them. Not even to get their stolen goods back, but for those files on the Rougarou that could be damning if leaked to the public. Their soft spoken guy from New York is hitting up every place they know on the East side, while Ricardo hit up the West. There's only so much ground they can cover this way. But the guys they're searching for have to be nearby...
"Where to next, Boss?"
"I'll take the next one," Cyrano says, hands stowed in the pockets of his trousers, "I got a hunch I wanna check out anyway..."
The Scarlet Room... That name meant something to the select few who knew it. The speakeasy was run by a woman—almost unheard of in this day and age. But Mimzy Hänigan wasn't just a woman. Tiny as she may be, she commanded a presence with an iron fist, and doing business with her was an honor you wouldn't pass up. If you did wrong by her, chances are, you'd end up dead anyway. Cyrano makes his way to the little barbershop in the city. Hair cuts, shaves, and shampoo was offered at the place and they even sold fragrance oils and perfumes there to boot. But this wasn't a pleasure trip for a simple hair cut.
"How can I help you, Sir?" The man beside the large vanity asks as the dark skinned man adjusts his white hat on his head. After he does, he makes a show of adjusting his suit jacket to show off the gleaming red shaped pin glinting off of it. The barber takes one look at it, and meets his eyes with realization.
"I gotta see a man about a horse," Cyrano muses, without missing a beat.
"Of course, right this way."
He's led to the back of the shop, where a hidden wall is slid out of place over the checkerboard floor. As soon as he vanishes into the passageway, the barber closes it behind him again as if it never happened. The place was discrete like that. Cyrano makes the jaunt down into the underground bar. It's a damn nice place, he's got to admit. Mimzy prefers a hazy yellow mood lighting in her establishment. The jukebox over in the corner is silent for now, but in just a few hours, it will be alive with jazz and put to use on the dance floor. Each little round table has it's own candlestick, and the scarlet red stage curtains are shut before the evening show. Mimzy graces him with her presence almost as soon as he enters the room. The bar is empty of any life except for her. But she's dolled up in her feather boa and a stunning royal blue dress with fringe at the bottom and a neckline low enough to make any man blush.
"Oh darn... It's just you, Mr. Arnaud... I thought it was my sweet beau coming to see me where we could be alone together~"
"'Fraid not, Ma'am. I just came ta see ya on business."
"Oh? Do tell. Would you like a drink in the meantime?"
Mimzy strolls around to the back of the bar, stepping up onto a little stool placed there just to accommodate her short stature. Cyrano casually takes a seat at the bar stool across from her. Watching her pretty blue eyes for any sings of suspicion. She knew who he was and who he did "business" with. But part of Mimzy's charm was that she didn't turn away anyone. She kept her friends close and her enemies closer. Cyrano lays his hands on the dark counter top as she passes him a glass of amber liquid.
"Much obliged, Ma'am..." he takes a sip before he speaks again, just to put on a casual air, "I'm looking for some rum runners, Miss Mimzy. One of em stole somethin' from us."
"Isn't that the whole point?" She laughs, wearing a bright smile on her face.
"It ain't hooch this time."
"Am I allowed to ask what it is then?" Mimzy leans forward on the counter, batting her eyelashes at him. She puts her face in her hands, leaning her elbows on the bar. If you didn't know the woman at all, it might look like a shy gesture. Like a young girl looking at her crush over a milkshake date. Cyrano considers just how much to reveal to someone as crafty as Mimzy. If he lies, she's bound to know it. The truth might come across as bizarre, or even dangerous. He cracks a smirk as the perfect compromise comes to him.
"A couple of files. Ever hear of the Rougarou legend? We had a scary story about it in those files, and a couple drawings ta scare the kiddos."
"Oh? That's a curious thing for a couple of rogue bootleggers to steal, now isn't it." Mimzy grins at him to say. He can see the curiosity sparkling in her eyes, glittering as surely as a crystal in a dark cavern. She must think it's a code or a silly lie of some kind. That only goes to show how ridiculous the whole thing sounds.
"Sure is. But Mr. Galletti has grand kids, ya see. And he's gonna want those back. It's all very hush hush... So I trust you'll keep this between us, Ma'am?" He grins wide, showing off the single gold tooth in his mouth with pride. Mimzy is quiet for a moment, tipping back her own glass of dark liquid and finishing the entire thing in one fell swoop.
"I won't say a word, Mr. Arnaud~ I can't say any of my boys have a need for something such as that. But I suppose I could let you know if I find anything."
"Thank ya, Ma'am. You're a real peach," Cyrano tips his hat to the lady, smirk curling at the corners the slightest bit.
"Stop in any time, Mr. Arnaud. Perhaps you'd like to bring Mr. Galletti next time. I'd be glad to see how he's doing~"
"Sure thing, Ma'am. I might just take you up on that."
Mimzy waves cheerfully with glowing politeness. That allows Cyrano to leave the speakeasy via the back route that leads into the alleyway. He's almost positive the thief is from The Scarlet Room now. He just has a feeling. There's no way to know for sure, but Mimzy's rum runners have always been a real skilled bunch. They're tough to deal with at the best of times, and almost always get away clean. Case in point, no one back at the Blind Tiger even knows what these thieves look like. The man they caught didn't have any pins on him, and certainly no red ones that would link him here. They have always been their biggest rivals though. So his mind is made up almost as soon as his shoes hit the pavement. He'll have to come back to The Scarlet Room after the full moon tomorrow night. Then he's almost certain he'll have the proof he needs right here...
.
.
"Here we are in the deepest heart of Louisiana, Ladies and Gentlemen! The southern Bayou—home to the mysterious loup garou. Where does this majestic beast hide before it can unleash it's deadly fangs each full moon? We are about to find ou—" Alastor's theatrical narration was cut short by the large hand suddenly pressing against his forehead.
"Hey, dumbass, watch where you're walking," Husk gruffly scolds. He let's go of the smaller man, now that he's looking up from the notebook he'd been writing in. He looks ahead at the mass of bark in his field of vision... A clear sign that he'd been unknowingly about to bash his head into a tree before Husk had intervened. It was a cool day in the Louisiana bayou, not so many miles from Alastor's own home. The forest was serene except for the orchestra of crickets and birds playing their solos into the breeze. It might have been a good day for some nature spotting. But the energetic radio host was looking for evidence for a different kind of animal on this particular adventure.
"Thank you, dear fellow! I suppose I should save this for later..." Sheepishly, Alastor opens the satchel at his hip and stashes away the notebook and pencil into it. The full moon is just one night away. He's already compiled a good deal of notes for what is sure to be an interesting story for his show whether they find it or not. His curiosity is a powerful thing. It's what drives him to hike along this trail, in search of a nonsensical creature that probably doesn't exist. But, he reasons, he's seen devils and demons to exist for certain. So what other supernatural horrors could he witness in his meager lifetime?
A yawn from beside him breaks him out of these musings. He turns a questioning look up at his cohort. Husk lumbers along at his side, dutiful and loyal but disinterested in the entire endeavor. They'd been hiking for an hour already, heading towards the small secluded shack in the bayou. They can see it in the distance now, suspended above the green water marsh by little wooden dock. It's too small to be much use for anything. And it's long since been out of use for anything besides the occasional rest spot for rangers.
"Should I even ask what you have a shack for?" Husk cocks his head at him as he asks, without really looking for an answer.
"It's not mine. I've just borrowed it for this little hunt of ours."
They both tread over the wooden boardwalk up to the shack. While it had four walls and a roof, it was too run-down to seem efficient. Husk can't venture to guess what Alastor would want it for, until a strong scent has him stopping dead in his tracks. When Alastor throws the door open, he has to clamp his hands over his mouth and nose. Inside the small little room is a desk filled with scratch paper, ominously held down with a big silver knife. But more immediately eye catching are the four full to brimming boxes of purple, white and green plants at each corner.
"Ach—A-Al..."
"What's wrong? You look a little sick."
"I'm.. allergic to those plants."
"Really? Oh. Well, I'll just get what I need. You can wait outside." Alastor moves to go inside the little room. Husk crosses his arms and strides a safe distance away in the meantime. He takes a shuddering breath... especially so when his friend comes back out and fixes the strap over his shoulder. Alastor wears a big smile, and from the beam of sunlight coming through the canopy, it's never been so blinding. The excitement is radiating off of the brunette, threatening to contaminate him with warmth. Husk has to look away from it as his throat starts to fill with unwanted heat. He clears it with a hoarse sounding cough just to be safe.
"I've got all my things in order now," Alastor says with a pat of his gloved hand to his satchel, "Let's start our investigation!"
"Right... What are we even looking for?"
"We're scouring for clues that will lead us to the werewolf," Alastor reminds him, "Tomorrow night is the full moon. So if the loup-garou is out there, it will make it's dazzling appearance. If we do a little leg-work beforehand, it will make it easier to find where it will be!"
Husk grunts at this, rubbing his neck with a strange expression before turning his face away from his friend to say, "Alright... But you're not gonna find anything. Just leave this shit alone after today, Al."
"Where's the fun in that, old sport?" He shoots a pretty smirk at him, tapping Husk's chest with the back of his hand. Husk can only hope Alastor can't feel the way it gets his heart racing.
"You don't even believe in werewolves," Husk counters like it's his wild card. But Alastor wags one of his black covered fingers at him with a tutt clicking under his tongue.
"No, I don't. But even I have to admit... in a world where I've shaken hands with real devils from the nine circles of Hell itself—anything is possible." He starts off walking again, and it takes Husk a few seconds to catch up with him. Husk stares at the dirt, where Alastor's gaze is directed. He's probably looking for strangely shaped foot prints, but there is nothing to be found here. Husk watches the back of his friend's head, and the enthused skip in his step. It makes a pit sink low in his own stomach.
"What happens if you find it? ...Are you gonna kill it?"
"Don't be ridiculous! I don't have a gun or anything. My only intention is to see it. And if I don't, I can still write about the tale and exaggerate a little. I have a feeling it will be a big hit at the station. I do hope it's out here though. That's a lot more intriguing. Maybe I'll even make friends with it~"
"...You're insane, you know that?"
The only response is a cheeky smile thrown over Alastor's shoulder. They probably spend a good five hours doing nothing but wandering around the swamp. He's got to admit, he's a little impressed at Alastor's skills in avoiding the water and sticking to the forest trails along the way. And while the conversation was heavily one sided, there was something relaxing about listening to the little bastard talk. Husk felt perfectly at ease like this, as the bespectacled nerd droned on about the supposed research he's been doing for the past week. He's not really paying attention to the topic at hand, just letting the timbre of his friend's voice soothe the stress out of his shoulders.
Alastor looks so determined from where he's bent over and examining what seem to be deer prints in the mud. None of the prints were even remotely dog-like, and why would they be? The "werewolf" wouldn't have been here since the last full moon. That was ample time for the rain and wind to smooth over it's evidences, even if it did exist. Surely the same wouldn't apply for something like claw marks though, Alastor thinks, checking the very trees around them for any signs of crude markings. Husk is very tolerant of his searching for a while, though he contributes none of his own besides the occasional retort at how silly his friend is being. But as evening starts to roll around, the tell-tale gurgle of his stomach rumbling demands attention.
"Are we done yet, Al? There's nothing here," he complains.
"You're barely looking for clues, Husker! You just keep staring at me."
"...Go fuck yourself."
"No thank you," he stops walking in front of him and spins to face him, "You have a point though. Let's call it quits here for now. I'll be back tomorrow night for the real show."
"Wait... you what?"
"Tomorrow I'm spending the night in that shack, so that I can keep watch for the loup-garou," Alastor says with the most assured tone of voice.
"What!?" Husk goes completely pale, forcing himself to keep his nerves steady, "You can't do that, you idiot! There's other dangerous shit in the bayou, you know. What if you get eaten by an alligator!?"
Alastor chuckles loud at that. Going on with, "there's a fence around the shack, Husker. And there's nothing for them to eat inside it either. So it would be unlikely. Buuuuuut... you could stay with me if you're worried. I need my partner in action! You could be the Friday to my Crusoe!"
"That analogy only works the other way around, and you fuckin know it, you little savage..."
"Hah! Be that as it may, consider this an invitation. What else have you got to do? It would be fun to jaw around after hours together. We could even tell ghost stories~" That sincere hopeful grin on Alastor's face gives the other man pause. Any other night he could... he could take an opportunity like that and run with it... He always jumps at the opportunity to spend time together, secretly hoping it will lead to more one day. But instead, he swallows back the heat.
"...I... can't..."
"Can't...? Not even for your best friend? I could bring—"
"No. I just can't. I'm busy. And you shouldn't go either."
"I'll be fi—"
"DON'T go to the bayou tomorrow, Alastor!" he says, with a sudden burst of anger. He knows how he looks, standing over the smaller man with his chest puffed out and his eyes dilated like a snarling dog. Alastor has never been afraid of him either, not even intimidated. The look on his face is pure disappointment. It's too hard to look at. Whenever that ball of energy isn't smiling, it's like the entire sky is falling in on Husk's shoulders. He can't stand to look at it anymore, so he turns his back on him instead.
"You can't stop me, Husker."
"FINE! Get yourself killed for all I care... but ya ain't gonna find any stupid werewolves, dumbass. Give it up before you embarrass yourself." He knows it's a little harsh, but he starts walking away so that he doesn't have to see the life drain out of Alastor's face all at once. He can feel his eyes on his back though, as he storms away. It makes him swallow back a troubled breath.
He has no choice but to leave Alastor in the entrance to the bayou. After all, his own personal preparation just got a lot harder...