Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alastor makes a point of sampling every new restaurant in New Orleans. If they are good enough, he talks about them on his show. Even if they don’t quite meet that standard, they can still be enjoyable, especially if there is music. Tonight’s venue is a little establishment in the Garden District. It has a beautifully candle lit outdoor dining area, complete with a miniature bandstand though there is regrettably no music tonight.

Also regrettable: The number of happy couples cooing at each other over their meals. Alastor can’t quite put his finger on why this bothers him but it does. Perhaps, deep down, he wants to find a sweetheart of his own? His mama seems to think he will eventually. But Alastor isn’t convinced that he is craving it on any level. Actually, he is hoping that meeting the right lady will kick start the desire that seems to come so naturally to everyone else. Unless they are exaggerating their feelings as part of some elaborate courtship ritual, which Alastor half suspects is the case.

Enough of that. He sets bothersome thoughts aside, tunes out the tiresome lovestruck couples and focuses on the gumbo he selected from the menu. Not too fussy a menu, he noted, which he takes to be a good sign. Better to do a few dishes right than serve wide ranging but substandard fare. A few bites confirms that this establishment knows what it’s doing.

A few people glance his way, some looking almost pitying. One tiresome thing about couples – and people in general really – is their assumption that anyone eating alone must be miserable. Alastor keeps his smile in place and ignores them. He chose to eat alone. Better to scope out venues in advance of bringing other people. There is a certain subtle power to be gained from being the one who knows the best places. Since this place meets his high standards, he might come back with friends. Or, well, with acquaintances. Friends might be stretching it. He has never quite seen the point of getting too attached to people.

It's not that he doesn’t know how. How people go about getting attached seems easy enough. Alastor knows plenty of people through work: Radio technicians, script writers, musicians, fellow hosts. Even a few people he’s interviewed have stayed in touch. People are easy enough to charm. Flatter them, find things in common, do those things together. It is the why that puzzles him.

Or not. Obviously there is influence to be had. Alastor is well aware that he has people in his life who consider him a friend, and that these people are more likely to do as he asks or to offer him favours. But he knows full well that that is not what his mama would call friendship.

Of course, his mama and her friends are all women. Perhaps it is different for men. They are baser creatures and they meet through work, where they are in competition. Although Alastor isn’t sure any of his relationships would meet his mama’s definition of friendship, but he does at least enjoy spending time with many of the women of his acquaintance. Time with women can be relaxing and comfortable, and Alastor is more lenient with them when it comes to the favours he is prepared to give in return. Time spent with men is just groundwork, preparation in case the man ends up being key to gaining a better broadcasting slot or an exclusive interview.

Though, in fairness to men, they rarely expect Alastor to go to bed with them or do any of the baffling activities that seem to prelude that. Not never, but rarely. For all he prefers to spend his time with the ladies of his acquaintance, Alastor has had to distance himself from a few after accusations of being a tease or a heartbreaker. The last thing he’d want to do is break a lady’s heart.

Well, second last. Going to bed with her would be a step too far in sparing her feelings.

Alastor tries to put these troublesome thoughts from his mind but it’s hard when he is surrounded by courting couples. In every corner of the garden, men and women are whispering together or staring soulfully into each other’s eyes. On the other side of the bandstand, a woman lifts her hair so her gentleman friend can fasten a necklace. The pair seated right in front of Alastor have abandoned their meal entirely and are openly necking across the table.

Alastor looks down at his food. When he comes here again, he must ask for a table inside. Perhaps it’s less romantic there. Just in case it isn’t, he must come with several people, not just one who might get the wrong idea.

Glancing up, he sees the man reach across the table to cup the woman’s breast, and feels himself blush. Really, they’re in public!

The woman seems not to mind, though, so Alastor doesn’t intervene. Instead, he focuses on his meal. It really is very good, enough that it actually manages to distract him from the horrible display at the other table.

Then there is a shriek. Looking up, Alastor sees a new customer has entered the garden, an older woman who stops still, staring at the couple in front of him. Disgust is written across her face. Alastor is a little relieved that he isn’t the only one with that reaction.

The man at the table stands up quickly, sending cutlery clattering to the ground. “Honey” he says, “This isn’t what you think!”

The new woman laughs. “Milton, you great lump! I saw you kissing her!” She marches over to the table, snatches up a half finished glass of wine and throws what is left of it across the man’s chest. “You bastard! Again! Do twenty years of marriage mean nothing to you?!”

The rest of the diners have grown silent. There is some awkward shuffling. Good, thinks Alastor. He has felt awkward witnessing this cad’s courtship display all evening while they were busy with displays of their own.

The cad in question opens and closes his mouth a few times. His wife glares and the little blonde sat opposite him stares at the pair of them, then scowls when the wife turns to her and says, “And you, you little floozy! Don’t go thinking you’ll get a penny out of him! It’s not his money anyway, it’s all from my daddy!”

“Pfft, your daddy!” snaps the husband, “Damn the old bastard and his money!”

“Make some of your own then!” shouts his wife, “And stop wasting your time with floozies!”

“Hey!” the blonde woman finally snaps, “Watch who you’re calling a floozy! When Milton leaves you, I’m getting the final say in your allowance, you know.”

Milton seems to surprised to hear this. His wife scoffs. “Oh, he’s said he’s leaving me, has he? He said the same to that bitch in Lakeview, and the one out in Lafeyette!” She turns to her husband. “I bet you have whores all over the state, don’t you, you bastard?”

The man gapes at her and then at his mistress. The mistress asks, “Milton?”

“Mimzy” he begins, “I…” He trails off under her expectant gaze. When he can’t come up with a better explanation, she sits back with a huff. “Oh, what the fuck! I thought I was special!”

“Special is one word for it” Milton mutters.

Mimzy stares. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His wife answers. “It means” she says, “Find your own husband and stop trying to steal mine! Milton, we’re leaving.” She turns and marches out. Milton hurries after her. Keen to keep his access to her father’s money, Alastor supposes.

“Wait!” says Mimzy as they leave, “What about the cheque…?” But they have gone.

Mimzy sits back in her chair and starts to cry. Loudly.

Around her, the rest of the customers go slowly back to their conversations, glancing every so often at the table where the drama unfolded. A nervous looking waitress approaches the weeping Mimzy and tries to soothe her, but she flaps her hand at the girl until she retreats.

Alastor wonders if this glimpse of the marital bliss he’s supposedly missing out on merits a mention on his show. Probably not. His producers like to stay away from adultery that isn’t their own.

Mimzy is still crying. Sitting here and just waiting for her to stop is starting to feel ungentlemanly.

Alastor is torn. On one hand, this really is an excellent gumbo and he doesn’t want to interrupt his enjoyment of it to engage with a stranger’s emotions, emotions hardly being his area of expertise in any case. On the other, his mother raised him to be chivalrous to those of fairer means.

As soon as he thinks that, it is as if mama is at the table, giving him a disapproving look. Fine, mama, he thinks wearily, and stands up to head over to the crying woman.

“There, there, my dear, I’m sure it can’t be as bad as all that” he says as he slips into the seat opposite. He hands her his handkerchief.

She stares at him. “Oh, but it is! You caught the show, didn’t ya?”

Well, Alastor thinks, it was a flawed conversational opener. It obviously is as bad as all that to Mimzy and now he has dismissed her feelings. See, mama, this is why I should stick to gumbo. “Well” he tries, “The man didn’t seem to be worth your time.”

“Oh he isn’t! You wait til I see him next, I’ll show him who’s special!” Mimzy blows her nose loudly and offers the handkerchief back.

“No, no” says Alastor, “Keep it.”

“Thanks.” She snuffles a little, then looks at him properly. “Say, don’t I know you?”

Alastor opens his mouth to deny it, then looks at her properly. The lighting is a little better at this table, it being close to a string of tealights as well as having a candle in the centre. Now that he looks at Mimzy in better lighting, without a cad in her face, he realises they have met before. “Sam’s Place?” he asks, naming a dingy little club that sells excellent whiskey. “You perform there?”

“Yes, that’s right! Oh, so you must be one of my fans!”

This is putting it strongly, but Alastor nods, and she preens, practically bouncing in her seat at the thought of being admired. She tells him, “I shoulda known you’re a man of good taste, you looking all refined and all.”

Alastor offers his hand across the table. “Alastor. Pleasure to be meeting you.”

She takes it with a surprisingly firm shake. “Mimzy. But ya knew that already.”

Alastor did, but only because of the drama with the wife, not from her performances as she is clearly hoping. Some of the dancing at Sam’s Place is surprisingly good but he doesn’t know the name of every last performer. It wouldn’t do to say so though, so he just smiles.

Mimzy makes an attempt to clean up the make up that ran when she cried, dabbing at it first with the handkerchief, then with a napkin, checking herself in a compact mirror that she seems to produce from nowhere. “That bitch, making me cry” she comments. “You know she expects him to watch the kids while she plays bridge with her pals? That’s why he goes to Sam’s, he has to pretend he’s working because she’s too stingy to hire a sitter.”

Really, Alastor is fairly certain dear Milton goes to Sam’s to pick up impressionable women half his age. “I wouldn’t waste another thought on him, my dear.”

“Oh, I won’t. He wants to stay hen pecked, he’s welcome to it. I coulda showed him a good time.” Mimzy snaps her compact mirror closed and turns to Alastor with a grin. “So are you gonna tell me you’re so much better than him? That you don’t got any floozies in Lafeyette?”

Alastor blushes, then laughs in a doomed attempt to hide the blush. “No, no floozies. And I like to think that if I had children, I wouldn’t find watching them while my wife played bridge too onerous a task.” This is true, but the idea still makes him suppress a shudder. Wife? Children? He wouldn’t know himself.

Mimzy laughs like he’s said something funny. “So you don’t got kids? You’re not married?”

Alastor shakes his head. “Still free as a bird.”

“Ah, spreading your wild oats.”

Alastor blushes again. This time Mimzy notices and laughs again. “Aw, sweetie, are ya shy?”

Alastor recovers himself with a laugh of his own. “Far from it. I do talk to nine thousand people daily after all!”

When Mimzy looks blank, he proudly tells her about his work. Her eyes sparkle. “Oh, you’re that Alastor! I’ve been listening to your show since I got to this city! Fancy you coming to Sam’s to watch little old me perform! Hey, this means we’re both fans of each other!” Mimzy laughs again, then batters her eyelashes in a way that makes Alastor wish he’d faked being married. It is a relief when all she says is, “I, ah…I don’t suppose you could pick up the cheque? Since I’m a fan and all. I’ll pay ya back!”

Alastor chuckles at how forward the request is. Almost too forward, but she is a lady and he does have money now. “There’s no need to owe me. Of course I’ll cover your cheque.”

“Thanks, Alastor. You’re a real gent.”

“All my mama’s doing, I assure you.”

She giggles. “Well, you tell her from me she did a good job.”

Alastor beams at the compliment, both to himself and mama.

Mimzy gestures to his table. “Were ya eating alone?”

“Naturally. It allows me to focus on the food.” For some reason, Mimzy laughs, so Alastor elaborates, “If the food meets my standards, I’ll bring friends next time.”

She blinks owlishly at him. “Wait, you’re serious? You were eating alone voluntarily?”

Alastor shrugs. “Mai oui.”

To his surprise, Mimzy looks blank at the French. She must not have been in New Orleans long, he realises. Good. Less time to grow attached to Milton. He translates, “Yes.”

“Huh. I could never. I wouldn’t want people thinking I was some sad pill. But maybe it’s different for you fellas. Ya don’t have to rely on someone else to keep you hip to the jive.” Mimzy smiles and bats her eyelids as she says that last part and Alastor can’t help but laugh at how quickly and shamelessly she switches from insulting him to complimenting his independence.

Mimzy adds, “Why don’t you bring your plate over? I don’t count as a friend yet so you can still do your lonesome thing.”

Alastor fetches his plate. It is only as he puts it down at her table that he notices the yet.

Chapter Text

Mimzy doesn’t normally do this sorta thing. She doesn’t! There’s only been one other guy. Well, two but the first one didn’t even count. It was just a reflex. Serves the fella right for trying ta have his way with her when she had a gun in her handbag. The second one she got the man she was foolin’ around with at the time to deal with, so it wasn’t her directly, so that doesn’t count either. Right?

And now he’s dead too, which was completely his own fault. Sure, she asked him to go to that meeting with that guy she owed money to, but he didn’t have to turn up! And it’s not like she knew there’d be guns. Well, she’d thought there might be, but she didn’t know. And so what if she forgot to tell him? He could’ve guessed too if he hadn’t been so distracted foolin’ around with Brenda Courteney. Serves him right really.

But it turns out the bastard told his buddy about how he sorted out that other fella for her, and now the buddy’s on at her for money or he’ll tell the cops. Some buddy really. You’d think he’d respect a fella’s memory and just let it lie but no! No, he’s already had one payment from her and he’s after more because “I can testify you pushed him to do it. At the very least you’ll be an accessory. You think your pretty face will last long in jail? So pay up.”

So Mimzy is. Big wad of cash. Big bottle of moonshine. He didn’t ask for the moonshine but he’s getting it.  She has it all planned. Not every last detail but she’s sure it’ll all work out. The police will think bastard went and poisoned himself by mistake. There’s plenty of dangerous batches of moonshine floatin’ about after all. She just needs an excuse to give it to him and an excuse not to have any of the booze herself and that’s the kind of thing a gal can improvise, right?

When she shows up at his door, he lets her in with a grunt. You’d think he’d know better, ask to meet somewhere public, but her dead fella weren’t much of a thinker and his friend is no different. Mimzy could run a blackmailing operation better than this. If nothing else this whole mess has taught her that having dirt on folk is good for more than gossip.

“I got ya dough, mister, and this.” She holds out the moonshine. “I figured we could discuss how this arrangement’s gonna work.”

“There is no arrangement” George replies, “Just me telling you what to do and you doing it.” He snatches the moonshine off her though.

Mimzy thinks about just leaving. He’ll probably drink it later. But what if he doesn’t? What if it just sits at the back of a cupboard or under a floorboard for months and she’ll have to keep paying up while the suspense eats away at her?

What if he gets it out in company and a dozen of his asshole friends go with him? The cops will pay way more attention to that than if he’s the only corpse. So she tells him, “Hey, I can’t keep paying up whenever you feel like askin’, we’re gonna have to figure out a schedule so I don’t go bust.”

“Going bust is your problem, bitch.”

Mimzy huffs and steps deeper into his house before he can stop her, moving from his hallway to his lounge with a confidence she don’t feel. “You say that but you’ll be the one with no cashflow if I can’t pay. We work out a regular schedule and everyone knows where they stand.”

George steps into the room behind her and Mimzy is suddenly aware he’s between her and the exit. He puts the moonshine down on a side table and she feels a flicker of annoyance. That’s not where it’s supposed to be! She puts on a smile. “So how’s about we share a drink and talk it over?”

He moves closer, getting into her personal space. When Mimzy takes a step back, he catches her arm. “Talk it over, huh? Yeah, I suppose we could come to an arrangement…” He trails his eyes down her body. When Mimzy makes a noise of disgust and snatches her arm back, he laughs. “What? You came to me. Don’t tell me this ain't what you had in mind. More than one way to pay, right?”

Actually, that had crossed her mind. The bastard ain't even bad looking. She’d considered pretending she was doing it completely outta free choice. But the thing is, she’d never convince herself. She folds her arms. “George, get over yaself! I’m here to discuss how I can keep you in the dough, the least you can do is offer me a drink!”

He laughs again, lightly this time, like he knows he’ll wear her down. Good luck with that, Mimzy thinks. She takes a seat – an armchair, so he can’t sit down next to her and lean in – and watches as he fetches a pair of glasses from a cabinet and pours the moonshine. Finally!

Then he sits down on the arm of her chair. So much for not leaning in. He says, “Gotta say, I admire your spunk, showing up here. Not a lot of dames would visit a hotblooded fella like me without a chaperone.”

Mimzy pretends to sip from her glass and thinks, yeah, no shit, if half of what she’s heard about this guy is true. And she heard it from his friend! What stories could his enemies tell?

What stories could the women in his life tell, more importantly. Mimzy wouldn’t be here alone if she had any choice. She wishes she could’ve brought a chaperone, the big muscly kind, but she’s between guys right now.

For a moment, George looks like he’s about to take a drink, but then he puts his glass down, leans closer and puts a hand to the back of her neck. See, that’s the problem with men. Even when ya think they just want your hard earned money they find a way to want sex too. Even when you’re trying to get them cleanly out your life, it’s still sex. Couldn’t just one of them not be after that all the time?

Just then, the doorbell rings. George swears and Mimzy rolls her eyes at his back as he clambers off her chair and pads out to the hallway. Mimzy takes the chance to dump a little of her drink, looking around for somewhere to tip it so it looks like she’s drunk it.

Out in the hallway, a cultured voice gives a name she don’t catch, but she does hear the words, “…I work for Mr King.” Great, she thinks, just when the situation was already not going how she’d like, someone sent by an infamous gangster has to show up! Figures George would be in to all that, though. His buddy was.

George don’t do houseplants or vases. Mimzy twists to tip some of her drink down the back of her cushion. It’ll look like she pissed herself if George spots it but he won’t get to judge for long.

She arranges herself to look like she’s just finished savouring the whiskey a moment before George walks back in with the gangster’s lackey.

…Who is Alastor. What?

It’s been months since Alastor paid for her dinner after that asshole Milton walked out on her. Since then, he’s been sweet and stood her plenty of drinks. He’s never seemed like anything but a nice, law abiding guy who calls his mother every week like a total pill. Has he been working for Mr King all this time? No way! He ain't the type. But here he is, dressed in his usual suit, a heavy looking satchel over one shoulder.

To be fair, Mimzy doesn’t know everything about him. It’s not like they’ve really gotten to the core of who each other are. Mimzy doesn’t really do that with her friends. She gets the impression Alastor doesn’t either. Which means they’re not real friends like you hear about from some saps, but they keep each other entertained, drinking and dancing together. Real friends, Mimzy figures, are for chumps. It don’t do to get too attached. 

Still, Mimzy stares at him, trying and failing to reconcile the polite radio host with a guy who apparently runs errands for a brute like King. It don’t make sense. It doesn’t help that he gives her a little wave and says, “Mimzy! Fancy meeting you here!” Then he takes in the bottle of whiskey, the two glasses and maybe her air of forced calm. He looks sharply between her and George, adding, “Is everything alright?”

“Fine” says Mimzy.

“Mimzy was just leaving” says George.

“I can wait.” Mimzy shrugs. She’ll have to stay somehow and make sure George drinks the whiskey instead of fetching something else now he has a mobster to entertain.

Mobster, Alastor? It still don’t make sense. Mimzy’s met plenty of mobsters. They don’t walk a girl home and get all flustered if she invites them in, like Mimzy’s heard from her fellow dancers Alastor does on the regular.

“No” says George, pulling her to her feet, “We’ll talk later. I got things to do.”

“I’m sure Mimzy’s quite capable of leaving by herself” says Alastor, in a tone of forced calm, “There’s no need to manhandle her.”

George ignores him, pulling Mimzy towards the door. She swipes up the bottle as he tugs her past it. “Well, don’t forget it was me that gave you this good stuff” she tells him, pressing it into the hand that isn’t holding her.

“Yeah” he says, taking it without a word of thanks. Some people!

“You could share some with Alastor” says Mimzy, and then she thinks, damn it, because she doesn’t want Alastor to die. It was just what she could think of to get George to drink.

Well maybe Alastor will be fine. Maybe George will drink first. Alastor will see him go down and get the fuck out of there.

…And then tell the cops or blackmail her like George is. Maybe tell Mr King! Maybe it is better if he drinks it too. He’s a witness to her being here even if George don’t drink the moonshine tonight. Damn it, why did he have to show up!

Alastor is so nice to her. Of all the people who could have come here!

George grunts and turns away, glancing back to ask her, “Well are you fucking off? Us men have things to talk about.”

Alastor winces, his fingers twitching to the bag on his shoulder. He gives her an apologetic smile. “It might be best if you go, Mimzy. I can pay for a taxi if you like?”

Well, fuck. She can’t do it. Damn Alastor for complicatin’ all this by being such a sweetheart. Mimzy tells George, “Hey, I’ll go when I’ve finished my drink!” She steels herself to lean closer and run a hand down his back. “Unless you can think of a reason for me to stay afta…”

He stares at her, interest all reignited. Over his shoulder, Mimzy sees Alastor blush and look away. He sets his satchel down and his gaze lands on her half empty glass like he might actually down it rather than watch her flirt, which she should be offended by but since it’s with George she’ll let it pass. She wriggles from George’s grasp and says, “No, dollface, ya don’t want that glass, it’s got lipstick on it! George can pour you a fresh one.”  

“…Sure” says George. He goes over to the cabinet. With him clattering around with his back to them, Mimzy coughs discreetly. George doesn’t even glance over of course. Mimzy could be choking to death and he wouldn’t care except for losing his money. But Alastor looks and even reaches for his handkerchief to give her, which is why Mimzy isn’t ready to kill him. Mimzy makes a frantic slashing motion across her throat. Alastor looks puzzled. Mimzy points to the glass in her hand, repeats the slashing motion, pulls a dead looking face with her tongue out, then quickly turns it into a smile when George looks over at last. Alastor’s eyes widen a little but his smile doesn’t slip.

“Here.” George pours the whiskey into a new glass and hands it to Alastor.  Alastor takes it and raises it in silent thanks. George nods then finally snatches his own up and takes a deep drink. Alastor raises his a little as if for appearance’s sake and waits.

It don’t take long. George gasps, dropping his glass to the floor where it smashes. He clutches at his throat, eyes bulging, then takes a wobbling step and lurches sideways to the floor. Alastor steps calmly back to give him room to fall and watches with apparent interest as the man gags and chokes, his body shuddering. Suddenly, he goes still. After a moment, he bends to take a pulse. “Well, Mimzy” he announces, “I hope this is the outcome you expected. If it was just a prank, I have bad news.”

“Ha!” The laugh surprises Mimzy. She puts a hand over her mouth. Alastor straightens up and comes to stand beside her. “Deep breaths, dear” he tells her.

Mimzy didn’t have to watch her last fella, George’s buddy, die. Or the guy he sorted out for her. And the thing with the gun was so quick and she ran off straight after. “I didn’t realise it’d take so long” she manages.

“Actually from my perspective it all happened rather fast.” Alastor turns to study the body again. “Did you use rat poison?”

“Uh huh.” Mimzy puts her hand over her mouth again.

Alastor asks, “Are you feeling quite well?”

“Yeah” says Mimzy faintly, “Fine.” She raises her glass to her lips for a steadying drink, then startles when it is suddenly smashed across the floor and Alastor is stood right in front of her, hand still raised from smacking it out her hand. Mimzy blinks at the shattered glass. “Oh, yeah.”

Alastor tuts and steps back towards the body. “Dare I ask why?”

Mimzy falters for a moment, then snaps herself out of it. “He was asking for it.”

Alastor stares at the corpse. “Yes, he was rather.”

“What about you? What are you even doing here, Al?”

“Being shown up is what” he mutters. He reaches for the satchel he took off earlier.

“How’d ya mean?”

“I mean I arrived with a task in mind and you beat me to it.”

“Oh!”

Alastor turns back to the body, then glances amiably up. “First time?”

“N…Yes! Obviously! What the fuck do you think I am?”

Alastor laughs. He seems delighted by the whole situation and Mimzy glares. “Well what about you?” she demands, “Is it your first time? Did I just stop you popping your murder cherry?”

Alastor looks a little flustered at that. Maybe because of the virginity metaphor or maybe because it clearly isn’t his first time doing this, going by how calm he is and the fact he must have something ready in that satchel. Working for Mr King, this can’t be his first time.

Mimzy just hopes he doesn’t get it in his head to use whatever he has in that bag on her. She tells him, “I guess I did you a favour.”

“I suppose you did. Now, what were you planning on doing next?”

Mimzy gestures to the body. “Leave him here of course!”

“And let just anyone find him?”

“Well someone’s got to or he’ll stink out the neighbourhood! They’ll find him, they’ll see he died from a bad batch of moonshine, case closed!” She shrugs, looking down at George. “Sad but it happens.”

George still has his eyes open. Mimzy looks away.

“Really, Mimzy, dear, this is a terrible plan.”

“Oh, like you’re the expert!”

Alastor just gives her a look. Mimzy suddenly wonders just how often he’s done this before.

Alastor tells her, “At first glance it will look like he’s had the misfortune of purchasing a bad batch of whiskey. A risk we all run if we have a simple drink, thanks to the very same teetotallers who claim to have our best interests at heart.”

“Save it for your show, sweetie. I ain’t here for politics.”

“Very well, I’ll cut straight to it: Who else has died from this bad batch, hm?”

“Well…no one cause I put the rat poison the bottle in myself.”

“And you don’t think the police will find that odd? This stuff isn’t brewed by the bottle, darling. They find one man dead from illicit liquor, they’ll expect more.”

Damn it. She hadn’t thought of that.

Alastor nods, seeing it sink in. He adds, “Sometimes, the authorities even poison the ethanol themselves, did you know that? So they’ll know this isn’t their work. And they’ll know there are no other deaths from this batch unless you get very lucky and there are other cases by sheer coincidence.”

“Oh.”

Alastor nods. “So they’ll start to suspect that a poisoner is at work.”
Mimzy stares down at George, suddenly feeling a little queasy. “Well” she manages, “I’ll have to hide the body then.”

“How?”

The bastard is enjoying this. Mimzy snaps at him, “I don’t fucking know! Give a gal a break here, it’s not my fault he was blackmailing me!”

Alastor frowns, his smile slipping a bit as he turns back to the body. “Dare I ask why?”

“What?”

“The blackmail.”

“None of your beeswax.”

“Of course. That was rude of me.” Alastor bends to lift a dead wrist, then lets it drop. “You’ll have to think fast, dear. Rigor mortis will set in soon and then he’ll be a bother to move.”

“I don’t know, alright!”

“Then it’s a good thing I was here.”

“How’d you mean?”

Alastor grins in a wicked way she’s never seen before and he pulls a bone saw out his satchel. Mimy gapes at him. Then she takes a sharp step back. “Hey, Al, if you even think of using that thing on me, I’ll scream til the neighbours call the cops and I’ll knee ya in the balls!”

Alastor chuckles. “Oh, Mimzy, of course I’m not going to use it on you! Do you think I’m an animal? Besides, if I was going to kill you, I’d use this.” He pulls out a mean looking knife. Mimzy gapes again. Alastor offers her a smile that he probably thinks is reassuring, but wouldn’t be even if he wasn’t holding a knife. He puts it back in the bag. Mimzy edges closer. “What else you got in there?” she asks.

“Oh, all sorts of fun things.” Alastor looks from the bone saw to the corpse and back, then puts the bone saw away again. “You know, as there’s two of us, he could probably go straight in the car and save his flooring. I always do hate getting blood out of woodgrain.”

Mimzy edges closer still and looks properly into the satchel. It’s mostly cleaning stuff. Big leather gloves. Several tightly folded tarpaulins.

Alastor shuts the bag and Mimzy steps back again. “Well” she says, in a way she hopes comes across as bright and cheery, “Looks like you’ve got it all covered. I’ll just be on my way.”

“Ah ah ah, you started this enterprise, my dear, I must insist you see it through.” Alastor slips around her to stand between her and the door.

Mimzy puts her hands on her hips. “Hey, watch it! You started this too, Al, don’t pretend you didn’t!”

“True, it does seem George’s reward was coming at him from more direction than one. But since you’re here anyway, I could use the help.”

“Help with what? And how’d I know you won’t kill me once we’re alone together?”

“Dear, we are alone together. George no longer counts.”

Mimzy draws herself up. “That’s not an answer.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Mimzy. You have my word.”

Somehow, Mimzy believes him. It’s stupid. He was all ready to kill George, no way he’s above a little lie. She did kill George and she sure ain't. But the smile he gives her seems more honest than any he’s given her before. She sighs. “Fine. What do ya want me to do?”

“Merely help me tidy up here, and move the body to the car and a little way into the bayou. I’ll take it from there.”

“I won’t have to see anything gross?”

Alastor gestures to body. “You’ve already seen the worst tonight has to offer.”

Yeah, thinks Mimzy, and that was before the bastard went down. But she still says, “I don’t wanna have to watch ya sawing him up.” She’s used to violence – fuck knows she’s seen enough of it – but there is a limit.

“You won’t have to. I promise.”

“You’re making a whole lot of promises tonight, Al.”

Mimzy goes with him. Not like she has a lot of choice in the matter. She might have her little gun in her bag but no way he’s not got something bigger in that satchel, even if she didn’t catch sight of it amid all the knives and stuff. Stuff that is somehow more personal than a gun.

But you know something? It isn’t too bad. Alastor puts George’s gramophone on, bitches about George’s taste in music for a while, then wraps George up in a tarpaulin. Next, they clean up the lounge, sweeping up the glass, tipping the poisoned alcohol down the sink and wiping down anything they might have touched. Alastor hums to the music while he works like he’s just actually cleaning. Which Mimzy figures he is in a way. No point crying over George now, is there?

Once all that’s done, they turn off the gramophone, wipe it down and carry George’s dead weight to the car. Mimzy gets a little nervous again as they leave the city. After all, Al could do anything to her if he decides he doesn’t want any witnesses after all.

“He didn’t hurt you did he?” Alastor asks as they drive further from the city’s reassuring lights.

“What do you mean?”

“Did he take advantage of you? Was that what the blackmail is about?”

“Oh! No, sweetie. Nothing like that.”

“Good” says Alastor grimly, “If he’d done that, I’d like to have killed him myself.”

And just like that, Mimzy feels safe again. She relaxes a little into the passenger seat. “Hey, if he’d have done that, you’d have to get in line.”

Alastor grins appreciatively and drives on. He keeps his promise: Mimzy doesn’t have to deal with any of the gross stuff. She just helps him carry George beyond the treeline, then goes back to the car. Al leaves the headlamps on to light her way.

She waits for what feels like a long time. After the first hour it crosses her mind that something might have happened to him. Aren’t there gators out there? Or what if George was just faking being dead and now he’s jumped up and killed Al?

No. George was dead alright.

What if Alastor tripped out there in the dark and knocked himself out? No, Mimzy tells herself, he had a flashlight. He came prepared.

But what if he doesn’t come back? What if he gets eaten by a gator or sinks into quicksand or something? Do they have quicksand around here?

How long is she supposed to wait? It’ll look hella suspect if Alastor’s corpse gets found next to George’s and here’s her just sat in a car. She’ll play dumb if that happens, Mimzy decides. She’ll say she and Alastor were having their own little petting party and he said he had an errand to run in the bayou and got something big and all wrapped in tarpaulin out the trunk. She’ll bat her eyelashes at the cops and say she didn’t think anything of it, really, what do they expect from an innocent little lady like her. Amazing how often that works.

Just as she’s made up her mind to do that, Alastor emerges from the undergrowth. As he gets back in the car, Mimzy greets him with, “You took your time! I thought something had happened!”

Alastor sits back with a sigh. “Yes, well. He was rather heavy.” He has a leaf in his hair. Mimzy reaches over to gently pull in out and he looks at it in surprise. She asks, “What did you do with him?”

“That’s for me to know.” Alastor starts the engine.

Mimzy thinks about acting offended but decides she doesn’t want to know that bad. Besides, if she doesn’t know, she doesn’t even need to playact dumb if the body is found.

They head back to the city in a comfortable sort of silence. As the lights of New Orleans come back in to view Mimzy asks, “So, you’re an assassin or something? That why you work for Mr King?”

“I don’t work for King. I only said that so our dear departed friend would let me in his house.”

“So who do you work for?”

“No one. I’m freelance.” Alastor laughs at his own joke, then adds, “But really, it’s just a hobby.”

Mimzy stares at him. “A hobby?”

“Who says one can’t do what one enjoys and make the world a better place at the same time?”

“So you enjoy it?”

Alastor glances at her, then straight back to the road. For a bloodthirsty fiend he sure drives like an old maid. “Does that bother you?”

“No” Mimzy realises. It’s kinda useful, she thinks. A bit like how having a man in her life who liked cooking would save her from having to bother when she hates the chore. Not that she’ll ever need a guy who knows how to hide a body again but, well. Doesn’t hurt to have a back up plan does it? “Do you like cooking too?” she asks.

“I do. Why?”

Mimzy laughs and pats his arm. “I think you might just be the perfect man.”

Alastor looks alarmed in a way that tells her he doesn’t even want sex in return for her silence. Good. He’s cute and all but not really her type. She likes ’em broader and blonder. And, you know, not serial killers.

Not that he really is one of those. Men like George really don’t count. Right?

Chapter Text

“Al. It happened again.”

Mimzy waits while, on the other end of the telephone, Alastor mutters a few curses under his breath. Okay, so she might have got him up kinda late. Or early, she thinks, glancing at the clock and realising it’s 2 a.m. He was probably from the speakeasy just long enough to get into bed and start drifting off. She’d feel bad, but she’s got bigger problems here.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“Bert’s place.” Mimzy hesitates and adds, “Well…Bert’s heir’s place now, I guess.”

Alastor swears again. Mimzy waits, suddenly nervous that he’ll tell her she’s on her own with this one. But he finally asks, “Bert Hermanson?”

“Uh huh.”

Alastor suddenly sounds more awake. “Mimzy, what were you thinking going home with Bert Hermanson? Are you alright?”

“Well I am now! It’s a good thing I pack heat because I’m telling ya, some people really don’t know how to behave towards a guest!” Not that she was a model guest, what with trying to get in to the safe deposit box she found built into the cabinet beside his bed, then pulling the gun on old Bert when he caught her at it, but Alastor doesn’t need to know all that. And anyway, she really needs some money here! She don’t have long before a little debt she’s incurred grows into a larger one. And Bert was rolling in it. Why’d he even have to kick up a fuss?

“Alright” says Alastor, “I’m on my way.”

“Thanks, Al. You’re always such a pal.”

Alastor takes his time getting there. Probably he has to get dressed first. Mimzy passes the time smoking and having another go at the lock on the box.

Bert is in the bedroom too, of course, his brains on the wall and his body all twisted below them. Mimzy tries to ignore him. When that doesn’t work, she pulls the sheet off the bed and drapes it over him. It’s the eyes that get to her. Why can’t anybody ever die with their eyes closed?

She’s still crouched in front of the box when the front door to the apartment opens, and she feels a shiver of fear that maybe it won’t be Alastor. What’s she supposed to do then?

She scrambles up, grabbing her handbag and pulling out the gun. She’s aiming it at the bedroom doorway when Alastor walks in. He raises his hands, then scowls at her. “Really, Mimzy?”

She lowers the gun. “Well I didn’t know it was you, did I?”

“Who else would it be?” Alastor sets his heavy satchel down, then looks from her to the locked box and gets this judgmental look, like murder’s just fine but he wouldn’t stoop to plain old taking stuff. Mimzy bristles. “It’s not like he’ll be needing it!” she says.

Alastor tuts and turns from her to the sheet covered corpse between the other side of the bed the red splattered wall. Mimzy is trying to think of it as red paint by this point. Alastor asks, “Did the doorman see you come in?”

“No, he brought me in the back way. Said he didn’t want gossip. Joke’s on him I guess.”

Alastor says nothing. His usual smile is missing, like he can’t be bothered this early in the morning. He lifts the sheet, studies the corpse a moment, then turns back to her. “Did it not occur to you to wonder why this man doesn’t like to be seen with the women he brings home?”

Mimzy shrugs. “His fancy reputation, I guess.”

“It’s because five of the last ten were never seen with anyone else again.”

Mimzy feels a sudden chill. “Well why didn’t ya warn me?”

“I didn’t think you’d go home with him!”

“And why was he walking around going home with anyone? You could have called the police!”

Alastor visibly grits his teeth. “Oh, trust me, I didn’t do all that research on him just to hand him over to them.”

“Oh!” says Mimzy, “So, you were gonna…?”

“Pay him a visit, yes.”

“And…that’s why you were after George!”

Alastor nods grimly. Mimzy adds, “And that other gongoozler who up and vanished? That guy you said wouldn’t be bothering anyone again?”

“Him too” Alastor confirms.

Mimzy nods, finding she is a little relieved. Not that she still really thought Alastor would hurt her, but it’s good to know he has a type and she ain't it. Nothing violent or criminal about her. “Well then this is the second time I beat ya to it!”

“Indeed.” Alastor glares at the body.

Mimzy laughs. “Aw, dollface, is that why you’re upset?”

“Why I’m upset is this is the second time since you learnt about my proclivities that you’ve asked me to hide a body! Really, Mimzy, you should be more careful who you go home with.”

“Hey, he seemed nice! So sue me!”

Alastor seems to visibly gather himself. He looks her over. “Did he hurt you?”

“Nope. Never got the chance.”

Alastor nods, apparently not surprised. Mimzy figures she isn’t coming across as a typical self defence case here, even though that’s absolutely what it was.

Alastor considers the parts of Bert smeared over the walls. He says, “If we’re going to move him, we should do it now before the rest of the building wakes up.” He glances to the window. “But even then, we’re cutting it close with the early risers.”

“Who’d want to rise this early?”

“Street cleaners, Mimzy. Mailmen. Milkmen.”

“Oh, them! Well, they won’t notice anything, will they? They’ll be busy doing their jobs.”

“You want to gamble both our necks on that, do you?”

“Well someone’s grumpy in the morning!”

Alastor ignores this. He looks around again, adding, “We could come back in the back way and do the cleaning once I’ve disposed of Bert. He must have been confident that he could come in and out unseen or he wouldn’t have brought you here.”

Mimzy shudders. Alastor goes on, “But he knew the building. And even if we’re not carrying a corpse, we don’t want to be the last people seen near his apartment before he’s reported missing.”

Mimzy brightens as she gets an idea. “Hey, what if you get rid of Bert and I stay here and clean up? You can be gone while most people are asleep and I can scram whenever the coast’s clear.”

Alastor shakes his head. “No offence, dear, but I’ve seen the state of your apartment.”

“Hey!”

“And you’d spend at least as much time trying that lock as you do cleaning up. You know you would.”

Mimzy folds her arms and glares. “So what if I will? I’m almost in, Alastor!”

“…Another complication. A missing man might have left of his own accord. A missing man whose safe deposit box shows signs of being tampered with certainly didn’t.” He tilts his head. “I don’t suppose it comes out of the cabinet?”

“Nope.” Mimzy rattles it in demonstration. The lock may be almost sprung but no way is the box itself shifting.

Even with all the excitement of Bert fucking up and catching her, she still has space in her head to wonder how much is in it. Or will it be valuables instead of cash? Jewels? An expensive painting? She hopes not on that last one: She ain't sure how to fence a painting. Jewels would be straightforward enough.

Could be that Alastor won’t even ask for a cut, what with his prissy attitude about the whole thing. Unless he turns out to be a hypocrite about that, of course. Most men are one way or another and Alastor must have some flaws. Well, other than murder of course.

Alastor steps back, leaning in the doorway and to think some more. After a while he says, “Of course, if you were to get the box open, the police will probably conclude this is a burglary gone wrong.”

“…and then we get to keep whatever’s in it!” Mimzy finishes, clapping her hands. She kneels in front of the cabinet again. “Okay, I’m on it!”

Alastor straightens up. “How long do you think it will take?”

“Not too long.” Mimzy glances over. “You got anything for picking locks in that bag of yours?”

“Mai oui.” Alastor hands it over.

“And here’s you judging me for borrowing stuff off a dead man who don’t need it anyway!”

“I keep those tools solely to gain access to the homes of men like Bert here. I am not a common thief.”

“Well, bully for you, Al. I can’t afford those principles of yours.”

Alastor sighs deeply. “Mimzy, are you in some sort of trouble I ought to know about?”

“Not if I get this safe open, I’m not.” Really, Mimzy ain't sure the radio station pays Al enough to cover the red she’s in. And it would complicate things anyway. Sure, she’ll let him pay for her drinks and the occasional brunch but if she asks for more than that, he might say no.  In Mimzy’s experience, it’s better to not let people realise they can say that to her.  

And what if Alastor didn’t say no and she couldn’t pay him back? What if he leaves her in the lurch with another man like Bert just because she wasn’t as quick with the repayments as he’d like?

Anyway, part of her thinks, he does enough, and he works hard for his money. It’s a small part, but it’s there. Not that she’d never ask, but she’ll find other ways first if she can.

Like this safe. Mimzy struggles with it some more, saying over her shoulder. “Sit down, why don’t ya?”

Alastor considers the bed for a long moment before saying, “I’m quite alright, thank you.”

“What’s the matter? You can’t stand to sit where me and Bert made whoopee?” Mimzy looks over in time to catch the blush. Hilariously easy to bring that outta the man. “Aw, sweetie, are you really that much of a bluenose?”

“No. I’m just not very interested in mindless fornication.”

“Charming!” Mimzy works the lock a little longer, taking out some aggression on it because the nerve of him! Her fornication ain't mindless!

The lock springs open at last and Mimzy sits back. “There we go! Our fortune in…hair?!” She stares at the ribboned locks for a moment, then realisation bites and she scrambles back with a gasp.

Alastor comes over. “Ah” he says, “That’ll be keepsakes from the other ladies he brought home.” He kneels, hand hovering over a brunette curl like he wants to gently close its owner’s eyes. Then he stands abruptly.

“Fuck” says Mimzy. She turns to the corpse and adds, “You fucking pervert!”

“Worse than that” says Alastor quietly. Then, in a more businesslike fashion, he adds, “Well at least if the police realise what this means, it will discourage them from wasting too much time searching for his killer. Now, what would a burglar do in this situation?” He thinks for a moment then turns to her expectantly.

Mimzy bristles. “Well how am I supposed to know? I ain't a burglar!”

Alastor rubs a tired hand across his face. “I suppose they’d look for something else worth stealing.”

Mimzy brightens. “You know, that ain't a bad idea!” She takes a step towards the door, but a hand on her shoulder stalls her. Alastor says, “No, dear, leave to me. We’ll already have a job wiping all your prints as it is.” He goes over to his satchel and pulls out a pair of man sized leather gloves. “You put your feet up” he tells her.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Mimzy sits down on the bed.

She doesn’t stay long. Once Alastor has left the bedroom, the blood seeping though the sheet on the body, and the locks of hair spilling out the safe deposit box all become more noticeable somehow. Mimzy gets up and heads for the lounge, trying not to look like she’s in a hurry.

There’s nowhere to sit in the lounge. Alastor has tipped one couch and as she watches, he carefully, quietly, tips the other and scatters the cushions about. All around the room, drawers are pulled out and shelves are tilted. Ornaments are everywhere, a few pointedly cracked. The whole place looks like it’s been ransacked without the racket that’d usually cause. “Hell, Alastor, why are turning the place over like a shy ghost? It wouldn’t kill you to make some noise!”

“Au contraire, my dear, it could kill us both if the neighbours investigate.” Alastor opens a cupboard door and quietly arranges the contents like they’ve been swept out, carefully careless. “This way, they’ll think they slept through the event and witness accounts will hopefully be a wide timeframe it could have happened in.”

“I guess.” Lacking anywhere to sit, Mimzy hovers. “You find anything worth keeping?” she asks.

In the end, they take the cash from Bert’s wallet, an expensive gold watch, a few silver plated ornaments and a pair diamond studded cufflinks. Alastor stuffs them all into the satchel before producing the equipment needed to wipe down everything Mimzy remembers touching and a few things she doesn’t but possibly did, including all the door handles and light switches. Finally, Alastor goes back into the bedroom, pulls the sheet from the corpse and rearranges it so it looks like it fell over Bert accidently. “Most burglars wouldn’t cover him up” he explains.

Then they sneak out the back, emerging in an alleyway and making their way down to a busier street. “The shoddy security must be why he chose the place” Alastor remarks, “If I only had Bert’s wealth, I’d come back once the place is on the market.”

Mimzy shudders. “I wouldn’t visit.”

As they walk, they find that the city has fully woken up and the sun is out. Alastor checks his watch. “I need to be on air in a few hours” he announces, “But can I treat you to brunch first?”

They go to a little café by the river, where they can watch the boats glide by while they eat. Obviously they can’t talk about what the hell just happened, but that doesn’t seem to bother Alastor. He just talks about normal things: His show, the people he danced with last night, a new recipe he wants to try out.

How can he act like nothing happened, Mimzy wonders. She could’ve been killed! Everything got so fucked up after what was honestly a surprisingly good fuck. And that thought makes her realise there is something she wants to talk about that ain't the whole disaster with Bert. She finishes off her waffle and asks, “So about you being a prude…”

Alastor blinks. “I’m not one.”

“…Are you saving yourself for marriage or something?” How could he be, she thinks, what with being how he is. “You don’t seem like the religious type to me.”

“Does one have to be religious to want to wait?”

“Pretty much.”

Alastor curls his lip in disgust. “Then perhaps I’ll take my mama up on her offer to accompany her to church next week.”

Mimzy laughs, then catches on to what they’re not saying out loud. “Wait. Alastor are you tellin’ me you’re a virgin?” Then she gasps, realising she just said that kind of loudly. “Shit. Sorry!”

Alastor shrugs. “I’m not hiding it. Just not generally saying it either, since it tends to make people look at me like that.” He looks at her pointedly until she closes her mouth. Then she opens it to laugh. “What is it with you? You sure you ain't shy?”

“As I’ve said before, Mimzy, a man with a daily audience of the majority of radio owners in New Orleans is not shy.”

“But you can’t see them” Mimzy points out.

“I am not shy.” Alastor repeats.

“Nervous about the first time, then? I could help you out if you want. Just as a one off though. You ain't really my type.”

Alastor looks downright alarmed for a moment. Then he coughs awkwardly and manages, “Thank you, dear, but no. You’re not my type either.”

“What is your type?”

“I’m…still figuring that out.”

“Is it cause of the way you are?”

Alastor frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, do ya channel it into your other stuff instead or something? Or do people like you maybe not like being that close to a person?”

“People like me?” Alastor repeats with distaste.

Mimzy glances around, confirms that the café owner has gone out the back, and leans over, lowering her voice “You know: Killers!” She sits back with a shrug. “Maybe you’re too fucked up to want a sweetheart.”

Alastor glares at her. “I’m a successful radio host with friends all over the city” he says, “I’d hardly call that fucked up.”

“Sorry.” Mimzy lights a cigarette. Then and thought occurs and she adds, “Or do ya like men?”

“You know I don’t like men.”

“I don’t mean to talk to! I’m not talkin’ about talkin’.”

“Then what are you…oh.”

“Yeah. Ya don’t have to talk for it.”

“Then what’s the point of it?”

“Oh, sweetie.” Mimzy draws deeply on her cigarette. “It’s a shame you know, cause you’re a doll. You’d be a real catch if weren’t for your hobby.”

“I can’t see what’s so controversial about music and fine dining.” Alastor grins at his own joke, then laughs harder when Mimzy rolls her eyes and kicks at him under the table. He adds, “You’re not exactly squeaky clean in that department either, dear.”

“Hey, I’m not like that! I just hada run of bad luck is all!”

Alastor’s grin slips a little and she feels her own do the same. “I really ain’t like that” she says. She looks up at him forlornly. “I ain't like you. I’m not…It’s not a hobby.”

Alastor seems to search for something to say, then gives up. He turns and watches the boats on the river.

Mimzy finishes her cigarette and pulls herself together a bit. Trying to change the conversation back to something lighter she says, “I’m kind of glad I'm not your type. No offence, Al, but I got a bad history with Italian guys.”

Alastor looks blank. But at least he’s looking at her again. Mimzy asks, “You’re not Italian?”

Alastor shakes his head, looking surprised. Mimzy considers him, taking in the dark curly hair, dark eyes and delicately tanned skin. “Greek?”

Alastor shakes his head again. Mimzy can’t tell if he is enjoying making her guess or if he’s nervous she might get it right. Which is fucking stupid. Who cares? Mimzy tries, “Mexican?”

“Mimzy, you’ve heard me speak French on multiple times.”
“I thought you were just being fancy, so sue me! Wait, you’re French?”

Alastor sighs and looks a little awkward. “I’m Creole” he tells her. “Mostly.”

“Creole?” Mimzy’s never heard of it. Her school wasn’t big on geography and the teacher wasn’t big on teaching in any case. “From…Crete?”

“That would be Cretan” says Alastor, who likes to be a smart ass.

“Then what’s Creole?”

Alastor looks at her strangely. “You really don’t know?”

Mimzy shrugs. “I don’t know all the countries, so what? I ain't planning on leaving this one unless you wanna pay for the cruise!”

“You wouldn’t have to go far. We’re a Louisianan group.”

“Well then no wonder I ain't heard of ya! I’m from outta state, remember.” Mimzy pauses. “So…wait, you’re Native American?”

“The term used to mean anyone born in Louisiana before it became a state. Including Native Americans, but also European settlers and people from Canada, Africa and the Caribbean.” Alastor says the last part a little fast and glances at her to gauge her reaction. When she just waits, he adds, “Born in the new world. That’s all it means. No one bothered much with race until after we joined the union. Over time, people mixed.”

“And that makes you mixed?” Mimzy is uncertain about saying it out loud. For one thing, there ain't no way his bosses at the radio station know. He must have told them he’s Italian. Or Greek. For another thing, she ain't sure. She has never met a mixed person before. She only learnt it was possible not all that long ago.

Alastor sighs and nods. “I’m not ashamed of it” he tells her sternly, “It’s just that it could cause some problems for me at work, if it got out.”

“Well, I won’t tell anyone! I don’t even know the high ups at the radio station, do I?” Even if she did, Mimzy thinks, she wouldn’t screw Alastor over like that. “Anyway” she says, “You’re my friend.”

Alastor’s standard smile softens a little at this. “The feeling is mutual, dear” he tells her, sounding kind of surprised, like it’s a novelty to have a real friend. Mimzy figures it must be. It’s the same for her. And, sure, Alastor knows a lot of people, but she’s the only one who knows his secret. Two of his secrets now.

Then a look of steely determination enters Alastor’s gaze and he tells her, “I just need to get more of an audience. Once I have enough listeners, they won’t be able to fire me without affecting their ratings. And then I’ll be able to give mama a tour of the station whether they like it or not.”

Honestly, Mimzy isn’t sure why Alastor’s mom would even want a tour of the station. From what Al’s told her – and boy, can he run his mouth on it – it’s just a load of wires and speakers and fancy shit like that. Boring, and in boxy little sound proof rooms. But she guesses it’s the principle of it. She’d wanna go too if someone told her she couldn’t.

What gives with everyone acting like it matters what colour a person is? Or who they shack up with, come to that. Well, okay, so shaking up with Bert was a mistake, but that was his problem! More generally than that, who cares? And if Alastor ever figures out his type and it turns out to be men after all, Mimzy decides she won’t mind. Just as long as he keeps being the good pal he is, why worry about something like that? “Hey, Alastor?”

“Yes Mimzy?”

Mimzy reaches across the table to squeeze his hand. “Thanks for coming over when I called.”

“But of course, my dear. What are friends for?”

Chapter Text

Alastor leans against the speakeasy bar, trying to look casual and not as if he is keenly hoping Mimzy will show up this time.

She didn’t the night before last. She didn’t even send a message with anyone or try to call. And lo and behold, he finds out yesterday that Milton is in town. So, no prizes for guessing where Mimzy disappeared to. What she sees in that blithering twit, Alastor will never understand.

The door at the top of the little flight of stairs in a far corner opens, and Mimzy enters. Alastor renews his efforts to look as though he wasn’t waiting for her. He makes a point of not looking her way until she is beside him, shedding a fussy cape and plonking her handbag on the bar. “Alastor, sweetie, how you been?”

“Oh, swell. You missed a good time the other night.”

“Same to you, doll face, but it wouldn’t have been the same with you there, no offence. Milton and I didn’t get round to much talking.” Mimzy takes her little mirror from her bag and reapplies her lipstick with practised ease.

Alastor shudders at the thought of Milton not talking in the way Mimzy means it. He takes a hasty swig of his drink, pointedly does not offer to buy Mimzy one and makes a show of listening to the jazz band at the other end of the room. A little crowd of dancers move to their tunes.

Mimzy finishes with her make up and waits, tapping her fingers on the bar. The barman is several feet away in deep conversation with a pretty young woman, and clearly in no hurry to serve her. When Mimzy calls, “Hey, Nico, I ain't got all night here!” he just grunts and turns his back.

“Bastard” Mimzy mutters. Turning to Alastor, she asks, “I ever tell you what happened with that brother of his I was dating way back? That’s why he’s in a mood with me.”

Usually, Alastor would take the bait and ask her a question, or at least look interested. Often, Mimzy’s descriptions of her courtships are lengthy and detailed. Distasteful as it is when the details stray into the bedroom aspect of things, Mimzy’s blithe recounting of the dynamics between the people in her life – the latest lover, his inevitable wife, assorted mistresses, rivals and exes – never fails to entertain. The most convoluted and melodramatic radio serial couldn’t hold a candle to Mimzy’s love life and her breezy lack of concern for all involved except herself only makes it better. Alastor loves how unapologetic she is about her callousness. It reminds him of himself, or at least, of how he would be if he didn’t have to hide what he really is under his smile. For all he loves his job, it does require him to put on the charm. If he ever lets a little malice slip, he is always careful to play it off as a joke. Mimzy, on the other hand, moves in circles where a little malice goes a long way.

Not that he has ever told her that her cruelty reminds him of his own. He learnt early on in their acquaintance that Mimzy is uncomfortable with comparisons between the pair of them.

Tonight he doesn’t ask for a recount of whatever drama she is referencing. Instead he finally turns to her and says, “I was waiting. You could have told me you’d changed your plans.” Or, more accurately, found a better offer. If Milton counts as a better offer. Which apparently he does to Mimzy.

Mimzy who simply rolls her eyes. “I’m sure those Bouchard sisters kept you company. The older one has a crush on you, you realise?”

“She does?” Damn. Alastor had enjoyed dancing with her too. Why do all the women who are pleasant to pass time with end up wanting more than simple conversation and a spin about the dance floor? He has become adept at disentangling himself, emotionally and sometimes even physically, but it isn’t fun and he is often left feeling a little ungentlemanly or a little used. Sometimes both.

He had thought he was on to something with married women, but it turns out that befriending them has its pitfalls too. For one thing, it doesn’t always stop their advances and for another, their husbands sometimes take issue.

It’s easier when Mimzy is with him. He doesn’t have to pretend around her. She finds his lack of interest in copulation strange but she doesn’t tend to push the matter. And with her around, amorous wives are put off and jealous husbands are reassured. Amorous singletons can be a little less predictable, but if any try to scare Mimzy off, she holds her own.

It can be quite entertaining actually.

Mimzy leans over the bar. “Hey, Nico, you still ignoring me or what? It’s not like he’ll be in jail for long!”

With a flicker of annoyance, Alastor leans closer. “I’m not sure I caught your apology, dear.”

Mimzy scowls. “What, I have to apologise for dating now?”

“I don’t care about you dating, I care that I was at the juice joint all alone.”

“All alone with half the dames in New Orleans. Ya know, you could take your pick if you ever quit being a bluenose. Especially now that radio show of yours is taking off.”

Alastor doesn’t know how to respond to that so he doesn’t. Instead he tells her, “A message would have been appreciated. Your company would have been appreciated, but I understand a man smiled at you and we can’t ask for wonders now, can we?”

“Oh, screw you, Al!” Mimzy sits down on the barstool next to him, shifting it away from him. Then she adds, “I really mean that. Someone should. It might improve ya mood.”

“What would improve my mood would be if you kept your promises.”

Mimzy huffs a little at that. They sit in a tense, cross silence until she gives in, leaning sideways to slip her hand into his elbow. “Look, sweetie, I’m sorry, okay? He managed to visit the city without his wife for once and he called me up all sweet about it. Who was I to say no?”

One day, Alastor thinks, she will meet a man she really likes who isn’t married and he’ll barely see her. The thought bothers him more than it should.

Mimzy shifts closer. “Aw, c’mon! It ain't my fault I like dating and you don’t.”

Alastor feels his shoulders tense. That being true doesn’t make it better. “I’m not asking you to stop dating, Mimzy, I’m asking that…” He trials off. He is asking not to be dropped whenever whichever beau is currently in her favour comes calling, but saying so out loud would sound needy. Pathetic. “I’m asking for basic good manners” he amends. “You should have told me.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Al!”

Alastor takes a deep breath and reminds himself that Mimzy wouldn’t be such good company if she was less selfish. He can’t have it both ways.

“Look” she adds, “I’m here now. We can still dance if ya want.”

Alastor sighs. “I need another drink first.” He signals to Nico, who comes straight over, ignoring Mimzy’s glare, and Mimzy in general. After a moment, Mimzy gives up on him and turns to Alastor. “I’ll have a Bee’s Knees.”

Alastor orders and pays for both drinks, sticking to a straight whisky for himself. Mimzy prefers cocktails but he prefers the burn of unadulterated alcohol to the artificial sweetness of most of Mimzy’s drinks of choice.

Once the drink is in her hand, Mimzy brightens, slapping his arm and launching into a story that Alastor only half listens to, keeping his other ear for the band. All he gathers is that the latest selection of alcohol on offer in this place was brought here by none other than Mimzy herself. She is becoming quite the bootlegger, and now proceeds to tell him how Nico’s brother introduced her to the trade. With him now in prison and his partners needing to do business with someone still on the outside, Mimzy has risen to the occasion. “Really he should be thanking me” she says, “I kept the whole operation running for him. I grew it, even! Look at how I stocked this place even though they didn’t put their order in til the last minute. They owe me a free bottle with all the work I put in. I’d have just taken it when it all arrived but you want to see what it does to other people first, ya know?”

Alastor looks down at his drink. “Um. Quite.”

“You’re fine, sweetie.” Mimzy lowers her voice. “I made sure Nico had the first taste. The way he goes on, you’d think I called the police on his asshole brother myself. But the gal was anonymous!” She shrugs, sitting back. “Could’ve been anyone.”

Anyone, including someone sat on a barstool not far from him, Alastor thinks wryly. What will happen when Nico’s brother leaves prison is something Mimzy seems to blithely assume will be sorted out when it happens. Which it will be, Alastor knows. By him.

“So what do ya say?” Mimzy asks, and Alastor blinks. Mimzy scowls. “Al, have ya listened to a word I’ve said?” She looks down, swirling what’s left of her drink. “What’s eating ya?”

“I’m just tired.” This is true. Alastor was up all last night disposing of the remains of a housebreaker with a nasty habit of breaking more than locks if the householders or even their children caught him at it. The man had been large, height and width wise, and hauling him out to the bayou, even in sections, had proved a challenge. It was near dawn when Alastor had finished, and he’d never appreciated his move to the evening prime time slot more. Had he still been on mornings, he’d have had no time to catch up on sleep.

But as it turned out, having time to sleep doesn’t guarantee it will happen. At first, he had slept the deep, peaceful slumber that comes with a job well done, but then the daytime noises of his apartment building had woken him just a few hours in and that had been that.

“Something happen?” Mimzy asks.

“I’ve just had a lot to do.”

“Like what?”

“Nothing I wish to discuss here.”

“Oh, that.” Mimzy sips her drink. “Well why’d you come out if you’re going to be in a sulk?”

“I am not in a sulk.”

“You are. And you know the cure for that? Drink up!” Mimzy downs her cocktail and holds out the empty glass. “Get me another and I’ll join ya.”

Alastor obeys, having Nico top up his whisky while he’s at it. The jazz band shift from one song to another and Alastor feels a buzz go through the room as the dancers recognise Bugle Call Rag.

Then there is a pause, a silence where there should be a beat. It goes on long enough that the dancers look around in confusion.

“What the fuck?” asks Mimzy, glancing up. “They screw it up or something?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve heard them play before and they’re usually…” Alastor trails off, noticing a new figure on the little platform the band are playing on, whispering in a trumpeter’s ear before hurrying away. The band confer briefly, then start up again. Not jazz this time: It’s an old showtune from long before music got interesting. “Ah” says Alastor.

Mimzy wrinkles her nose, “Someone’s grandma request this or something?”

“It’s the signal, dear.” Alastor looks around. The place is about to be raided. How long have they got?

“Ah, shit” mutters Mimzy, slipping from her barstool. She reaches for her drink, then yells, “Hey!” as Nico grabs it and tips it unceremoniously down a drain in the floor. Alastor quickly downs what’s left of his own.

“Whatever, bitch” Nico is saying, “I’d scram if I was you.”

Others are already doing just that. Some rush up the stairs to the usual doorway and more hurry to the emergency exit at the back of the room. The band stand their ground for now, but their playing has become rushed and the singer has abandoned them. “He’s right, Mimzy” says Alastor, handing his glass to Nico, “We have to go.”

“Shit! Why now, when I want a night on the town?”

“It is a pity, but we might have to lament the situation once we’ve not been arrested.”

The band stops playing, musicians scattering with their instruments in tow. A few join the crowd packed around the exit, most head for the staff only area. Alastor considers following them to avoid the crowd but decides against it: He has never been what passes as backstage at this venue, and doesn’t want to be lost in what could be a labyrinth of corridors when the police burst in.  

People are less orderly now, nudging and slipping their way through the crowd. Several dropped hats are strewn across the space they leave behind.

“Is the mayor here?” asks Mimzy, stepping closer to the bar and peering around, “’Cause if he is, you know the bulls will back off.”

“Back off him perhaps.” Alastor scans the crowd but the mayor isn’t in tonight. Perhaps, Alastor realises, by design. “The rest of us might still have some explaining to do.” Not only to the police, he realises, but to his supervisors at the radio station. To his maman! “We have to hurry. Mimzy?” Turning, Alastor finds she isn’t at his side.

“Yeah, yeah” she replies, popping up from behind the bar, clutching her cape in both hands. “I dropped it” she adds, by way of an explanation.

“Forget that.” Alastor takes her handbag from the bar. Unlike the cape, it could be used to identify her if the authorities are so inclined. Given that half of them drink down here, they probably won’t be, but they should be careful to leave no trace behind just in case.

Distantly, Alastor wonders if some new dry agent is in town and if he should find out and subtly undermine them on his show. The audience love it when he winks at the city’s network of speakeasies, so much so that his bosses tolerate it as long as he is careful. Risque is all well and good for ratings. Illegal, not so much.

Assuming he avoids arrest and keeps his job, of course. Alastor takes Mimzy by the arm and pulls her towards the exit. She doesn’t take the handbag off him, just gathers her cape to herself, clutching the bundle of it in both arms like an infant. Alastor takes this to be fear and squeezes her shoulder reassuringly. “We’ll be fine” he tells her, “We’ll just step out…” As he turns to the main exit, a waiter slams it shut and locks it. “…This way” Alastor finishes, turning to the crowd of people being funnelled out the emergency way. Voices and footsteps swell around them, the shouting and hurrying of staff, and of customers who cannot hold their nerve. Alastor sidesteps two men who are jostling each other to get closer to the exit, pulling Mimzy back as they pass. Keen as he is to leave, he has no desire to be caught in a stampede.

A crash sounds, and then another. Some kind of battering ram, Alastor realises, being applied to the locked door at the top of the stairs. He is grateful that it is reinforced steel. Mimzy grips her cape like a shield, and yelps when a waiter nearly crashes into her as he hurries past with a tray of drinks destined for the gutter. Pity. Alastor feels a little smug that he had the foresight to down his.

Reaching the exit with the repetitive crashes echoing behind them like a heartbeat, he slips his arm through Mimzy’s. It wouldn’t do to be separated, especially with the way some men are pushing and shoving in the narrow hallway, taking no notice of the women they knock out of their way. Alastor lets go of Mimzy briefly to help a lady to her feet, then turns to find Mimzy has been forced against a wall by the crowd. She swears at the people thronging past her, pressing her cape protectively to her body. It must be expensive, Alastor decides, with the way she’s holding on to it. He battles his way over to her, pausing to let two dancers slip past, tottering in their heels, then guides her through the knot of people. Though the crowd is packed tight around them, they are near enough to the back that Alastor can just about see the empty space they are leaving in their wake. The way ahead, on the other hand, is just people and flashlights stretching off into the distance.

Behind them, a louder crash, then voices raise in the speakeasy proper. Alastor hopes someone had the foresight to block the door to this hallway behind them. The crowd surges forward. Alastor quickens his pace but there is only so fast they can move with the hallway choked with people, especially with some idiots stopping to look around for their friends.

But then, he’d look for Mimzy, wouldn’t he? Alastor tightens his grip on her arm and hurries on.

Shouting erupts behind them now, the voices commanding the people at the back to stop. They don’t all take kindly to that, which is just as well, or the police would have a clear path to those deeper into the crowd. But their presence ignites the flight or flight response of everyone still in the hallway, with plenty of poor fools picking the latter even though there is nowhere to go. “Fuck” whispers Mimzy, as a drunk scurries past them, knocking her sideways. Alastor catches hold of the man and flings him back the way he came.

Suddenly, a staircase looms in front of them, so steep it could be a step ladder if it straightened up a little. Aware that Mimzy will struggle in her heels, Alastor slips her handbag over his arm so he can offer her the hand that isn’t holding her elbow. She ignores it, opting instead to keep on pinning the damned cape to her body. Alastor climbs, then stumbles into the cold night air, pulling Mimzy behind him.

They find themselves in a courtyard, hemmed in on all sides by the back ends of commercial buildings. A few alleyways too, and the crowd wastes no time scattering and disappearing down them. Hearing more shouts behind them, Alastor picks one at random. “This way.”

Mimzy follows him into the alley, which turns out to be empty. Either the stragglers following behind them were all rounded up or they picked other alleys. Alastor hurries on, aware that plausible deniability will be difficult to pull off if they are caught here. After all, why would two law abiding citizens be lurking around in an alley?

He halts as a drilling whine starts up ahead of them: A hand crank police car siren. “Ah.” Alastor turns around. Is it too late to go back the way they came and choose a different alley? Probably. In fact, it is probably a matter of minutes until the police in the speakeasy find their way out here.

Mimzy stands clutching her cape, staring past him to the police car on the street. There are raised voices there too, escapees being rounded up. Alastor runs a hand through his hair and tries to collect himself. “We’ll just have to walk out of here as though we have nothing to hide” he tells Mimzy.

“What, and ya think they won’t stop us?”

“I’m certain they will, but they won’t be able to prove anything. After all, we’re perfectly sober and it’s not as though we’ve anything incriminating on us.” Alastor puts careful emphasis on those few words. When Mimzy doesn’t reply, he adds, “Do we, dear?”

“…About that…”

Alastor tenses. Mimzy begins unrumpling her cape. “I may have kept a little souvenir.” Bundled in her cape is a large bottle of moonshine. “What?” she demands, seeing his expression. “The guy who runs the joint won’t mind. He owes me one. Damn it Al, do you have any idea the trouble I went to get the stuff? And then Nico chucked it all down the drain, and you know he loved that!” She makes a visible effort to keep her voice from rising, dropping to a grumble instead. “It was probably him that called the cops.”

Alastor doubts that but it doesn’t matter. He glances around and says in an undertone, “You’ll have to get rid of it.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

“Mimzy, if you’re caught with that...” She’ll probably be fine, Alastor realises. A pretty white woman in a city that usually has a laidback approach to prohibition enforcement? She’ll walk out the station before morning. He, on the other hand… “Mimzy, I’m telling you, lose it!” Alastor takes the bottle from her, and she grabs at it, opening her mouth to yell. Alastor quickly places a finger on her lips. Her eyes bulge for a moment, and then she steps back and mimes zipping her mouth closed.

Alastor places the bottle on its side on the ground. “So it looks like someone dropped it” he explains when Mimzy raises an eyebrow. Of course, the police might well decide that someone was them. Should he empty it? But the stone floor of the alley won’t soak it up before the smell incriminates them. Still bottled or spilt across the ground, the moonshine is a problem. They’ll just have to leave and hope no one searches the alley. A long shot.

“Or we could just drink it” Mimzy says.

Alastor gestures back the way they’ve come. “The police could be here any second!”
“We’d better get started then.” Mimzy picks the bottle up and uncaps it. “Anyway, the bulls back there are probably still rounding up the guys who were too drunk to scram.” She swigs from the bottle. “And Nico, hopefully.” She offers Alastor the bottle. When he simply stares at her she shakes it a little. “C’mon, help a girl out here! It’ll look awful suspicious if the police do come and we’re here with a half empty bottle.”

Reluctantly, Alastor takes the bottle and takes a deep drink. “This is ridiculous” he tells her, “We should leave it here and walk away.”

“Hey, you can go if ya want. Get back at me for ditching you for Milton like it’s that big a deal.”

“I’m sorely tempted” Alastor tells her, but of course he doesn’t leave. What sort of man leaves a woman to be arrested on her own?

Mimzy takes the bottle back and drinks some more. For a few moments, they pass the bottle back and forth taking long, ghastly, burning drinks of the contents. Finally only a mouthful is left. Alastor glares at it. “You realise we stink of the stuff now?” he asks.

Mimzy takes her handbag off him at last and digs around in it, producing a tin of peppermints. She hands him one and takes the bottle back in the same motion. It will help a little, Alastor supposes, forcing the disgustingly sweet mint down.  

Mimzy drains the last of the bottle and throws it to one side. It shatters. Mimzy freezes, then offers a sheepish grin. “Oops.”

A voice from the street yells, “Who’s there? Come out with your hands up!”

Alastor smiles carefully. It is important to look confident. And sober.

Mimzy flings herself towards him and he catches her reflexively, even as his body tenses at the contact. She calls, “Police? Is someone coming to help at last?”

A flashlight shines at the head of the alley. “Don’t move” a voice commands.

Mimzy makes a show of pressing herself against Alastor. “Oh, Al, it is the police!” she says, and Alastor notices that her voice is a shade more refined than usual. “Oh thank God! Officer, we were just stampeded by all these strange folks running down out that courtyard back there, heaven knows where they came from! You know, I think they might have been” she lowers her voice and speaks in a scandalous tone “drinking!”

The young officer takes a step closer, still holding his flashlight so it gets them full in the face. Mimzy adds, “I mean really, what’s the world coming to? Am I right, Al?”

“Oh, quite” says Alastor. He is unsure how Mimzy plans to talk their way out of this but years of smoothing over the on air gaffs of guests and co-hosts alike make his response automatic. He is careful to emphasise the transatlantic in his voice. “We don’t hold with that nonsense, do we, dear?”

“Goodness no” chirps Mimzy. She smiles sweetly at the police officer. “Lifelong teetotaller, me. And Alastor joined our church in…when was it, sweetie?”

“Nineteen nineteen” says Alastor promptly.

“Hasn’t touched a drop since” says Mimzy.

Reaching deep in the back of his mind, Alastor recalls a verse his mama’s church friends are fond of. “Be sober” he quotes, “Be vigilant, because your adversary the devil is…Well, you know the rest, of course.” He tilts his head at the young officer and finally eases Mimzy off him to risk stepping forward. “You do know the rest, don’t you, friend? Because if you’ve yet to become acquainted with your Lord and saviour, I’m sure we have some pamphlets left.” He indicates Mimzy’s handbag. Mimzy, he notes with relief, has slipped her cape back on to hide her decidedly impious dress.

“The fuck are you people doing back here?” demands the officer. He has lowered his flashlight at last but is still staring at them in a way that doesn’t bode well for tonight not ending in arrest.

“Oh dear” says Mimzy, looking genuinely flustered. Forget dancing and bootlegging, Alastor thinks, the woman should be an actress. “This is embarrassing” she says, “It’s just…Well we are engaged!”

Alastor feels his smile tighten. “We are? Ahem! Yes. Well, you know how these things go” he tells the officer, hoping that the fact he doesn’t know himself will somehow help.

Mimzy holds a hand up to reveal a little ring on her wedding finger. Where on earth did she get that? “Only a week to go and God will sanctify it anyway” she says. She reaches for the officer and he backs away. Alastor can’t say he blames him. Mimzy adds, “But if anyone from the church finds out, oh we’ll be ruined! What if they don’t let us get married in the chapel now? Oh, what if Alastor gets sent away to do mission work in penance? Oh, please don’t tell anyone!”

He officer frowns at them both and drops his gaze. “No crime in it” he says gruffly.

No crime in what, Alastor wonders. And then he realises and suppresses a shudder.

Although, from a purely practical perspective, a cover story involving alleyway carnal relations at least explains any rumples in their clothing left over from the race through the speakeasy’s back exit. Mimzy has done well.

“Oh thank you!” she is saying. She moves to step closer to the officer, then seems to realise that any closer and he’ll smell her breath. She stops and grabs his hand instead, shaking it enthusiastically. “God bless you!” she says with feeling.

Alastor reaches into his pocket and withdraws a generous wad of notes. “A token of our gratitude” he says.

The young officer looks stunned at the sight of the money, and then torn. Could this be his first bribe? How delightful!

The man hesitates for just a moment. Then he snatches the bills and says, “You folks have a nice evening.”

Half and hour later, Alastor and Mimzy are still laughing as they make their way back towards their respective homes. It helps that the moonshine has seeped into their blood, the speed with which they drank it and the cold night air both adding to its effects. They stumble along, louder than they should be, reaching for each other as they make their meandering way through the empty streets.

“Just imagine!” Mimzy gasps, “Me, ina church!”

“I’m sure you’d melt as you crossed the threshold” says Alastor.

“Hey!” Mimzy pokes him in the ribs, but laughs again. “I was gonna say I was a pastor’s daughter” she says, “I had a whole backstory planned!”

“And who was I?”

“My fiancé, of course!”

“I mean, what was my backstory?”

“Oh that. That’s your problem, mister. You’d have to impriv…impro…make it up.”

“Where’d you get the ring?”

Mimzy holds it up. “Off a gal in that little hallway when we all ran out. Perfect chance to borrow some jewellery.” She staggers closer, catching Alastor’s arm and clinging on. “I got a lot. Jewellery I mean. I never had nice things growing up. I got stuff to catch up on.”

“I can buy you jewellery” says Alastor breezily, “I have money now.” Distantly, he is aware that that isn’t something he should announce in the streets where anyone might hear, but his head is fuzzy and warm and he can’t imagine he and Mimzy would have much trouble overcoming a mugger.

Mimzy snuggles closer. “I might just take you up on that, doll face.”

Alastor frowns, realising he can’t buy her jewellery. The policeman took his money. “I should put bribes down as a work expense” he decides, “I’ve found lots of” He waves a hand vaguely “interesting bands at the juice joints. The station should pay me for it.”

“Look at ya, working all hours! You should have some fun, Alastor!” Mimzy spins away from him dancing until she stumbles and lands in a heap. Alastor hurries over and helps her up. “Careful” he says, “We’re supposed to be sober.”
“Ha! Yeah, and vigilant.” Mimzy leans against him as they walk on. They pass a crowd of people spilling out a theatre and Alastor makes an effort to stay quiet and walk in a straight line. Mimzy somewhat undermines the attempt by blowing a kiss at a man as they pass. He whistles back and Alastor tenses. “Careful, dear.”

“Oh like you care.”

“I do” says Alastor plaintively.

Mimzy reaches up to pat his head. She misses and gets his shoulder. “You’re a sweetheart, worrying about little old me.”

Alastor attempts to brush her off, but forgets to let go of her to do it, so it just works out as jostling them both a bit. “We’re supposed to be sober” he says.

As they turn a corner into an unlit side street, she asks, “So who’d ya dance with last night apart from the Bouchard twins?”

“I didn’t last night. I had to deal with a…” Alastor trails off searching for a codeword for violent ruffian the world is better off without “…Man” he comes up with.

“Night before then.”

Alastor waves a hand. “Oh, Myrtle and Amelia, but they don’t have your stamina.”

“Damn right they don’t.” Mimzy nudges him. “Amelia’s hung up on you, you know.”

Alastor groans. “Why does everyone do that?”

“What, get a crush on you?”

“Yes! It’s very annoying!”

“Want me to scare her off?”

“Yes. No. Maybe?”

“Well pick one.”

“But she’s fun! Why do all the fun women want to take advantage of me?”

Mimzy giggles. “I’ll set her up with Gerald then. He’s been stuck on her for months and I bet she’d be flattered if she knew.”

Alastor nods approvingly. Amelia could do a lot better than Gerald but he’ll have to do.

Mimzy nudges him. “Don’t worry. You’ll meet the perfect gal for you one day.”

“I’m not worried.”

“So smile then! You’re always telling me to! Fucking patronising by the way.” Mimzy reaches for Alastor’s mouth and he jerks his head away, then totters sideways. Mimzy grabs his arm, unbalancing him and they both end up on the sidewalk. There is a pause before they both start laughing. Then Alastor shushes them.

“There, see?” says Mimzy and they stand up, “There’s that smile!”

Alastor dusts himself down and looks around, registering that they have stumbled – quite literally – on a familiar neighbourhood. “Ah” he says, “We seem to have missed your place.” He straightens up, taking Mimzy’s arm. “Not to worry, I’ll just walk you back.”

“But we’re nearly at your street!” Mimzy shakes him off. “I don’t want you going out your way, sweetie.”

“I don’t mind.” Alastor stifles a yawn, then gestures vaguely in the direction of his building, “But I suppose you could just come back to my place and call a cab.”

“Sure.” Mimzy takes his arm again and he leads the way. It takes longer than it should. When they reach his building, Alastor tells her, “Remember, we’ve got to be quiet or the neighbours will all wake up.”

“Like your neighbours have never been drunk.”

She has a point. Most of Alastor’s neighbours are immigrants from countries that don’t hold with this prohibition nonsense, and others he runs into regularly in the city’s speakeasies. But a few puritanical exceptions might make a call to the station if being woken up annoys them enough.

Mimzy laughs suddenly, tripping over her own feet.

“Mimzy, the neighbours!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

Reaching his door, Alastor carefully slips his key in the lock, succeeding on the third attempt. Mimzy trails inside and slumps on the couch. “I’m done” she announces. “Screw calling a cab. If it’s all the same to you, Al, I’ll just sleep here.”

Alastor, on his third attempt at locking the door behind them, pauses. “I’m not sure that’s proper, dear.”
Mimzy rolls her eyes, then kicks her shoes off and puts her feet up. “You really care what your neighbours think?”

“No. But. Well, given my hobby, it’s best I don’t attract undue attention.”

“That why you star in your own radio show?”

“That’s different.”

“Different how?”

“Mimzy, people will think we…You know what they’ll think.”

“Oh let ’em.” Mimzy wriggles, getting comfortable. “Anyway, people will notice you more if you never bring a girl home, you realise? They’ll think you like men and then they’ll watch you and then they’ll realise, nope, you don’t like men so much you kill ’em.”

Alastor thinks this is a little farfetched, but he can’t quite string the words together to say so. He feels suddenly dizzy, and leans against the door while he tries again to lock it.

Mimzy sits up. “You ever kill a woman?” she asks.

If he pretends he has, will she agree to go home? But Alastor doesn’t want to scare her so he tells her, “No.”

“Too much of a gentleman?”

Alastor finally gets the lock to work, then weaves his way over to her and sits down when she moves her feet. “I’ve never met a woman who deserves it.” He tilts his head back, closing his eyes. Mimzy nudges him. “Hey, don’t go passing out on me. I need blankets and pillows and shit.”

Alastor waves towards the bedroom. “All on the bed already.”

“What your bed? What about you?”

Alastor pats the couch. “I’ll be quite comfortable.”

“Aw, Al. Who knew a couple of drinks is all it takes to turn ya into such a kitten?”

“I am not a kitten.”

Mimzy ruffles his hair and he brushes her off. “You are” she tells him, “All sweet and tame and giving up your bed and all.”

“Well what sort of host would I be otherwise?” Alastor stands up. “I’ll just make the place presentable first.”

Staggering into the bedroom, he finds his head spinning. Really, that was far too much moonshine for one sitting. Far more than a couple of drinks as Mimzy put it. Leave it to her to help herself to the biggest bottle she could find.

He tugs the bedcovers into a semi made state, retrieves his pyjamas and sits down on the bed.

“Al?”

Alastor opens his eyes. “Sorry, dear.” He looks around: His bedroom. His bed. And Mimzy?

Oh drat. He was supposed to be hosting. “Sorry, dear.”

“Oh, it’s okay. You go back to sleep.” Mimzy sheds her jewellery, piling it haphazardly on the bedside table, then sheds her cape slips under the covers still in her dress. Alastor looks away quickly.

“Alastor? C’mon, get in. I don’t bite.”

Alastor feels his heart hammer. Surely Mimzy can’t expect anything of him? She has never been interested in him like that before.

“You okay, kitten? Look, no-one’ll know. And this way you don’t have to sleep on the couch.” Mimzy pulls back the covers next to her. “Let’s agree I won’t take advantage of you if you don’t take advantage of me, how’s that sound?”

“Like the bare minimum requirement for friendship?” Or even polite acquaintanceship come to that. But Alastor is relieved they have said it out loud. Cautiously, he lies down beside her, staying on top of the covers. Mimzy alarms him by shifting closer. “There ya go” she says, “See, this is fine.”

And Alastor finds that it is.

Chapter Text

“Do ya believe in Heaven and all that shit?” Mimzy asks as she lights a cigarette.

Alastor draws himself up from where he’s slumped on the couch. “For my sake I should hope not. For mama’s…” Alastor trails off. Of course he would love for his mama to be in a realm of endless bliss. Even if the price was him going somewhere entirely different.

The thought that she just doesn’t exist anymore chills him.

He looks down and finds that Mimzy has put a whiskey in his hands. He doesn’t recall that happening. The hours since the funeral are a bit of a blur. He sips it absently, welcoming the burn.

Mimzy sits beside him with her own drink. She tells him, “I always figured that church shit is just something priests say to get us gals to keep our legs closed.”

“Charmingly put, dear” says Alastor. She is probably right, though. Logically, his mother won’t transcend her mortal flesh. Alastor has seen enough people die – including her now, he thinks with a shudder – to know that it isn’t a transcendental event. Even in her case, taken by illness and not violence, death is visceral. Bloody. No sign of peace, no shiver in the air or gentle understanding to mark the passing of a soul into a new world.

And if there is someone in charge of a perfect, bliss filled world somewhere else, why did his mother have to live through this one? The bruises, the poverty, what was it all for if there was a Heaven she could have lived in all along?

If there is no Heaven, she will simply decay. The idea turns his stomach. It’s not just the thought of her being reduced to dust. It is the knowledge that all the men he has removed from this world went the same way. Why should she get no better a fate than them? What was all her goodness for? How did it help her? Did it heal a single bruise? “I hate this” he says. Mimzy pats his knee and murmurs, “I know, sweetie. It’s a real bummer.”

Really, Alastor was hoping for a more profound response than that. But what is Mimzy supposed to say? What can anyone say?

But then Mimzy adds, “If it helps, there is one thing to focus on: Now she can’t ever find out about that little hobby of yours.”

Rage breaks through numbing grief and he glares at her. Mimzy startles back a little but says, “Well it’s true! It would’ve broken her heart, Al and you know it.”

“She never would have known. I’m never going to be caught.” Unless Mimzy decides to turn him in, of course. Which she would, he thinks, if it was her neck or his.

Or maybe not. Maybe he is being unfair.

Besides, he is more useful to her alive. And he is careful. Too careful to be caught. “She never would have found out” he repeats. She could be alive and still never find out. “And even if she did, I’d rather that than her being dead.”

Mimzy shrugs. “I don’t think she would.”

Alastor considers killing Mimzy in her sleep tonight. It’s not like he doesn’t know how. And she wouldn’t feel it in her sleep. Or be scared, or cry. He isn’t sure he could go through with it if she cried.

Or at all. After all, without Mimzy he’d be truly alone.

No, he’ll just have to pretend she never dared say that.

Or that she is right.

Instead of examining that, he says, “If there’s no afterlife, she joins the rest of the soil like all the sorry excuses for men that dealt with. It’s not right.”

“What, that they get the same soil?”

“That they get the same anything!”

“Well there’s only the one planet, Al. You can’t blast ’em to the moon.”

“But she tried so hard all her life to do the right thing, thinking there was some sort of reward for it! All this time she could have been…”

“What? Partying down at the speakeasy like the rest of us? That weren’t her style.”

“She could have…” Alastor trails off. She could have punched his father back. She could have poisoned him. She could have run from him and survived in any way that presented itself and instead she stayed and took it, again and again because the alternatives were supposedly wrong but what good is right and wrong when everyone is worm food waiting to happen? “I just mean what’s the point of any of it? What was the point of her being good and God fearing when she just ends up in the ground like the scum I’ve ended? What does she get that they don’t?”

“A marked grave?”

“It’s not enough.”

“A packed church then. People cryin’ over her. People remembering her kindly. And toastin’ her.” Mimzy holds up her glass. “Here’s to her.”

Alastor touches his drink to hers, then downs it. It’s not enough.

“She gets you” Mimzy adds, “And your good manners and how everyone thinks Oh someone raised him right. You’re like her ambassador or something. You’re a…What’s the word? A credit to her.”

“That doesn’t make her alive. I want her to be alive.”

“I know.” Mimzy pats him some more. “But don’t go thinkin’ she wasted her time with her church and trying to do the right thing and all. It made her happy. Fuck knows why but it did. She didn’t need a reward to do things.” She takes a swig of her drink and stares pensively into her glass. “She wasn’t like us.”

Alastor considers this. It is true his mother probably wouldn’t enjoy the clubs and speakeasies he frequents. She was always diligently kind, and not just for show. Perhaps she would have had much the same life with or without the promise of Heaven. And actually, she never once tried to teach him right from wrong on that basis. She told him to treat others the way he would want to be treated. It had always seemed odd, because people never treated him the way he wanted to be treated. Or her either.

Perhaps fleeing his father to survive by any means necessary wouldn’t have appealed to her. But there might have been respectable ways to do it if she didn’t have a child in tow. She could have left if it wasn’t for him. “She’d have been better off without me, I know that much.”

“No” says Mimzy, with conviction. “Don’t go there, kitten. Your mama loved you like there was no one but you in the world.” She finds his hand and squeezes it. “You didn’t hear how she talked about you when you were out a room. She wouldn’t shut up about you and your fancy job and your nice manners and how good you were to her and how proud she was of you and all.”

Alastor feels a flicker of comfort at this. But then he realises what Mimzy said: Was.

For the first time since he was a small child, Alastor starts to cry. Ridiculous, that he manages to get through witnessing the death, planning the funeral, giving the eulogy, seeing her lowered into the ground all without shedding a tear and now it he can’t control himself just sat on his couch when it’s over. Shameful! And the only person he’d trust to witness such a pitiful act is gone forever, and that thought makes him panic, and then makes him cry harder.

“Oh, sweetheart! Come here.” Mimzy’s arms are suddenly around him. Alastor tenses, then relaxes into the embrace, his sobs escalating until his body is shaking. Mimzy hugs him tight and rocks him. “Let it out, Al.”

“I’m…I’m s-sorry.”

“You don’t need to be, doll face.”

“This…this is pathetic.”

“Well. You won’t catch me judging.” She holds him for a very long time.

Chapter Text

The lake might as well be an ocean. Mimzy can’t see the city from across it. How big does a lake have to be before it’s actually an ocean? Mimzy’s got no clue. It’s the kind of useless thing Al would know.

She don’t do well outside of cities. Lack of practice. And this place is in the middle of fucking nowhere. They had to get here on a damn ferry. North Shore might be on the up but it’s sandwiched between the lake in front and the bayou and a bunch of farmland and shit behind. Mimzy can’t say she’s impressed.

People – well to do people, at least – don’t come here to actually live. Or maybe just haven’t up until recently. The city is booming, and there’s more and more housing going up every day, but rich folk only come here to vacation. Boating, fishing, other lake related stuff Mimzy can only guess at. Summer only kind of things. They stay at the ritzy new hotels popping up along the shore or in big houses that only get used a few weeks a year. But Cornelius Rake comes here year round, and his house is more like a mansion. He uses it for big fancy parties that he throws for no reason except that he can. So far as Mimzy is concerned, that’s the way to live.

His house feels more settled in than the others out here, not just plonked on the shoreline like the other big houses, staring out across the lake like they’re wondering how to get back to the city. Rake’s house looks like it’s just fine here, like it knows what it’s doing. Confident, if a house could be confident. Maybe that’s a reflection on the owner? Mimzy hopes so. She likes a confident man.

Not that she’ll have much chance to get close to him tonight. She’s only here to dance, after all, and he’s busy hosting this swanky party, probably shmoozing about among the other rich folk. Still, no harm in optimism is there? Perhaps she’ll catch his eye. Or failing that, perhaps something in the house will catch her eye and he’s got enough that he won’t miss a few trinkets. The man, his money, it’s all the same thing when ya stop and think about it.

If all else fails, Alastor will be here. He’s doing a private broadcast, just for the party. That’s the sort of money Rake has. Mimzy hasn’t seen Al yet: He came in by train with the other radio obsessives and a load of broadcasting equipment that he told her all about and which she’s forgotten the details of. Or maybe didn’t pay to much attention to to begin with honestly.

They’re going to be broadcasting from that room. That’s part of the appeal, Al said. People are looking for a cheap scare.

It feels weird to be all dolled up and stranded on the shore of a lake. They’ll be performing right by the shore. Mimzy has checked out the set up: The gazebo that the band will be in and the stage built just for tonight, branching out from it, where she’ll be performing. Her and the other girls but here’s hoping she’ll outshine them.

Now, she watches the servants set up for the party, stringing tealights among the trees and setting out chairs. They all came out here for the party from what she’s heard. Rake might come here plenty but not so often he has a full staff here round the clock. When he comes to stay without throwing a party, he just brings a few. Rumour has it he and his wife were pretty much alone out here when she up and vanished, just her maid and a chef. Of course the papers made a lot of that. Middle of nowhere, no one around to help, all that jazz. There was a fizz of excitement among the dancers on the way here, about going to that house, with that room. It didn’t seem so funny when they actually arrived.

It was different with the other two. Summer both times, for one, when this place is a happy vacation hub. Not as creepy, except maybe by contrast and how they both went into the same room as the wife right before they disappeared, or so everyone says. One of them supposedly during a party even though the room  was supposed to be outta bounds after the wife, and the other vanished right after saying he was going into the same cursed room for a look around. It was cursed by then. When the wife went missing, it was just a room and the maid saying she hadn’t left it was just a weird detail. It took two to make the room the main feature of the story.

Obviously the curse is a load of bunk, but those three people are gone. Dead you gotta assume. Sucks for them.

Course the other dancers focused on the wife when they went over it. Then again, anyone married to Cornelius Rake and living in a mansion would get a lot of spotlight, wouldn’t they?

Sucks for him too when ya think about it. Three people he knows, each time when he was out and couldn’t help them. How can he stand to sleep here?

He must though. He still comes to stay and he still brings all his friends. The room might be locked up now, but Mimzy has heard he likes to talk about it. Maybe for rich men, a cursed room is just another thing to show off, and if there’s one thing Mimzy knows about men it’s that they sure love to do that. That and they don’t all like their wives.

She shivers as the lake breeze traces her skin and heads down the gazebo steps to join the party for the pre performance mingling. Sure, she’s supposed to stay in the makeshift greenroom until after the show but what’s the harm? She made sure her she was changed with her make up done first so she’d have a chance to look around and she’ll be back in good time.

Closer to the house there are buffet tables, laden with drinks and starter type food. Mimzy takes a moment to gawp at just how many bottles of wine are out waiting . She hesitates only a moment before pouring a glass and downing it, ignoring the disapproving glance of a waitress. If ya want it, take it, right? Only way to be. Next, she then helps herself to a plate of food and wanders about. Still no sign of Alastor. It’s weird to be at an event that’s technically work for both of them, even if it is a party. Maybe he’s in that room, setting everything up? Mimzy has no idea how long that would take. Without him to keep her company, she lingers on the edges of the conversations people are having in little groups, hoping to be drawn in. No one pays her any attention. She subtly checks her dress. It is a little racy, with the high hemline that lets her move freely for the dance, beads dangling in place of fabric so the whole thing lands just the right side of scandal. She looks like the cat’s pyjamas. So what’s with them? Stuck up, she figures.

A patio door is open and a gramophone has been set up on a little side table, spilling music out into the night. It would be a real nice party if she knew anyone here, but Mimzy refuses to slink back to the greenroom. Setting up for a show can be real boring these days, ever since old Sam retired and handed the business over to that bitch Balbina Sanchez. Balbina wants them all to be more professional. Less time in the club, more gigs like this, at private parties where they have to be on their best behaviour. “That means focusing on the show” she told them all last night, “No bitching, no drama – Mimzy, I’m talking to you! – no splitting off into cliques. We’re a team.” How can ya have a team with no bitching, drama or cliques is what Mimzy wants to know. If there were only two people on earth, they’d find a way to fall out. It’s human nature.

She’d be more forgiving if Balbina actually had a chance of making them a roaring success but fat chance of that. Mimzy might have had dreams of stardom way back, but she ain't that naïve kid anymore. It’s been a while since dancing was her only income.

“Have you sampled the champagne?” says a cultured voice in her ear.

The man wears an expensive suit. He’s older than her, maybe by ten or fifteen years, but he’s handsome enough. With a suit that expensive, the threshold for handsome is pretty low.

Mimzy forcibly swallows her mouthful of food before replying, “Oh, not yet doll face, but if you’re offering…”

The man smiles and escorts her over to the table, where a waiter pours her a glass at a nod from him. Mimzy stares again at all the wine just out here on display.

“All from my cellar” the man explains, “I stocked up before prohibition.”

“That was smart of ya.” Then Mimzy blinks, registering what he said. “Your cellar?”

The man holds out a hand. “Cornelius Rake. This is my pad.”

Oh her stars! Mimzy smiles as charmingly as she can as she takes her hand. “So you’re our gracious host? I’m Mimzy.”

“Mimzy?” He looks curious, like a lot of people do when they first hear her name. Really, she’s Mildred, but no one knows that. Well, no one except for Alastor, but he don’t count. Mildred just ain’t glamorous enough for a dancer. Plus there may be a few people looking for her from back where she started out. “Just Mimzy” she smiles.

“And you’re here with…?”

“With the dancers” she confesses. She sways her hips a little, making the beads jangle and drawing his attention to the dress. “I know we’re meant to be in that real lovely room you set aside from us but I just had to come out here and see the lake. It’s so beautiful out here at night, don’t you think?”

He chuckles indulgently. “So out you snuck, eh? I like a woman with spirit.”

Mimzy doubts this is true. Lots of men say that but not many mean it. But she smiles and subtly puts her plate aside. Stuffing her face ain't a great look even if she is hungry after a week of gruelling rehearsals. “So” she asks, “How’d you pick out all these ritzy party decorations?” Was a lady’s touch involved is the question she doesn’t ask, but it turns out no, he just went with what he saw in some fashion magazine. He tells her all about that, then all about his work in the city: Boring financial stuff. He goes on about it for almost longer than Mimzy can pretend to be interested. He doesn’t ask about her work of course. Probably he thinks dancing is just something she’s doing til she gets married, but married was always only Mimzy’s plan B in case dancing and everything else she has going don’t pan out.

Not that she’d mind being married, to a fella who was rich, or easy to fool or preferably both. But really, finding all that’s a drag and then you’re stuck with it. Married men are better when it isn’t her they’re married to.

After he’s told her all about his work, Cornelius talks about his house in the city, and how he likes to get out here for parties every once in a while. Mimzy asks, “And how long you had the place?” before she can think not to. Then she thinks, shit, but Cornelius just grins and he tells her, “Oh, seven years. I had it built for my wife.” The smile fades, but he don’t look sad in particular. He asks, “You’ll have heard about that, of course?”

“Oh…Well…a little but…” Mimzy makes a vague gesture. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

He nods briefly, which could be a don’t worry about it but could be a no you shouldn’t. Probably a don’t worry, because next he says, “We’re having a radio broadcast this evening from the Yellow Room.” Seeing her confusion, he winks and adds, “The so called cursed room. I make light of it, but I do wonder, sometimes…” He shrugs easily and sips his champagne.

Yellow don’t seem like a very scary colour to Mimzy. If she had a cursed room, she’d paint it red. Or, you know, sell the damn place. She offers a nervous smile.

“It’s very historic, you know” says Cornelius. “There aren’t many portable broadcasting stations in Louisiana. And we have New Orleans very own Alastor Leclair in to host. I’m going to say a few words myself.”

“About…what happened in there?”

He shrugs easily. “Well, no one knows what happened in there, do they? It’s the mystery that draws people here.”

“It must be tough for you” says Mimzy, even though she can tell it’s not.

“I usually keep the room locked up to put other people’s minds at rest.”

“And…that works? People don’t get spooked about the rest of the house?”

“Some do” Cornelius laughs, “But then, people like to be spooked now and then. I’ve even had my photograph taken in there for one of the papers. People lapped it up!” He drinks some more champagne and adds, “And now we have this broadcast. The papers are all well and good, but if a person wants to be anyone these days, radio is the way to go. I find that if I embrace the mystery, it gets people talking. Gets some of them spending too! I’ve met quite a few investors who started out just wanting to talk about the Yellow Room, you know. I’ve become rather good at steering the conversation from curses to capital.”

Mimzy smiles politely. “Well” she says, “I guess if you’ve gotta have a cursed room you might as well use it.”

Cornelius raises his glass to that. “You play your cards right and I might give you a tour.” He gives her another look, one that leaves her in no doubt about the kind of cards she’d have to play. And why not? If she gets in good with him, maybe they’ll end up fooling around together for a few months and he can spend some of that capital on a few nice sets of pearls. Or better yet, an apartment. “I’d love a tour” she lies.

Cornelius’s gaze slides past her and he nods to someone in the crowd. “There’s the man of the hour. So exciting, to have Alastor Leclair in my humble abode.”

Humble my ass, thinks Mimzy. Her ass gets further attention when Cornelius makes his excuses and leaves her to it, patting her behind as he goes. She takes that as a good sign but she’s also glad he’s stopped talking at her at last. If this goes anywhere, he’ll have to spend a lot fast to make it worth it. She smiles sweetly as he goes, then relaxes and heads over to Alastor. He’s with a crowd of men. Some she recognises as his radio buddies. As she gets closer, he breaks away from them and sets off on his own, slipping past the gramophone and into the house. Mimzy hurries to catch up. “We have to stop meeting like this, Al.”

“Ah, Mimzy, there you are. I was wondering where all the dancers had got to.”

“We’re supposed to be backstage missing half the party.” Mimzy follows him through the main hall of the house and down a little corridor. “So how come you’re ditching the other radio dweebs? Last minute set up?”

“Last minute check” says Alastor diplomatically, “The chaps with the portable broadcasting station have been admirably professional, and I brought a few pieces of equipment from our own station, too. We should be all set.”

“So why’d you gotta run out on a party to check?”

“Just pursuing an ongoing project of mine. Call it a hobby.” Alastor puts meaningful emphasis on the last word and Mimzy bristles. “What, Cornelius?”

Alastor smiles and doesn’t deny it. Mimzy groans. Damn it, just when she was getting somewhere with him!

Just when she’s seeing the inside of his ritzy house. Even the hallways are to die for! All the little statues, and the art on the walls. Mimzy knows nothing about art but she can tell when something is expensive. And this ain't even his main house! “What the fuck, Alastor? Really?”

Alastor still doesn’t reply, leading her into a third corridor. This one ain't as nice as the rest, even though the wallpaper makes it clear it isn’t servants’ quarters. It’s got a neglected air, like it’s only cleaned quickly every once in a while. The wallpaper is classy but almost a decade out of fashion.

Alastor asks, “So are you all set to perform?”

“Oh, yeah, Balbina wouldn’t let us not be. I’m telling ya, Al, she makes dancing a real chore.” Mimzy pauses and considers the outdated splendour around her. “This time ain't so bad though” she concedes, “Gets me into this place.”

Really, Sam should have handed the business off to Mimzy, not Balbina fucking Sanchez. She worked for him way longer. Sam was just bitter about that time she needed a little loan, but that was just the once, to tide her over! It’s not like she didn’t pay it back eventually. Well, most of it. It ain't her fault if Sam said no and she had to help herself out the safe on his day off. That was years ago and she was his top dancer. Did he think guys were coming to hear Balbina fucking Sanchez sing?

Thinking of helping herself, Mimzy figures there must some real nice jewellery somewhere in this pile. It’s not like the wife will be needing them. 

If she can persuade Al not to bump him off, Cornelius might even give them to her himself. Not that a whirlwind romance with a millionaire is all that likely knowing her luck, even if he did talk her ear off and pat her ass.

It won’t be easy to get Alastor to change his mind. Damn it, the one time an actual, honest to God millionaire shows any interest in her and Alastor wants to kill him!

Trying to figure out why, Mimzy asks, “So what do you think about this whole cursed room shit?”

“Oh, the rumours have been around for a while. Actually, that’s how they came to my attention: The station reported on the wife’s death years ago.”

“Ya mean disappearance.” Mimzy corrects. “How do they know she won’t pop up again?” Unlikely but hey, maybe it’ll get Alastor out of his murder bent.

“As I understand it, once a person has been gone for seven years, interested parties can ask a judge to declare them dead.”

It figures he knows that. Most of the people he visits with that satchel of his wind up missing, not officially dead. Alastor adds, “Rake recently had a judge do just that. He has his wife’s money now, the only part of her he was ever really fond of.”

“Eh, well. Sometimes marriage is about a beautiful union between two like minded bank accounts. It don’t make the guy a killer.” Mimzy side steps a display case full of ornaments. Yeah, no one’s dusted them for a while. It’s like this wing is part of a different house from the rest. “So did ya get an interview outta him back then?”

“Oh yes, the nominally grieving widower was very keen to talk to us. He certainly enjoys this room’s notoriety.”

“Hey, not being sad ain’t a crime.”

Alastor hums noncommittally. He stops near the end of the corridor and opens a door. “Welcome to the Yellow Room.”

“Wait…This is it?”

The room is all done up in pale yellow florals, as outdated as the corridor beyond. There are a few busts of old dead guys in little alcoves in the wall and a bookcase, but apart from that it’s uninterrupted yellow roses on cream coloured wallpaper. Yellow armchairs round a big circular table laden with radio shit. The table must have been dragged in for the portable station: It doesn’t match the chairs. The whole set up looks hasty, like whoever did it didn’t take the time to make the place look welcoming.

It don’t look cursed. Kind of creepy, sure, but that’s just knowing the stories. Honestly the only creepy thing in here is the mindboggling range of radio equipment, not just on the table, but against the wall too, plus all the crates it must have come in. Alastor goes over to the table and starts carefully putting stuff together and turning stuff on. “You’re lucky you came with me, Mimzy: You’re about to witness radio history.”
“Ya mean the broadcast?”

Alastor waves this off. “The broadcast is fairly groundbreaking, yes. We’re still in the early days of making radio mobile. But I was referring to something else.”

“Well don’t keep a gal in suspense!”

Alastor steps back so she can see the junk on the table and pats some of it with a smile that tells her she’s about to hear a whole lot of jargon. He indicates a set up like a wooden tray with a load of boxy components, and a big swirl of wire and tells her, “This here’s a transmitter. It connects to the microphone via this cable and to the turntable here, so I can broadcast music. But for the preshow, it also generates electrical pulses to this antenna” he gestures to a diamond made of layers of wire strung through a cross shaped frame “which converts them into radio waves and transmits them to the surroundings. The waves penetrate the walls and floor and reflect off the materials beneath them– or at least, I hope the they do – into this antenna” Another diamond cross thing “The other fellows think this one’s just a spare. The signal is then processed back into electrical pulses by this receiver.” He proudly indicates a big chest with dials and a little row of light bulbs “Another donation of mine. We don’t strictly need one for the broadcast but I said we could use it to monitor frequencies. For the preshow, it’s crucial.”

Alastor pauses like he’s expecting a round of applause. Mimzy asks, “Huh?”

Alastor takes a deep breath with an air of forced patience. He taps the tray thing. “This is a transmitter. It…” He trails off as Mimzy holds up a hand.

“Sweetie, I don’t need the whole speech again! I just mean, what do ya mean preshow? What do you need all those electrical pulse thingys for if it’s not part of the broadcast?”

“Because I want to find out what happened here.”

“You mean to Cornelius’s wife and the other two?”

“Indeed.” Alastor smiles a wicked smile. “It’s a silent broadcast, in a way. You can stay and watch if you like.”

Mimzy nods, even though she knows she should be getting back. The dancing is going to start soon. It’s a pretty strict schedule so they finish before the fireworks begin. The broadcast comes last, the main event.

Alastor bustles about, getting things ready. The more he does, the less sense Mimzy can make of what he’s doing. He finally connects all the equipment and then…Nothing. “Al? Is something supposed to happen?”

“Something is happening.” Alastor looks honestly excited. He bends over the chest with the lightbulbs and dials, watching closely. Mimzy comes over to look and he tells her, “Stay still, dear.”

“Well, what are you…” Mimzy trails off as Alastor lifts one of the antenna things and starts waving it about. Not wildly: He goes slow, pointing it at the walls and floor, twisting as he moves to stare at the chest thing. Receiver, whatever. “Alastor. Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

“Quite, cher” Alastor chides, his eyes darting back to the lightbulbs. “Let me know if the receiver does anything unusual.”

Mimzy’s got no idea what counts as unusual for a receiver. She glances at the bulbs, then rolls her eyes and sits down in one of the yellow armchairs. “Ain't is beautiful?” she asks, looking around. “I mean, if it had a bit of an update and all. If I had the dough, I’d live in a house like this.”

“Hopefully not exactly like this” says Alastor. His gaze keeps darting from the equipment in his hands to the equipment piled up on the table next to Mimzy.

“Well, closer to the city, sure. But apart from that, this place seems real classy.” Really, Mimzy is starting to realise she won’t ever live anywhere like this. If her dancing and all her other talents were gonna take off like that, it would have happened already. And what else has she got, her looks? Sure, she’s a knockout but she’s not perfectly poised and demure when she’s off stage, not like Gladys or Myrtle or a lot of the girls from the club. Already not much chance of some rich guy marrying her or – better – putting her up somewhere without the shackle of a ring, and the closer she gets thirty, the less likely it gets. And if dancing and hustling her way to success or playing mistress to some rich man don’t work out, Mimzy has no plan C. Well, get Al to pay for her retirement, she guesses, but what if he can’t?

What if he gets caught? She doesn’t let herself think about it often but it could happen, whatever he says.

“He had it built himself” Alastor says, “To his own design.”

“He mentioned something like that.”

“The designs are missing now. Terribly convenient considering three people have also gone missing here.”

Mimzy sighs. “Cornelius was out the house when all that happened. Look, Alastor, it don’t have to be about murder all the time.”

Alastor ignores this, pausing to stare intently the bulbs and dials on the wooden chest he called a receiver. What it’s receiving, who the fuck knows. The dials, Mimzy realises, are fluctuating, the little hands waving like crazy. Above them, light swells and dims in the bulbs. Mimzy watches for a moment, then sits back. “It’s just nobody saw them leave” she adds.

“Or ever again?”

Mimzy shrugs. “It’s a dangerous world.”

“That it is.”

“But that don’t mean anything happened to them here! Three people in seven years ain't a pattern, Al. They just left this room and met some nasty fella, or wandered off into the bayou or…or fell in the lake, I don’t know!”

“This is a surprisingly busy neighbourhood, Mimzy” says Alastor. He starts listing people as he inches around the room, waving the antenna at the point where the wall meets the floor. “Gardeners, chauffeurs, maids. Not to mention neighbours and all their guests. People around here entertain a lot. And then there are the new hotels and all the people working in them, and the labourers and fishermen who haven’t quite been forced out completely just yet.”

“In summer, maybe. Freida Rake disappeared in winter.”

“Quiter then” concedes Alastor, “But she had her maid, Trudy, with her and Trudy saw her…”

“…saw her going into this room” Mimzy interrupts, “I remember. It was in the papers.”

“Ah, so much of it was. Cornelius made no requests for privacy, you realise .”

“Oh, like you can judge a fella for liking attention! He probably just wanted to get something good outta the whole mess.”

“It was bold of him, given all the witnesses.”

“But the maid didn’t see anything, just the woman walking in here!” Mimzy quotes the creepy story in a bored voice. “The maid saw her go in while the husband was out with his buddies and no one else was around and…” Mimzy switches to an impressive, mysterious tone, “…she was never seen again!”

Alastor gives her an unimpressed look, then switches his gaze to the radio equipment. “Well she wasn’t” he says. “And for all this place empties of rich folk in winter, that doesn’t mean it empties. There was a man repaving the road just beyond the front driveway when Frieda vanished, and a couple of youths had snuck into the grounds at the back to fish in the lake. None of them saw her leave the property.”

“So they missed her! Or one of them killed her.”

“If it hadn’t been for Alberta Wyman and Wilfred Heath both also vanishing after entering this room, I’d be inclined to believe you.”

“After people said they entered this room” Mimzy corrects.

“In Alberta’s case, a woman was right outside the door.”

“A crazy woman, you mean.”

“Victoria Dennel has been confined to a mental hospital since then, yes. Which makes me wonder what it is she saw…” Alastor reaches a corner and shifts a chair aside to wave the antenna at a new patch of wall. “Both women were known to be suspicious about Frieda’s death. The three were close and Alberta and Victoria were pressing the police for a fuller investigation. Oh, and Trudy?”

“Who?”

“The maid, Mimzy.”

“What about her?”

“She was reported missing a few months after her mistress vanished.”

“Then how come no one talks about her?”

“Because she didn’t disappear in a so called cursed room” says Alastor. He scowls and adds, “And because she was black.”

Mimzy swallows thickly. “Okay” she says, “So that stinks and all but maybe she did just piss off the wrong person.”
“I’m quite sure she did.”

“But not Cornelius, right?” When Alastor doesn’t answer Mimzy sighs. “What about the other one?” she asks, “William or something?”

“Wilfred. He and Cornelius were business rivals, but friendly enough on the surface that he was staying here last summer. Conversation turned to the mystery of this room. By then, Cornelius had sealed it up and told all guests it was out of bounds. Wilfred was a man of science and decided to try to put the rumours to rest. Or perhaps, Cornelius goaded him into the decision.”

“But isn’t he the one where no one went with him? No one knows if he even came in here.”

“And he disappeared by sheer coincidence?”

“Well, okay, when ya put it like that!” Mimzy huffs and stares about.

“The other guests wanted Wilfred to go inside that evening, with all of them just outside as witnesses. But who’s to say he didn’t decide to start his investigation early? Or that Cornelius didn’t hint that he should?”

“But Cornelius has an alibi for everything! The papers said so! He was with people every time someone up and vanished and the police searched this whole place, especially this room!”

“Yes” says Alastor quietly, “He’s been quite smug about that.” He moves another chair, stepping slowly round the table with that stupid antenna.

“So he’s smug! Lots of men are. He doesn’t seem worse than half the guys I’ve met.”

Alastor frowns. “You’ve spoken to him?”

“Just now, outside. Look, Al, he’s gonna give me a tour later. And you know what that’s code for. Well, sure, maybe you don’t but it could be me in champagne and pearls for the next year! So unless you’re really sure about this…”

“I am.”

Mimzy rolls her eyes. “How? The man had alibis every time!”

“He did” muses Alastor, “Good alibis, I’ll give him that.”

“Are ya going to say he bought them?”

Alastor shakes his head. “We’re not just talking a few friends. He was out in public every time.”

“So it wasn’t him?”

“It was. Just not directly.”

“He hired a hitman?”

Alastor shakes his head. “A good hitman wouldn’t strike in the same room three times and stir up all this whacky nonsense about a curse. And no bodies were found remember? So whoever killed them had a way of hiding the bodies without anyone appearing to leave this room…” Alastor looks around.

Mimzy sighs. “They must have left the room, Al. The people who said they didn’t see ’em leave must have looked away for long enough, they left, no one saw and they fell in the lake. It happens.”

“The lake isn’t easy to miss, cher. It isn’t quite as dangerous as you seem to think.”

“What and this tacky room is?”

“Actually, yes, I think it is. I just need to confirm my suspicions before I act on them.”

“How you expecting to act on ’em with all these people here?”

“I’ll come back another time. It would be foolish to try tonight. I’ll…” Alastor trails off and stops moving. Then he turns his head carefully, like he’s trying to keep the rest of his body still, and stares at the dials and light bulbs again. “Mimzy” he says, “Come and hold this.”

“Ugh, do I have to! I just put my feet up here.” Mimzy catches Alastor’s stern gaze and mutters, “Fine, fine.” She stands up and reaches for the antenna, but Alastor shakes his head imperceptibly. “Slowly” he tells her, “Hold it exactly where I have it.”

Mimzy rolls her eyes but slows her hand, carefully gripping the antenna and holding it just where Alastor is. He steps back cautiously and goes back over to the boxy receiver. He watches the dials closely. “There…” he breathes. Then, with a flash of a real smile, “It worked. I wasn’t sure it would.”

“Congrats. Can I put this thing down now?”

“Just walk slowly along the edge of the room.”

Mimzy sighs, but takes a few steps while Alastor watches the dials. Then the lighting changes as the bulbs flicker and Alastor tells her, “Stop there.” He comes over and takes the antenna off her. “Thank you, dear.”

“Any time.” Mimzy sits back down in another yellow armchair, this time next to a scowling little bust in an alcove, where she has a good view of Alastor putting the antenna down and sliding his hand around the wall and the nearby bookcase. Just when Mimzy is thinking he’s not going to find anything, Alastor’s hand brushes a panel in the bookcase and there is a quiet click. Mimzy startles a little and Alastor steps back sharply, then looks around. Nothing happens.

Mimzy shakes her head. “You’re wasting your time, Al. He was out. Anyway he seems so normal!” She pauses, then concedes, “But I guess you seem normal so…” When Alastor pauses and glares she says, “What? Don’t look at me like that!”

“I am nothing like him.”

“Well if you’re right, he’s killed three, maybe four people this whole decade so I guess not.” Mimzy is starting to piece together the history of Alastor’s little hobby with the same sick fascination that might make a gal might prod a sore tooth. She don’t want to know but also she does.

It’s a way higher number than Cornelius’s even if Cornelius is some kind of violent freak.

Alastor is still staring at her. “Mimzy…”

“Alright, alright already! You’re nothing like him. As serial killers go, you’re perfectly charming, I’m sure.”

“…Mimzy, the bust.”

“Huh?”

Alastor shoos her out the way, approaching the bust in the alcove beside her. It glares at him as he frowns at it, then starts tracing its features like a blind man, first its eyes, then its mouth.

“Maybe you oughta pick his nose?” Mimzy suggests, taking a step back to watch.

Alastor ignores her, slipping a hand behind the bust and brushing the stone hair, working his way down to the stone neck, then the stone shoulders, then the pedestal.

“What are you even looking for?”

“Any sort of…Ah, here it is.” Alastor seems to put his weight on something and Mimzy hears a grating whine as stone shifts. The bust’s neck twists slowly against the pedestal and Mimzy gasps, “You’re gonna break it! Al, you don’t want to have to pay for that!”

Then the grinding stops. Alastor reaches into the little gap that’s appeared in the bust’s neck and twists something. More grinding, metallic sounding this time.

The bust’s head snaps back into place with a sickening crack. Then nothing happens.

“Wait” says Mimzy, “There’s two buttons in here that don’t work?” She prods at the panel on the bookcase…

…And the ground gives way under her feet. Suddenly she’s in freefall. She screams into the gaping void beneath her, scrambling for a handhold but there’s nothing. The walls are slick. She screams some more.

Then she becomes aware that she isn’t actually falling: She’s dangling. Caught somehow. That’s bad enough, when below her is a yawning pit of black, dank smelling nothingness. Mimzy screams into it and the sound seems swallowed up. Like she’s about to be.

Then she realises Alastor is shouting over the top of her screams: “Mimzy! Mimzy, stop struggling or I can’t pull you up!”
“Uh huh, uh huh!” Mimzy hears herself pant with fear, “Yeah, sure, stopping! Alastor, get me outta here!”

Alastor pulls on the ankle he must have grabbed at the last possible moment as she fell. The thought of what would have happened if he’d been just a second later makes Mimzy want to scream again.

The darkness recedes as Alastor pulls and Mimzy finds herself on the floor of the Yellow Room. She sits up and hugs Alastor hard. He doesn’t even tense for once, just hugs her back.

“Al?”

“Yes Mimzy?”

“I kinda want to throw you down there for doing that to me.”

She feels him smile against her. “I can only apologise, dear. I wasn’t sure what would open and where but I should have warned you not to touch the panel.”

“But…But you touched it and nothing happened!” What if something had, Mimzy thinks. What if she’d just been sat in that chair watching Alastor mess about and then suddenly he dropped through the floor? She holds him tighter.

“It needed both switches” Alastor says, “The panel only opens the trapdoor if the gear under the bust is turned a certain way.” Alastor breaks their hug and crawls to the edge of the sheer drop beneath the trapdoor. Mimzy follows his gaze and shudders. “How the hell did ya know where to look?”

“That’s where trusty radio technology came in handy. I could tell from the way the signal reflected that there was something here.” Alastor takes a coin from his pocket. “Make a wish” he says grimly, and drops it into the hole.

Mimzy doesn’t wish. She just stares. There is nothing for several long seconds and then there is a splash.

More seconds, and then Mimzy says, “Well, I was right about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“They did fall in the lake.” For a moment, Mimzy isn’t sure if she wants to laugh or scream again.

There is a creak and Mimzy lets out a little shriek. Slowly, the dangling trapdoor swings upwards and settles back into the floor with a click. Alastor prods it. “Back to normal” he says, though he pointedly doesn’t put his weight on it. “That’s an important part of the design, of course. Otherwise Cornelius would have to be the first person into the room to close it each time and that would look suspicious.” He stands and looks around.

“How the fuck did he get away with building that?”

Alastor shrugs. “Perhaps he told the construction workers it was some sort of drain or garbage chute. He changed his workforce a few times. That must have helped. Give slightly different designs to each subsequent team and I doubt anyone questioned anything.” Alastor inspects the bust again. “He must have turned the gear before he left the house each time” he muses, “Primed the trap. Perhaps he had reason to expect his wife to come in here. Perhaps she read those books.” He gestures to the shelf. “Wilfred Heath was actively exploring the room. Perhaps Cornelius readied the gear after the man expressed a desire to inspect the room or perhaps he even set the trap and then steered his rival into deciding to disprove the curse once the room once it was ready for him.” He holds his hand out to help Mimzy to her feet. She ignores it. She’s good here on the floor for now. She’s shaking.

Alastor lets his hand wait for a moment, then turns back to the now invisible trapdoor. “But of course having a crowd of people right outside the room when Wilfred met his end wouldn’t do. They’d hear a scream. They might enter before the trap reset. So Cornelius persuaded him to have a look around in advance of the main event, then took the rest of the party out. Turned them into his alibis. How he got Alberta in here, I must admit I have no idea.”

“I pretended to slip up” says a voice from the doorway. “I made her think I’d accidentally revealed there was some clue to Frieda’s disappearance in the bookcase.” Cornelius steps into the room and closes the door behind him. Mimzy shifts sideways, slipping under the table.

Alastor hides his surprise behind a tight smile. “And did you have a plan for Victoria Dennel?”

“I would have found a way to shut her up. Just like I did with that wretched maid who couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”

Alastor tilts his head. “Isn’t that a little hypocritical? I didn’t find you taciturn during our interview.”

“You of all people should know gossip is only useful when you’re the one in control of it. I couldn’t have some servant running around contradicting my version of events. She should have stayed in her place.” Cornelius steps over to the bust and twists it with a practised motion. Mimzy shudders at the sound of shifting stone, then sliding metal, but forces herself to stay quiet. Is there any chance he hasn’t seen her down here? Or does he just think she’ll be easy enough to get rid of once Alastor’s out the way?

Cornelius adds, “Fortunately, the damned Dennel woman saved me the trouble by losing her mind. Always was weak like that.”

“I imagine hearing Alberta’s scream from outside the door didn’t help” says Alastor. Mimzy sees him clench his fists at his side.

“She was always following Freida and Alberta around” says Cornelius, and his eyes dart from Alastor to the panel on the bookshelf and back, like he’s judging if he can shove Al into it. Mimzy wants to call out a warning but Alastor has already seen the movement: His eyes narrow. Cornelius says, “I imagine Alberta set her up as a lookout while she went in. She was always the one with more spirit. It’s a shame. I do like spirit in a woman, isn’t that right, Mimzy?” He slaps the table, making Mimzy yelp. Alastor twitches like he’s about to step forward, then realises he’s being goaded.  

Cornelius goes on, “It’s a pity you’ve stumbled on my little secret. I was so looking forward to the Voice of New Orleans broadcasting from my house. But still, look on the bright side: You get to see even more of the trap you’re so interested in.” He dives for Alastor and Mimzy screams.

Fireworks drown her out. Mimzy processes what follows next as a series of bangs and flashes and a high pitched wail. She’ll never be able to relax around a Catherine wheel again, that’s for sure. When it’s over, Cornelius is on the floor, staring lifelessly up at Alastor, who is standing over him, breathing heavily. The fireworks die down outside and Mimzy crawls out from under the table, breaking the sudden silence with, “Al?”

“Yes, Mimzy?”

“You know what you were saying about doing it tonight being a bad idea…?”

“Yes, well. These things happen.”

“What we gonna do?”

Alastor gestures to the floor behind him. “Fortunately Cornelius has provided us with the perfect means of corpse disposal.” He drags Cornelius over the bookcase, placing his feet carefully around a certain patch of floorboards, then pushes the panel. Mimzy looks away, hears the trapdoor swing down, then a heavy splash, then the trapdoor swinging up. Alastor offers his hand again. This time she takes it. She brushes herself down, then turns to Alastor and brushes him down too, telling him, “You’re a mess, sweetie.”

Alastor seems to register the cut on his face and the bruises rising on his knuckles. “Ah. Fortunately I have a pair of gloves somewhere.”

“And the cut?”

“If anyone asks, I’m sure something will come to me.”

“Right. Hey, Al?”

“Yes?” Alastor checks the floor, using his handkerchief to wipe a trace of blood. Luckily a trace is all there is.

“Can we go home now?”

Alastor locates his gloves and pulls them on. “I thought you were here to dance?”

That knocks Mimzy out of her shock. “Ah, shit, the dancing! I was meant to be on stage before the fireworks!”

“Not to worry” says Alastor, “You were in here helping me. We can be each other’s alibis.”

“Are we gonna need one?”

“Hopefully not. After all, everyone should be watching the fireworks and not paying any attention to where Cornelius went.”

“Should we say we saw him go in here?”

“No, it would lead to far too many questions. We tested the equipment, we talked a while like old friends do and then you realised you’d missed the dancing.”

“Right” says Mimzy, trying to erase the trapdoor, the void and Cornelius from her mind and not just for the sake of her cover story.

Alastor, meanwhile, is righting a chair and moving the antenna back to the rest of the equipment. Next, he takes a coil of wire and heads for the bust. He twists it, reaches behind and stuffs the wire somewhere deep inside. Then he tests the gear. No grinding sound this time. “That should prevent any accidents” he says, forcing the head back into place. “One can never be too careful.”

“Yeah, careful or some asshole might drop ya through the fucking floor. Do I look okay, doll face?”

“Lovely as always, Mimzy.” Alastor checks his watch. “Everyone should be here soon.”

“Everyone who? We might as well leave now I’ve missed the dancing.”

“Mimzy, I’m here to broadcast from the infamous Yellow Room. It’d look very odd if I left now.”

Just then, the door opens and two men walk in. One nods to Alastor, glances at Mimzy, then gets on with doing something to the microphone at the centre of the table. The other man says, “Ah, Leclair, good. We were wondering where you’d slipped off to.”

“Just doing some last minute checks of the equipment, my good man” Alastor replies.

The man turns to Mimzy. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure?”

“Mimzy” Mimzy puts her hand into his for a dainty shake, “I just came to say hi to Al here.”

Alastor says, “Mimzy, dear, Mr Gibson here owns the company that sponsors our little radio station.” He says this just carefully enough that Mimzy knows to be on her best behaviour.

Mimzy doesn’t miss the knowing look Gibson gives her and Alastor, though Al obviously does. Good, she thinks. If he thinks she and Alastor were having a little petting party in here, that’s gotta be a stronger alibi than them just talking. Now, Alastor will say they just talked, and she’ll do the same, and any nerves or points where their stories don’t line up will just look like they don’t want anyone to know they were screwing around. Lies are great for covering bigger lies.

She shifts a little closer to Alastor for good measure. He doesn’t shift away for once. Maybe he thinks she needs the comfort. Actually, she kind of does.

The other man asks, “Shouldn’t Mr Rake be here? I thought we were doing his part first?”

“We ain't seen him” says Mimzy, a little too fast.

“I assumed he’d be along with you” says Alastor, “Perhaps he’s seeing to his guests before he joins us?”

The other man shrugs. “Eh, well. If he’s late we can start with some music.”

Gibson turns to him and asks a few questions about radio stuff that Mimzy can’t focus on. She turns her back and murmurs to Alastor, “Are you really gonna just broadcast like nothing happened?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“I could…I could pretend to get sick or something. And you could take me home.”

Alastor laughs. “I’m sorry, Mimzy, but you’ll just have to wait until after the broadcast. Go mingle. Everyone will be gathering in the drawing room by now and tuning in.” He pats her shoulder. “Just smile, dear. Who knows? This could be fun.”

It isn’t fun. Mimzy scurries out that room and stumbles into the drawing room only to get chewed out by that bitch Sanchez for skipping the performance. Then she has to laugh when the other dancers joke that they were starting to think she must have disappeared into the cursed room. Then she has to listen to Alastor broadcasting like everything’s normal, which he pulls off almost too well. Like this really is just a normal night for him.

Everyone’s really into his performance. There is a little applause when the radio successfully picks up the makeshift station. People glance between the radio and the door to the room the signal is coming from like they might catch a glimpse of it flying by.

Alastor talks about the room, telling them it’s become a New Orleans landmark and oh if only the walls could talk, the stories they could tell. Mimzy clenches her teeth to keep her smile up. Next is some music, and after a while, everyone realises that the novelty of being in the same building as the broadcast doesn’t stop them dancing to it. Gibson has to quickly put a stop to people moving furniture about, explaining that the Yellow Room might be cursed but it isn’t soundproof.

By the time Alastor is finishing up, people are starting to wonder why Cornelius didn’t do his part and where he is. People go off to look for him. When they don’t find him, the party just sort of winds down. The evening’s entertainment is over, after all. People stand about and talk, then start to gather their coats and go. A confused butler sees them out. Some people mutter about how rude Cornelius is being, and Mimzy hears one man joke to another about how he must have found a dame who took his fancy. No one looks especially worried.

“I thought someone would call the police” Mimzy tells Alastor later, as they head home on the ferry. They’re stood on deck, all alone, what with the other dancers being inside going over the events of the evening.  Mimzy came out here first chance she got. She doesn’t want to sit through any more chat about who Cornelius might have gone off to do the nasty with.

Alastor says, “The police will come later, when he fails to materialise tomorrow.”

“No one seemed worried” says Mimzy, hopefully. “If anyone knew he was going to the Yellow Room they kept it quiet.”

“Good” says Alastor, “That leaves a lot of possibilities up in the air. He could have left the house while everyone was watching the fireworks for all anyone could say.”

“Right, and wandered off into the bayou like I said. See, now you’re hoping everyone sees my point about that.”

“Us being in the room does rather put a dampener on Cornelius becoming part of its legend” Alastor agrees. He grins. “Think how disappointed he’d be!”

Mimzy shudders. She’s glad Alastor joined her on the ferry, trusting the other radio freaks to carry the precious equipment onto the train, but she wishes he’d stop looking so damn pleased with himself. Usually, she doesn’t mind. “I almost died” she says.

Alastor’s smile slips. He pats her shoulder awkwardly. “I would never have let that happen.”

Mimzy wants to point out how he almost didn’t save her. Wants to yell at him, actually, for even letting her in that room. But the comforting lights of New Orleans are just starting to come into view and she doesn’t want a fight, so she just tells him, “You owe me a drink after that.”

Alastor chuckles. “And how! Don’t worry, dear, we’ll soon find a juice joint where you can shift those nerves.”

“It’ll take a lot of juice” says Mimzy grimly.

Alastor pats her shoulder again. He don’t seem to know what to do about how shaken she is, which makes two of them. A drink don’t seem a bad start though. “Hey, Alastor? You know how you said you wouldn’t let me die? I’m holding ya to that.”

“Of course, Mimzy, dear. You can count on me.”

Chapter Text

“Mimzy, dear, we’ve discussed this. If a man is bothering you, you give me his name and I handle the situation in a controlled manner.”

“What? He pulled a knife on me so I pulled a gun on him! Fair’s fair, Alastor.” Mimzy glances at the sheet covered corpse on her bed. “It’s a shame really. He was a real charmer in the bedroom.”

Alastor shudders. Then he pulls the sheet back, looks at the corpse for a moment and covers it up again. “You really need to stop covering them” he tells her, “We’re going to have to wash all your bed linen.”

“Hey, what’s with the next time? It’s not like I make a habit of it!”

Al just looks at her. Mimzy bristles and tells him, “Oh, like you can judge!”

“It’s the denial I’m judging, cher, not the act.” Alastor reaches for his satchel.

“What denial? This is the first guy I’ve shot since Bert and he don’t count!” Shot deliberately at least. It’s a shame about Carl but that might not have even been her. He just got in the way while everyone was firing and she was only shooting because everyone else was. Actually she’s pretty sure it was Louis that got him and he was the first one to blame her after they all cleared out of there. “Really, Al, I could use some sympathy here.”

Alastor reaches into his satchel and pulls out a folded tarpaulin. “There, there” he says, spreading it over the bed beside the corpse.

“I mean it! First Carl, now this guy!” Mimzy waves a hand at the corpse. “Joe” she amends. Probably best to use his name when she needs a little compassion. Not that Alastor is the best person for that. She adds, “That’s two in one week.”

“Yes, you are getting through them. It’s quite impressive, if a little reckless.”

“Reckless how? It’s bad luck is all!”

“Mimzy, I do read the paper. I’m well aware of how Carl died.”

“You’re as bad as his buddies” Mimzy gripes. “They’re all holding it against me just because he couldn’t keep his big head down! And honest, Alastor, it could’ve been anyone! I think it was Louis but it could’ve been the security guard.” Really the way they all went on about it, you’d think she’d planned the robbery but really, it was Carl’s idea. Mostly. Partly. He made a few suggestions at least. And it’s not like it wasn’t a fast way to a fat profit. No one ever said bank jobs were easy but they sure are lucrative and now they can channel all that money back into the rum running business.

Well, most of it. Some of it, at least. Pity she can’t just spend it all on the high life but that’d kind of draw attention and there’s been enough of that.

Point is, the guys should be thanking her instead of acting like she put them in danger or some shit. If they don’t want danger, they should quit being bootleggers and go work in a bank or something.

Well, maybe not.

And they all have a cut of the profit so she don’t know where they get off saying she dragged them into a mess and blaming her about Carl who no one will miss anyway. The bastard had a mean temper behind closed doors.

Alastor reaches across the tarpaulin and pulls Joe on to it. His corpse hasn’t gone stiff yet like they do, so it’s like Al is pulling on a large, limp doll. Mimzy issues a little squeak, turning her back.

Alastor says, “The diagram in the paper suggested he was shot from behind while facing the guard.”

Mimzy lights up a cigarette, still looking away. “Well, okay, so it was one of us” she admits, “Could have been any of his pals is what I’m saying, but they’re all ganging up on me just because I’m the gal they think was only in on the fun because I was sleeping with the mastermind. Like I wasn’t instrumental! I can mastermind like the best of them.”

“My dear, when it comes to planning and executing a brutal robbery, I’m sure you’re up there with Al Capone.”

“Thanks, Al. See, at least someone believes in me.” Mimzy glances round, then quickly turns back when she sees makes eye contact with Joe’s lifeless eyes. “Jesus, Al, can’t you cover him up again?”

“Not unless your plan is to hide him under the bed, dear. Now, will your neighbours have called the police?”

“Nah, they’re used to it.” Mimzy realises how that sounds and adds, “I mean, it’s a rough area! And half the people in the building are involved in something shady one way or another. People know what happens when you call the cops.”

Alastor gives a small nod. “Good. That saves us from coming up with a plausible explanation for the gunshot.”

“Oh that’s easy. You and me were having a lovers’ tiff and I pulled the gun and I’m real sorry and all, I didn’t mean to actually fire it, and thank god you’re okay and all that. And then I batter my eyelashes and act like a dumb blonde who’ll maybe go home with one of the officers if I don’t stay here with you. You’d be amazed how quick they stop thinking with their brains.”

Alastor tuts. Mimzy draws deeply on her cigarette and adds, “I guess we really would have to hide Joe under the bed to pull it off. You covered him up yet?”

“No. Can I use your bathroom for this part?”

“What part?”

“Well, forgiving as your neighbours are, I doubt they’ll fail to raise the alarm if I’m seen dragging a corpse along the hallway. Before we remove him from the building, he’ll have to be in inconspicuous sections.”

Mimzy spins around. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Alastor! You wanna slice him up in my bathroom?”

“In the tub itself ideally.”

“Well that ain't ideal! How the hell am I supposed to wash in there ever again?”

Alastor shrugs. “The way you always have?” he suggests.

“What, just knowing?” Mimzy glances at the body, then quickly away. “Damn it, Al, close his eyes at least! I don’t mind it except for the eyes!”

Alastor obediently closes Joe’s eyes. They ping open again. Alastor leans closer. “Interesting” he says, “I suppose this is why people used to use coins.”

Mimzy shudders.

Alastor makes a sort of hoist of the tarpaulin and hauls the corpse off the bed and on to the floor, then he grabs his satchel and starts dragging corpse and satchel in the direction of the bathroom. “Wait a minute!” says Mimzy, “I didn’t say you could use my tub!”

“Well it’s happening in your tub or your bed, dear.”

“Tub’s fine” says Mimzy quickly. “Sweetie do ya mind if I don’t help out? It’s just…” She trails off with a look that she hopes shows just how disgusting the whole thing is without saying it out loud. If she said it out loud, would Al take offence? Probably not. He’s too far gone for that. He’d see her disgust as a quirk and not a completely normal response. But just in case he still has feeling about this stuff, she wants to spare them. Especially with how screwed she’d be if he got mad and left.

Alastor just nods and replies, “Of course. This is no job for a lady. While I see to it, you can clean up in here. And find something to carry the parts in.”

“…Did ya have to phrase it like that?” Mimzy mutters, but Al is already gone, dragging Joe into the bathroom with him and shutting the door.

Okay, something to carry…stuff in. Lucky she has a lot of bags and sacks left over from the bank job. Most are stuffed in the back of the wardrobe, some too flimsy to do for…something meatier than money, but some could work. On top of that Mimzy finds a suitcase and a few hat boxes she ain't too attached to. One she does like but desperate times and all that. Maybe Alastor will take her hat shopping when all this is done.

Technically, she could take herself hat shopping with her hard earned cash, but what self respecting woman pays for her own hats? And it’s not like Carl is around to do it so Alastor will just have to step in.

Poor Joe never got a chance to take her shopping. They only started this little fling last night.

It had to be done though. He was going to kill her. What was she supposed to do, waking up to find him standing over her with that switchblade? Lucky she keeps her gun so close to hand while she sleeps.

Possibly he wouldn’t have killed her. Possibly he would have just taken the money and ran. That must be what happened: He must have found it, even though she’s hidden it away in cupboards and the same drawer as her under things. What a creep, looking in there.

Once the bags and boxes and stacked up with the suitcase, Mimzy scrubs the floor and piles the bed sheets up in a corner. She’ll need the tub to deal with them and that’s in use.

She tries not to hear any sound from the bathroom. Even Alastor’s whistling. Especially Alastor’s whistling.

Next she changes into a day dress and shoes. All this time, she’s just been in her pyjamas. Damn Joe woke her up in the middle of the night asking to be shot.

Finally, she goes into the living room and she sits and waits. She thinks about knocking on the bathroom door and asking Al if he wants a coffee while he works but decides against it. What if he said yes? She’d have to go in there! And what if he held one of her mugs in his bloody fingers? She couldn’t ever use it again and she’s already lost a good hat box.

There’s a knock on the front door. Mimzy freezes. This ain’t a time of day to just be knocking on a person’s door. Actually, it’s the middle of the night. It has to be the cops. Shit!

Another knock. Then someone tries the door, rattling it in the frame. Mimzy quietly hurries back into the bedroom. Staring fixedly at the floor, she opens the bathroom door and murmurs, “Alastor? There’s someone at the door!” She tries hard not to notice the metallic smell in the room.

“Ah” says Alastor.

“Yeah. Shit.” Mimzy finally forces herself to look up and flinches at the sight of Alastor in a full body apron that must have come out of his satchel. Behind him is…Well behind him is something they really can’t let the cops see. Mimzy whispers, “What are we going to do?”

Alastor peels off the apron and hangs it on a hook behind the bathroom door, over the top of a dressing gown that Mimzy will never be able to wear again now that thing’s touched it. Underneath it, his clothes are clean…from the knees up. Shit. No way are the cops not going to look at his legs.  “We stay calm” he tells her, “We just need to think of a plausible explanation for why I’m here this time of night.”

“Doll face, that’s the easy part.”

Alastor winces. “We go with your story? A marital tiff?”

“Lovers’ tiff, sweetie. I don’t got a wedding ring on.”

Alastor sighs. “Very well” He steers her out the bathroom, which Mimzy is happy to let him do. Alastor shuts the door firmly behind them, hiding the mess in the tub. He tells her, “I’ll let you do the talking. I…” He frowns. “Why aren’t they shouting?”

“Huh?”

“Shouldn’t the police be shouting for us to open the door by now?”

Before Mimzy can answer she hears a small but unmistakable sound: A lock being picked. “What the fuck?” she whispers, “The police wouldn’t force the door, right?”

“Surely they’d need a warrant?” Alastor pauses and adds, “Unless your neighbours did report the gunshot and they think you’re dead.” He stares at the bedroom door like he hopes he’ll be able to see through it to the rest of the apartment. “But wouldn’t they just knock the door down?”

They stand in the bedroom in tense silence for a moment. Mimzy shifts closer to Alastor as the front door swings open, slow enough that the sound of the creaking hinge reaches them in the next room.

Then a man’s voice: “Joe? Where the fuck are you?” A silence, and then the man seems to pace about a bit, opening and slamming doors, his footsteps loud beyond the bedroom door.

Alastor relaxes beside her. “Not the police” he whispers, with a slow smile “Just a criminal here to kill you” When Mimzy stares at him in horror, he adds, “Rejoice, dear! This is so much easier to deal with.”

Apparently the man heard him, because he stops prowling out there and calls out, “Joe? What the fuck, man? Is it done yet?”

“Shit” Mimzy whispers as recognition washes over her, “That’s Louis! Carl’s buddy! He was in on the bank job! What the fuck’s he doing here?”

Alastor doesn’t answer, just puts a finger to his lips and steps back into the bathroom. Before Mimzy can call him back or steel herself to follow, the bedroom door opens and Louis is there, in the doorway. Mimzy clenches her fists and snaps, “What the fuck, Louis! What the hell are ya thinking creeping round here? I thought we said no contact til the fuss dies down!” A horrible thought crosses her mind. “Did someone rat us out?”

Louis stares at her then mutters a string of curses that end with, “Where the fuck is Joe?”

Mimzy almost gestures to the bathroom and stops herself. “What’s it to ya?” She pauses and adds, “How’d you even know he was here?”

“I sent him here you stupid bitch. You think he’d come up with this on his own?”

“Wait, you told him to go to bed with me?”

Louis pauses at that, then laughs loudly. “Oh that’s priceless! You and him…? He was actually going to fuck you before he bumped you off? Oh that’s a riot!”

“Hey, watch it!” Mimzy glares then realises, “Wait, what do ya mean bump me off?”

The bathroom door opens and Alastor appears. “I believe I can answer that, dear” he tells her, leaning in the doorway, “It seems Louis here made some sort of arrangement with our dear departed Joe to kill you and the rest of your little syndicate and take all the money from the bank job for themselves. I imagine he’s seen to the rest of them already, isn’t that right, my man?” He grins expectantly at Louis.

Louis stares at him. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Alastor. Pleasure to be meeting you.”

“Pleasure, huh?” mutters Mimzy, “That’s generous.”

“We need to remember our manners, Mimzy” says Alastor. His grin twists as he turns back to Louis. “Especially among those who are not long for this world.”

Louis is still staring. As Mimzy watches, his gaze slides from Alastor’s face to something in his hand. Mimzy follows his gaze and sees what Alastor fetched from the bathroom: A long, mean looking knife.

She hides under the bed while he uses it.

When he’s done, she crawls out, accepting the hand Alastor offers. Together, they stare down at what is left of Louis. After a while, Mimzy asks, “Another one for the bath tub?”

“I’m afraid so.” Alastor sighs heavily and checks his watch. “At this rate, I’ll be at it til dawn.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Yes, well. Next time you rob a bank, I hope you’ll choose your co-conspirators more wisely.”

Mimzy waves this off. “Don’t worry, I’m through with bank jobs. This bastard could have killed me, Al!” Mimzy’s eyes widen as a thought occurs. “You’re saying he killed the others?”

“I’m sure he did. It seems the plan was to meet here once everyone else was out the way.”

“So…he probably drove here, right? Stupid to call a cab to your own crime scene!”

“What of it?”

Mimzy kneels and starts patting the corpse down, searching. “Think about it! He must have left a car outside full of everyone’s share of the loot!”

“Hm. Yes, you raise an interesting point there.”

Mimzy finds the car keys and whoops. “It’s all mine, Alastor! All of it! I’m the last gal standing!” Then she catches herself and turns to him. “You want a share?”

Alastor shakes his head. “No thank you, dear.”

“Oh come on, I don’t mind! I couldn’t have done it without you after all.”

“I don’t believe in taking payment for protecting a lady. Or a friend come to that.” Alastor reaches down and grasps Louis’ bloodied wrist, then pauses. “Of course” he adds, “If you were to see your way to gifting me with a RCA Model 46 I’d consider that more than adequate compensation for a night’s work.”

“I’m sure I could manage that” Mimzy smiles.

Alastor smiles back, then starts dragging Louis away. Mimzy watches, then flinches as she registers the trail of blood. “I just scrubbed that floor.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to do again” says Alastor. He pauses and gestures to the body. “Unless you’d prefer to have a stab at dealing with Louis? No pun intended.”

“Nope. I can scrub.”

Once the scrubbing is done, the rest of the night is spent on a lot of fetching and carrying up and down the stairs. Money goes one way, other stuff goes the other, and Mimzy finds she ain't upset by it if she don’t think too hard about it. Besides, Alastor handles most of the gross stuff. He puts both…well, sets of parts, in Louis’ car, not his own. “It would look suspicious if the police found it outside your apartment, cher” he explains, “Fortunately I know a patch of swamp that should swallow it in a week or two.”

By the time they’re done, bags, hat boxes and suitcase are piled up in the trunk and on the back seat. It looks like Al is going on vacation. He turns to Mimzy and asks, “I don’t suppose you know how to drive and just never mentioned it?”

“Aw, sweetie, are ya tired? I can’t, but I could come along and keep you awake.”

“It’s not that. I was wondering if you could follow in my car and drive me back to the city when I’ve finished” Alastor considers the problem, then sighs. “I’ll have to walk back” he concludes.

Mimzy cringes a little at that. “How long will that take?”

“Long enough that I’ll have to go straight to the studio.”

“Sorry, kitten. What was that radio ya wanted? R model something?”

“I’ll write it down” replies Alastor in a disapproving tone. He unlocks Louis’ car, then adds, “On another occasion, Mimzy, I will teach you how to drive. All these traditionalists who say women don’t have the mind for it are quite wrong. Besides, with the way you live, it might be wise to have the means of a quick get away.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Alastor doesn’t reply. He just gets in to Louis’ car and drives off. Mimzy shrugs and heads back inside. After all that, she could do with a drink.

Chapter Text

Mimzy could get used to the high life. Ever since the fuss about the bank job died down, she’s been putting her hard earned money to good use. Plenty of debts paid. Plenty of gambling done, up until she lost a bit. Okay, half. After that, she quit the casinos and invested what was left in the rum running business. That and she got a few dresses. Okay, a lot of dresses. And a lot of jewellery. It got to the point the girls in the club stopped pretending to admire it all and were just up front about what jealous bitches they are.

She told them a rich uncle died. Obviously they found out that Carl and his buddies did too, but it’s not like anyone’s falling over themselves to feel bad for them. Or to connect her and her sudden fortune with how all that went down: After all, Louis and Joe up and left town the same night, so far as anyone else is concerned, so it must have been them.

With those bastards out the way, she’s had to find new guys to help with this latest project, not that it’s too demanding for ’em. Literally all they need to is wear a suit and look menacing. Any idiot could do it.

The idiots she’s found are Mack, Marcelo and John. A blonde, a brunette and a Creole guy. Mimzy’s been around Al long enough by now that she could tell.

Shame these three fellas aren’t all the same build, just different colours. Mimzy is sure if she was actually the old money broad she’s pretending to be, that’s the kind of thing she’d go for. As it is, she has John and Marcelo as her security detail, even though John is tall and thin and Marcelo is short and wide. They look out of place next to each other, but if people are too distracted by that to look too long at her, all the better. Mack is a stunted, skinny bastard, so she has him be the driver. Chauffer, actually. None of that driver shit when you’re an aristocrat.

The car had to be up to scratch so she splashed out on a Rolls Royce. She steps out of it now, looking the bee’s knees in her day dress and sunglasses, snapping a pretty floral fan open and fluttering it daintily by her face. John gets out the other side while Marcelo heaves himself out the passenger seat up front. Mimzy makes a show of waiting for them to escort her, one walking beside her but not too close, one standing back to scan the street. Can’t be too careful when you’re a rich broad.

The department store they’ve stopped at is fancy enough to have a doorman. He hurries to open the door, and Marcelo nods stiffly at him. First time they came here, he’d said “Thanks, pal” and Mimzy had had to set him straight later, explain that when you’re busy guarding an aristocrat, a nod is about all a doorman can expect from ya. They have to play the part perfectly, and for the guys, that means being completely focused on her.

Just like the staff here are. She flashed some cash on the first visit, and had John make a big show of calling her “M’lady”, making lots of references to the expensive hotel she’s staying at, and giving her full title as he set up the account. Everyone’s falling over themselves to suck up to her.

Suck ups don’t question much and even if they did, it’s not like she hadn’t been spending plenty all over the city with no problem ever since she checked into the St Charles. Throw in a clever little forged cheque book and setting up the account was no trouble.

Everything she bought on the second trip went on the account, no cash or cheque necessary, all payable later. No way she’d be able to do that if she came in here as regular Mimzy. And of course, she took a few gifts as well. Free samples to show off to her rich friends.

People have loaned her money as well. Not a dollar here and there, thousands. Rich folk don’t do small loans, they jump straight to the big bucks. No one stops to think if they’ll get their money back when they hear where she’s stay and see what her chauffer is driving. Especially when she hints how she’ll repay and then some as a token of her gratitude for them helping her out while she waits for her American banking to be sorted out.

Mimzy stands in the department store lobby and waits to be attended to. No just walking about ungreeted like a regular person for her these days.

The only flaw in the shopping part of the scheme is not having a maid servant to follow her around and carry shit, but Mimzy don’t like to get other women in on the action when she can help it. Worst comes to the worst, you can get most men to do what you want acting all helpless (Al, sometimes) or going to bed with them (pretty much every other guy she’s ever met, pretty much all the time). Helpless don’t work on any woman Mimzy has ever met. They know that game. As for bedding them, she don’t swing that way. So that leaves nothing up her sleeve if a woman steps outta line on a job. So she hasn’t got a maid or companion or whatever you’d call it following her around in a plainer dress, but the manager of the store got one of the girls who work here to do that last time (“my maid is indisposed” she’d said, wording she’d rehearsed in the car) and today he finds someone without being asked.

He waffles a bit about how much of an honour it is to have her here again and if she needs any help and all that shit. Mimzy watches him aloofly through her sunglasses.

The girl trails behind at a respectable distance while John and Marcelo fan out looking mean and alert, glaring at other the shoppers til they have the women’s fashion floor pretty much to themselves apart from store employees. Only a few women remain over by the hats, whispering to each other as they glance at her. Oh, and a man over by the perfume…

…Who is Alastor. Mimzy feels a flash of happy recognition and then realises, shit, recognition is not what she needs right now. She turns to the girl from the store. “Would you be a dear and go find me a few hats suitable for wearing to the races?” she asks, putting on the refined foreign accent she practised. “Bring them over to the perfume section for me, there’s a good girl.”

The girl actually dips a quick curtsey before scurrying off. As soon as she’s gone, Mimzy wanders over to Alastor. Thankfully, there’s no one manning perfume counter. There’s just Al waiting and studying the perfumes like he’s gonna be quizzed on them. Mimzy makes sure not to look directly at him as she stands next to him and says, in an undertone, “Hey, sweetie.”

“Mimzy? I…” Alastor flinches sharply as Mimzy steps on his foot with her high heels, and elbows him hard. “…wasn’t expecting to run into you here” he finishes with a glare.

“Likewise, sugar” she replies in a whisper, “And it’s my lady here.”

Alastor rubs his side and raises an eyebrow, waiting for her to explain. Mimzy glances around, confirming that the girl from the store is busy with the hats and the other shoppers are still over there too. She draws herself up. “You’re looking at Lady Milicent De Hudson-Smythe the third, Countess of Chestonia.”

“Chestonia?”

“It’s…somewhere in Europe.” Mimzy waves a hand vaguely. Seeing his look of doubt she adds, “Seriously, Al, it’s perfect!  As soon as you’re rich, everyone wants to give you free stuff. I spend a little and get twice as much back!”

“And you’re not worried that people will, say, look for Chestonia on a map?”

Trust him to be a smart ass about it. Mimzy rolls her eyes and says, “Well it’s not like I’ll be doing it forever!” She switches on a smile and the accent as a store assistant approaches. “Oh that’s just darling” she says of the first hat the girl holds out for inspection. “Add it to my account, would you? And get my man over there to take it to my car” She gestures to John, then flutters the fan against her face, giving the girl as little chance as possible of getting a clear look at her.

Not that the girl tries: She keeps her eyes downcast, mumbles a “yes, ma’am” and slips away.

Mimzy turns back to Alastor and says, “I’ve got an account. They let ya do that when ya show up in a Rolls Royce. Oh yeah” she giggles, “I got a Rolls Royce now. None of your dime a dozen Tin Lizzies for me.”

“My Model T is perfectly reliable” says Alastor stiffly.

“And how’s your radio?”

Alastor’s strained smile brightens into his natural grin. “It’s delightful! The sound quality is really quite extraordinary.”

“Uh huh. Well…” Mimzy smiles as the girl from the store comes back over, a beautiful silk shawl draped over her arm. The girl tells her, “My lady, Mrs Benton at the accessories counter says you’re to have this as a souvenir of your time in New Orleans and as a token of her respect for the people of Chestonia.”

“Oh that’s so sweet of her!” Mimzy snaps her fingers. “Marcello!”

Marcello ambles over, looking annoyed. Mimzy could care less: It’s all acting after all. He oughta get with the programme. She lifts the scarf from the girl’s arms and puts it in his big hands. “Put this in the car” she tells him.

As Marcelo trudges off, the girl asks, “Would you like to sample some perfumes, my lady?”

“Oh, no, I’m just talking to Alastor here.”

“I’d like to sample some perfumes” says Alastor pointedly.

Mimzy adds, “Did you know he’s the Voice of New Orleans?” Having media connections probably make the whole act more convincing, she figures.

The girl looks suitably impressed by Alastor but still looks to Mimzy for permission as she says, “I could go get someone who knows about the perfumes.”

“You do that, darling” says Mimzy.

As the girl scuttles off, Alastor murmurs, “I have to admit, it does seem to work.”

“I told ya: People will give you anything when you’re the foreign royal broad staying at the St Charles.”

“…You’re the minor royal at the St Charles? There’s even been a piece about that on the show! This is hardly keeping a low profile, dear.”

“Oh don’t worry. No one’s gonna suspect a countess of anything shady.” A thought crosses Mimzy’s mind and she adds, “You could interview me if ya like. On the radio.”

Alastor’s smile turns sardonic as he exaggerates his transatlantic accent and says, “Welcome to the show, Mimzy! Pray tell how you came by your recent wealth?”

“No, not like that! I mean interview the Countess!”

“And then look like a fool when she  turns out to be a fraud and disappears? Absolutely not.”

“Ah, c’mon! I already had to turn away a newspaper man the other day ’cause ya know he’d have wanted a photograph. Had to get John over there to throw him out the hotel lobby.” John who isn’t taking her new hat to the car, she realises, just standing there with the box in his hands. Marcello, too, isn’t taking her present away: He has the scarf draped over his arm. What gives? Mimzy inwardly rolls her eyes at the incompetent idiots and turns back to Alastor, adding, “But it’d be different on your show. No one would be able to see me.”

“I’ve said no, cher.” Alastor speaks lightly but there’s an edge to his voice now. Mimzy bristles at the tone. Here she is with a plan that could actually double the takings from the bank job. It’s genius! But all Alastor cares about is his little radio show! And it’s not like anyone will blame him when the Countess doesn’t pay her bills. Alastor’s audience would let him get away with murder – okay, bad example – and being interviewed on the airwaves will send even more suckers her way. “Seriously, Alastor, all your listeners will want to shower me with gifts so they can say they hung out with a royal!”

“They won’t be able to say it for long, though, will they?”

Mimzy folds her arms but takes a breath and forces herself to be the bigger person. “Fine” she grinds out, “Your loss.”

“I’m sure I’ll live” says Alastor. They stand in silence for a moment. Mimzy thinks about just leaving. She is a countess for the time being after all. Sure, she can know a lowly radio host but it’s not like anyone will expect her to actually socialise with him. But Alastor’s such a pal when he ain't being a stubborn bastard that she manages to be forgiving. She stays and changes the topic by asking, “Anyway, what’s with the perfume? You finally found yourself a sweetheart?”

Alastor gives her a disapproving look. “No. I’m buying a birthday present for the wife of the station’s executive producer.”

“Wait, he makes you do that? Why doesn’t he just ask his secretary?”

“He did but Lottie has her actual job to do and it’s my day off so I said I’d step in.”

Mimzy feels a little pang of pity despite herself. “Aw, sweetie, ya mustn’t let people take advantage like that.”

“It’s no trouble.”

A man from the store hurries over then, full of apologies for not being there all along. Alastor is all smiles and cold reassurances. He loves it when people grovel. When the man starts reciting the speel for the various perfumes, Mimzy sends the girl off again to gather a selection of evening gowns for her inspection. She’ll pretend to not be able to chose between the most expensive looking two and get them both on credit. While the girl hurries off, Mimzy turns back to the perfume demonstration, happy to sample the different fragrances and give her verdict. She snatches the first bottle offered, then tries to reign herself in and be dainty as she dabs and sprays. Easy to forget the act with Alastor around. “Get her the Channel No.5” she advises.

“She’d probably want something more traditional” says Alastor.

“Trust me, sweetie, Channel No.5 will make her feel young and fun.”

“Mrs Poole is a lady of traditional tastes, Mim…my lady…Channel No.5 will make her feel like she’s imitating the demimonde.” Alastor considers the bottles lined up along the counter. “Maybe perfume was a bad idea.”

The man behind the counter asks, “Perhaps you’d like to see the jewellery instead?”

“Yes” says Mimzy, “Get her some pearls. Or a diamond.”

“I’m not sure Mr Poole’s budget quite stretches to a diamond, dear.”

“Oh, put it on my account.” When Alastor turns to look at her dubiously Mimzy adds, “Really, it’s my treat.”

The man from the store adds, “And perhaps you’d like a bottle of the Channel No.5 yourself, my lady?”

“Aw, you’re too kind.” Mimzy already has two, one back in her little apartment and one in the fancy hotel room stacked with goodies bought on the Countess’s credit. But three won’t hurt right?

“Not at all” smiles the man, “And perhaps if your friends inquire where you purchased your fragrance, you’d be so good as to mention us.”

“Of course! I’m going to tell all my friends to shop here.” Well, shoplift, maybe. The security here is a joke.

The man leads them over to the jewellery section, where beautiful things sit in glass cabinets. Alastor considers pendants and broaches before settling for a simple gemstone bracelet. Mimzy asks him, “That’s it?”

“It will go perfectly with the dress she was wearing when I saw her last.”

“Come on, splash out! Like I said, it’s my treat.”

“Thank you, but Lottie gave me quite enough for one birthday present.”

Mimzy figures he’s worried about the present being confiscated when the countess disappears. Which, okay, maybe it might be, but that ain't Alastor’s problem and him refusing her regal generosity like this is showing her up. “Suit yourself” she mutters as the man from the store hurries to put the bracelet in a little box. While his back is turned and the cabinet is open, she pockets a ring. Probably not her size, but it’ll be worth a bit and anything bigger would be too obvious.

Marcello must be getting bored, because he wanders over to one of the big windows and stares out into the street, trailing her shawl after him. It don’t look professional and Mimzy wants to tell him to quit it, but she also don’t want to draw attention to it. If anyone asks, she’ll tell ’em he’s watching for threats in the street or some shit.

Alastor pays for the bracelet like the dweeb he is and turns back to her. “Well, dear, that’s my shopping done for the day.”

“Well ya know, if you’d think again about that interview, I could give ya a ride.”

Alastor’s smile tightens. “I have no aversion to taking the tram with the rest of the mere mortals” he tells her, “Good luck with your own…shopping.” He smirks as Mimzy glares. Why’d he have to say it like that?

As Alastor leaves, Mimzy beckons Marcello over with an imperious gesture. “I thought I told you to take the shawl to the car?”

“Car’s been moved” he tells her.

“What? Why?”

He shrugs his broad shoulders and tells her, “Mack will bring it round when we’re done.”

It’s a while before they are done. Mimzy walks out the store with three dresses, a hat, several shawls and scarfs besides the free one, a necklace and the ring she helped herself to. That plus the stuff she got at other stores today and all this week works out as a fortune in fashion.

She’ll keep some of course. The rest she’ll sell on once everyone’s forgotten about that fake countess. And the stores will be able to claim insurance anyway. Probably. And anyone who gives a gal a loan just ’cause she’s royalty were bound to get swindled by someone eventually so really, it’s a victimless crime. Which means Al’s got no right to look all disapproving like he’s so much better. None of his crimes are victimless! Next to him, she’s like a choir girl or something.

When he sees how well her project goes, he’ll wish he’d interviewed her. It’d be recording history or something.

Mack does bring the Rolls Royce round to the storefront, and Mimzy climbs in and slumps in the seat. Shopping is hard work.

John and Marcello both get in the back which shows they can’t even get sitting in a car right: One of them is supposed to be up front with the driver. Still, it’d look worse to make one of them get out so Mimzy ignores it. “We pulled it off again” she tells them, “Another day, another dollar. Now let’s get outta here.”

“Back to the hotel?” asks Mack.

“Well where do ya think I’m planning on sleepin’? Yes, back to the hotel!” Only a few more weeks there, Mimzy thinks. A month, tops. After that she’ll have to carry her own shopping again. She’s going to enjoy the high life while it lasts, make a big show of getting the three fellas to carry today’s haul up to her room. When the people in the lobby see that, they fall over themselves to buy her drinks.

Mimzy glances over her shoulder at the boxes and bags in the trunk. Today’s haul looks even bigger than you’d think, considering they only hit up the four stores since this morning. She must have outdone herself.

As the car pulls out, John pulls a hip flask from an inner pocket. “Thought we could celebrate” he says.

“You had that in the store?” snaps Mimzy, “Ya could have blown the whole thing!”

John rolls his eyes and hands her the flask. “Just have some and quit ya nagging.”

Mimzy accepts the flask and takes a swig despite herself, but scowls at the rough taste. She’s been a countess long enough to have expensive tastes by now. She hands the flask back. “Here ya go, you’re welcome to it.”

Maybe the fellas have had a taste of the high life these last few weeks too because Marcello shakes his head when John offers him the flask. John puts it away. Good: If they get stopped it could ruin everything.

Mimzy sits back, suddenly more tired than regular shopping tired. Suddenly she’s can’t keep her eyes open tired. She lets them close, letting the beautifully smooth engine lull her. It’s a shame she can’t keep the car but it’s too conspicuous. Luckily, Marcello knows a guy who’ll pay cash for it, no questions asked. Split four ways it’s still a fortune.

Really, four ways is generous. Mimzy came up with the whole thing after all. And she’s done most of the acting: She oughta get a bigger share. Maybe she’ll negotiate that, with the help of the little handgun she keeps in her bag.

Opening her eyes, she glances out the window and frowns. “What we doing here? You’re taking us the wrong way, Mack, ya stupid dope!”

“Road back there was closed” he tells her.

“Huh” Mimzy sighs and sits back again. “Hurry up and find a new route, then. I need a drink after today. And not your gut rot, John, the real McCoy. Ya wouldn’t think all this standing around picking out nice things would be so tiring.”

The streets outside the window get less familiar. Mimzy scowls at how long the journey is taking and closes her eyes again.

When she opens them, the streets are still unfamiliar. But much less central. Her head is fuzzy, like she’s been sleeping way longer than she should have had time for. It spins when she sits up, her brain taking too long to flicker to full alertness. “Where are we going?”

“Diversion” says Mack, “I told ya.”

“A diversion all the way out here?” Mimzy demands. When no one answers, she says, “Okay, pull over.”

No one replies. Mack speeds up a little.

Suddenly scared, Mimzy reaches into her bag…

…and finds no gun. “What the fuck?”

“Looking for this?” John holds it up. Beside him, Marcello takes out one of his own.

“What the fuck is this?” Mimzy glares at them, trying to project rage when what she feels is like her insides are turning to jelly.

Marcello mutters, “I thought she was supposed to stay asleep?”

John replies, “Bitch must be tougher than she looks.”

“That or you got the dosage wrong.”

“Hey!” Mimzy yells, “I said, what the hell is going on! And you’re damn right, I’m tough! Wanna try me?”

John turns to her with a nasty smile. “Did you really think we were going to let you treat us like scum and take whatever scraps you left us?” he asks.

“Oh for fuck’s sake! Not like scum! Like servants! It’s an act remember?”

“Yeah” chuckles Marcello, without humour, “And you played your part real well.”

“Hey, I carried the whole performance! And the whole thing was my idea! So how about you put that gun away and get us back to the hotel? You think security there will let you in the room without me?”

“We already cleared the room out” says Mack, “Where’d you think I fucked off to with the car?”

Mimzy glances again at the overfull trunk. “Oh. Oh, well, then, let’s split it all now. I’ll even let ya keep the car, how’s that?”

Another chuckle, from John this time. “You ain't in a position to negotiate, bitch.”

Just then, Mack pulls the car into a courtyard in front of a couple of warehouses. Mimzy takes it all in in a second: The lack of witnesses, the ample storage space for whatever’s left of her when they’re done. Give the bastards their due: They were right about negotiating being a waste of time. As the car slows, Mimzy thumps her hand down between Marcello’s legs as hard as she can, provoking a squeal, then opens the door and throws herself out.

There is a violent screech of tyres as she lands hard on her knees. Scrambling up, she flees for the shelter of the buildings. She’s in heels and it’s all she can do not to stumble, especially when a bullet passes her head close enough to ruffle her hair. Flinging herself into a walkway between two buildings, she hurries behind the warehouse and crouches behind some trashcans to pull off her shoes so hurriedly one scrapes a cut in the skin of her foot. She abandons one, and grips the other as a weapon, not that it’ll do her much good. Gun verses shoe ain't a fight she likes the odds of.

Breaking away from the warehouse, she bolts for a gateway that leads to a street. She keeps running, barefoot, til she can’t anymore.

No one seems to be chasing her. Maybe they won’t bother? It’s not like she can report them to the police after all, at least not without some explaining of her own to do.

Or maybe they’re just bringing the car round to the street instead of chasing her on foot? At that thought, Mimzy yelps and runs again, hammering on doors. Someone has to let her in. Lady in distress here!

Finally she reaches a building that looks like it’s open to the public and throws herself inside.

A little restaurant. Too public: The windows are big with clear views of the street. Which means anyone out in the street can see in.

Everyone in there is staring at her like she just fell from the sky. Mimzy gives a little wave. “Hi folks. Sorry about the interruption.”

Someone says something in a language she don’t recognise, then someone else chimes in with more of the same. There are some nods, some murmurs. Seems like none of these folks speak a word of English, not the staff or the customers. Mimzy can only hope they’re not discussing throwing her out. Even if they ain't, none of them seem like they’d be much use if Mack, Marcello and John walk in Mimzy glances behind her, dreading the sight of a Rolls Royce creeping by. Maybe the guys won’t dare given how much the car stands out? Or maybe they’ll assume she’ll go back to the hotel and head there?

Someone shouts into the kitchen and a woman emerges, then hurries over, greeting Mimzy with what sounds like a question. Somehow, the first thing to come to Mimzy’s mind is to mime menstrual pains. It helps that she’s still outta breath and not wearing any shoes. She’s gotta look a right mess.

Maybe she should have gone with miming a mugging or a domestic but hey, she didn’t get much planning time here. Either way, it works: The woman quickly escorts her into a little storeroom-come-breakroom and shoos away the men. Then she leaves, probably thinking Mimzy has stuff to sort out that no one should see. Mimzy sits down in a little wooden chair and takes a moment to get her breath back. She could use a smoke but her cigarettes were in her handbag and she did not prioritise keeping hold of that when she jumped out the car.

Which means no money. Not just no wads of banknotes loaned to the countess or liberated from the bank; no petty change. No money to pay for a cab or even a tram. Not that waiting around for a tram would be a smart move when three guys might be cruising around in a car looking to kill her.

The woman comes back to give her strong, sweet coffee and a good talking to that Mimzy doesn’t understand at all. She drinks the coffee slowly, trying to up the chances that she’s lost Mack, Marcello and John for now. When the woman comes back a second time, Mimzy mimes using a phone.

Turns out they ain't got one. The woman at the counter finds a burly man to escort her, presumably to the nearest one. Good: If Mack, Marcello and John and hanging around looking for her, maybe this guy will put them off.

Or they’ll shoot him. Mimzy glances around nervously all the way to what turns out to be a little store, several streets away.

This place has someone who speaks English and Mimzy goes with the mugging story this time. It’s not even a lie when ya think about it. She was robbed in broad daylight after all. What’s the world coming to?

They let her use the phone, and she gives the operator a familiar number. “Hey, Alastor?” she says when he answers, “I got three more for your list. Um, also how do ya feel about coming to pick me up in that reliable Model T of yours?”

Chapter Text

“Alastor? Hey, Al, open up!” Mimzy resorts to hammering on the door. Alastor should be home by now. She waited til he finished his prime time slot, even listened to some of his show in a back room of the club. Honestly, it weren’t up to his usual standard, not that she’d ever tell him that. Nothing specific, he just didn’t have his usual energy. Usually listening to Alastor on air is like being in a private room at a raving party with a real fun person who somehow makes you feel interesting and liked just by talking to you, and his captivating chatter is only broken up by the very best music, that he helps you appreciate in new ways. Today it was just like listening to a good radio show.

She left before he signed off to come meet him here. Not that he knew that. She’d thought about calling the station but she didn’t know how he’d react to that and she needs him to not be mad at her right now. And she figured he had to come home after work, even if just to freshen up before going out again. Alastor’s show has made him pretty nocturnal over the years. After his show, he goes to the theatre or a dance hall, and then on to a juice joint. What if he’s gone already and she’s missed him? Mimzy hammers again. “Alastor!”

Should she try the door? Ya never know, after all. Mimzy reaches for the doorknob but before she can touch it, the door finally opens. She greets Alastor with, “Took ya long enough!” Then she stares: Alastor is wearing pyjamas. Mimzy ain't never seen that before. Even the handful of times they’ve shared a bed drunk, he always pretty much just passes out in his clothes and in the morning he replaces them with fresher clothes.

But here he is, in a stripey pyjama set with his curls all tousled. What the fuck? For a wild moment, Mimzy thinks it must have finally happened: He’s got a woman in there! But then she notices how tired he looks, and how just the way he’s standing speaks of pain.

Fucking great: Just when she needs him, he’s sick! And Alastor never gets sick, not badly. Just the odd cold and he always ignores them and carries right on. Trust Mimzy’s luck that he finally goes down now. But she’s got nowhere else to go so she slips past him and into the apartment, explaining, “I’m pretty sure that bastard Dennis Magee took out a hit on me. Like I’d have ratted him out! What was I gonna tell the cops, he’s rum running and I happen to know cause I saw him while I was at it too? I wish we had police like that! Course, it could be he’s afraid of a little competition. Business is booming and you can bet he’s losing customers to me. Especially now we’re working the same part of town. But so what? It’s not like it’s my fault he’s selling a lousy product and doesn’t have enough cronies to remind folk where his turf starts. And you can bet he’s embarrassed to lose out to the likes of me so he’s just making out I’m a rat instead. Course, I mighta told another fella where to find him but the fella weren’t a cop so it’s fair game. So I need you to find out who the hitman is and get him before he gets me. And be a pal and let me stay here til it’s done, okay, sweetie?”

Alastor stares at her blankly like he’s trying to work out what she just said. Finally he replies, “Stay here. Yes, of course.” He stumbles into the living room and sinks onto the couch, leaving her to follow.

“So what’s up with you?” she asks, sitting down beside him, “Are ya sick?”

“No.”

“Ya look sick.”

Alastor seems about to give her another half hearted denial, but then his energy seems to drain. He wraps his arms around his middle. “I threw up at work.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Mimzy moves to pat his arm consolingly, then realises it might be something catching and shifts away instead. “On air?” She didn’t hear it but she didn’t catch the whole show.

Alastor makes a vague gesture. “A record was playing and I turned off my microphone. I don’t think my listeners could tell.”

“Are you hungover?” Mimzy hopes he is. That way, it ain't catching.

“Mr Poole thought so! But then Lottie pointed out that I looked peaky, as she put it, and he listened to her. I’ll have to find a way to thank her.”

“If you do, Al, she might get the wrong impression. That girl’s got a crush on you a mile wide.”

Apparently this is news to Alastor. Figures: Everyone else knew months ago so it’s about time he caught on. He says, “I’ll have to find a subtle way to thank her.”

“You do that.” Mimzy studies him critically. He does look peaky. Not just tired and dishevelled but tense in a way that suggests real nasty pain. She asks, “Could it be a hangover? I mean, a really bad one?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t drink any more than usual last night.”

A bad batch of moonshine, maybe? Mimzy don’t like the idea. She’d actually prefer it was something catching than something that dangerous. Stupid but there ya go: She’s too caring for her own good.

She puts a hand to Alastor’s head. Alastor jerks back, then flinches at the movement. “Mimzy, do you mind?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know you’re the ice queen and all but I got to check your temperature.” He does feel warm, but she doesn’t think it’s a dangerous fever or anything. Then again, she ain't really sure what too warm feels like.

He’ll be completely useless if Magee’s assassin finds her. Mimzy considers leaving him to it and finding somewhere else to hide.

Or maybe not. Even if Alastor himself is useless, his apartment is still a good place to lie low, especially since Magee barely knows about Al. He won’t think to send anyone here.

And anyway, where else can she go? She’s already spent all day in the club while Alastor was at work, on the principle of safety in numbers. She even helped with the singers’ make up when that bitch Sanchez hinted she might as well be useful “while you’re hiding from whatever you’ve got yourself into now.” Like this is Mimzy’s fault! All she did was make a little money on the side! It’s not like the club is falling over itself to give her a raise!

But she couldn’t stay at the club forever. It started to feel less safe as the evening crowd arrived. She’d stuck close to Evans, the scarred Somme veteran Sanchez has in to do the cleaning and odd jobs. One look at his face and even most mobsters would run a mile.

But maybe not a hitman. And anyway, he was on to her, telling her to go bother someone else if she’d got herself into bad shit again and trying to give her the slip by deciding now was the time to clean the men’s room. Honestly, whatever happened to helping a lady in distress?

So here she is, with the last gentleman standing. Well, sitting. Mimzy watches Alastor, still gripping his middle and holding himself very still. “Is ya stomach hurting?” she asks.

“No” says Alastor.

“Don’t lie to me, Alastor.”

Alastor scowls, then mutters, “Fine, I have a stomach ache. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Mimzy pats him consolingly on the shoulder. “Poor kitten” she says. She watches him a little longer, expecting him to snap out of it enough to offer her some refreshments. When he doesn’t, she asks, “So…Ya got any booze?”

Alastor gestures to a cabinet, then flinches. “Help yourself.”

What she has to serve herself? Alastor is usually a way better host than this. But he’s sick, and he still let her in, so Mimzy lets it go. She heads for the cabinet, asking him, “So how long have you felt bad?”

“A day, maybe. Two. It will run its course soon.”

There’s an impressive selection in the cabinet, and none of it bathtub gin. Only fancy foreign spirits for the Voice of New Orleans. Mimzy helps herself to a generous measure of whiskey, taking a deep drink before topping up. “Has it been this bad the whole time? And ya still went in to work like a sucker?”

“They could hardly do without me, Mimzy. And besides, it hasn’t always been this bad.” Quieter, Alastor admits, “It’s gotten worse.”

Mimzy gestures to the whiskey. “You want any?”

“No thank you.”

“Ya sure? It could be a good painkiller.”

Alastor seems to consider this. “Alright then” he concludes.

Mimzy pours him a couple of fingers and brings it over. Great, so now she’s nursing him! She came to him for help, not the other way around!

Alastor sips at the whiskey with no sign of enjoyment. Mimzy sits back down beside him. Maybe if the painkiller idea actually works, he’ll pull himself together enough to cook. That’s one of the best things about staying at Al’s place: The food is always incredible. If things hadn’t panned out with radio, he could’ve made a name for himself as a chef.

He doesn’t offer tonight, though. Far from perking up, he sets the empty glass aside looking ashen and exhausted. Mimzy takes pity on him and says, “I can make dinner if ya like.”

Alastor shudders and shakes his head.

“If ya don’t eat, ya won’t get better.”

“I’ll eat tomorrow.” Alastor eases himself back carefully and closes his eyes.

Mimzy stands up. “Well can I cook for myself at least? I ain't eaten all day.” The club is not renowned for its menu. Actually, it doesn’t have one, just a basic selection of bar snacks.

“Of course, dear.” Alastor opens his eyes to watch her remorsefully. “I’m sorry. I’m being a terrible host.”

“Oh, that’s okay, you can make it up to me when you’re feeling better. Take me out to a nice restaurant or something.” Maybe he shouldn’t cook for her anyway, in case it is something catching. Or in case it makes him hurl. The more Mimzy looks at him, the more she thinks things are headed that way.

It also doesn’t seem very likely that he even remembers why she’s here. Sick people can get real self absorbed. She reminds him, “Course, if ya are going to take me out when you’re better, you’re going to need to deal with that hitman for me.”

Alastor eases an arm from around his middle to raise a hand and pinch the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to cope with her drama. Like she wanted the drama! Is everyone just gonna blame her for this, even him? It’s not like she asked that bastard Magee to try and kill her! All she did was try to earn an honest dime. On his turf. But it’s not like his name was on it! Well, unless ya count all the graffiti. And so what if she’s been taking a few of his customers? His piss tasting booze ain't worth half of what he asks for it. Really she’s just providing folk with a quality alternative.

“Hitman” Alastor mumbles, “Yes, of course there’s a hitman.”

“Hey! It’s not like I hired him!” Mimzy frowns. “But when ya think about it, wouldn’t that be a good idea?”

“Hiring a killer to take out the competition? I’m hurt, dear: I thought that was my job.”

Mimzy rolls her eyes at that, because Al is awful contractor, even as hitmen go. Sure, he does the job for free but sometimes he just straight up refuses cause the target don’t reach his high standards. Or low standards, whatever. They’ve gotta be enough of a scumbag is the thing. Regular mobsters go right to the bottom of the list so he can focus on the wife beaters and rapists. And it ain't no good trying to trick him: Mimzy’s thought about it and dismissed the idea. For one, she knows Alastor does his homework, and for another, she ain't sure how he’d react to being lied to. They’ve always been honest with each other.

Besides, she ain't a saint or nothing but there are still some lies she wouldn’t tell.

Anyway, right now, he’d be a terrible assassin. Just as soon as he finds the energy for conversation, it seems to drain away again and he leans back, resuming his grip on his abdomen.

Mimzy decides not to tell him that that’s not what she meant anyway, about hiring a hitman. She was thinking more along the lines of how much a paper would pay for her story if she survived an attempt on her life in a public place with plenty of witnesses. Right now, Alastor don’t look like he’d follow a subtle plan like that.

Course, she’d have to pay the hitman. Pay him to miss, even, and wouldn’t they charge more for that? Alastor sure would, if he took money for his hobby. No blood means no fun in his sick head.

Sick stomach too, now. Watching him shift like he can’t get comfortable, Mimzy takes pity on him and says, “Just go to bed already, Al. I’ll take the couch.” No way is she sharing a bed with him when he’s like this. Even if it ain't catching, he looks about five minutes away from puking.

It shows how bad it is that he doesn’t even put up a token fight about how she should take the bed, being a lady and his guest and all. He just nods and goes to his room.

Five minutes turns out to be optimistic. He’s barely in there for two before he’s back out and making a wobbly beeline for the bathroom. Mimzy winces at the sound of him wasting perfectly good whiskey.

Reluctantly, she gets him another drink, just water this time. She tries the bathroom door but he managed to lock it. She knocks. “Sweetie, are ya going to let me in?”

“No.”

“That was rhetorical, Alastor! Open up!”

From the other side of the door, she can hear him vomiting again. She shudders in disgust and tries to tune out the sound, then knocks again when it passes. “Seriously, Alastor, open the door. You don’t want to pass out behind it.” Saying it out loud makes Mimzy realise that’s an actual risk here. He really didn’t look good when he went in.

Alastor doesn’t respond and Mimzy thinks shit, it actually happened. What’s she supposed to do now? She knocks again. “Alastor?”

She relaxes a little when she hears a tap running. Then Alastor opens the door at last. He takes the glass she holds out and moves gingerly past her, sitting back down on the couch. He sips the water, then sets it aside in favour of hugging his middle. Mimzy sits down next to him and puts her hand to his head again. This time he doesn’t pull away. He just lets her feel his forehead and, when she decides he’s about the same temperature as when she got here, stroke his hair. Usually she only gets to do this when they’re both completely blotto. Sober, she notices just how soft it is, and how each curl is so defined. It’s a shame he’s such a bluenose: He’s a looker in his way. Not her type and the hobby is real off putting, but if he’d get over himself and quit being so picky, she could set him up with someone who don’t know any better.

And then he’d be following her around all the time instead of looking out for Mimzy. No, that wouldn’t work: Maybe Al’s prudishness is a good thing after all.

“Mimzy?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“What are you doing?” Alastor looks a little more alert – he’d been in a kind of daze there for a moment – but he’s still gripping his middle like he thinks his guts will fall out if he lets go.

“Hey” Mimzy replies, “If ya don’t like it, move. Shouldn’t you be going back to bed anyway?”

Alastor shakes his head, looking…huh, looking self conscious. Mimzy’s never seen that before. Embarrassed by other people’s lewd remarks, sure, mostly hers. But embarrassed on his own account? That’s new. She asks, “What is it?”

Alastor blushes. “I think I need to stay nearer the bathroom. Just in case.”

Mimzy feels a little stab of guilt: Alastor’s a private guy and here she is bursting in on him when he’s obviously feeling lousy and would probably prefer to be alone. But what choice does she have? So she just pats his shoulder and tells him, “Drink the water, sweetie.”

He reaches for it obediently. She gets up and heads for the kitchen to start on dinner for herself. And maybe for him. What if this passes and he gets hungry? Should she make him some just in case?

Then she hears Al get up and go back to the bathroom, and thinks, maybe not. She leaves him to it – there’s no point them both suffering – and focuses on searching through his cupboards. He really must have been feeling bad before his show because he hasn’t bought anything fresh today. No meat or fish, just a few eggs and some bread in the little pantry, and the jars of ingredients and bunches of herbs all preserved in the various ways his mama taught him. Alastor can afford to buy what he needs every day but old habits are hard to break, Mimzy figures. He still pickles, salts and dries like he’s preparing for lean times. Good thing for her, or she’d be going to bed hungry. Or going to couch hungry. It really is too bad Al’s too sick to share.

She toasts the bread, sets a place for herself at the table and gets started on scrambling the eggs.

Should she worry that Alastor’s still in the bathroom? Probably. She goes over and knocks on the door. “Alastor, you alive in there?”

“Yes” he calls back, in a tone that implies he wishes he wasn’t.

She can’t hear any vomiting at least. Maybe he’s just locked himself for privacy? Alastor is even weird, even for a man, about appearing even a little bit weak. Ya gotta wonder if he’d take that to the extreme when he’s sick and actually hide from her behind a locked door like a cornered animal. Which is the last thing she needs from a guy she came to for protection. Mimzy asks, “Ya going to let me in?”

“I’d rather not. As shows go this isn’t particularly entertaining.”

He sounds fine. Well, okay, not fine, but not about to die or anything. But what if he passes out? “You wanna come outta there? I could just put a bucket by the bed.” And okay, maybe she should have thought of that sooner but it’s not like she didn’t arrive a little distracted by problems of her own.

“I’m fine here” Alastor replies.

That’s a relief. Someone would have to empty a bucket and it wouldn’t be her. And if it was Al, he might as well stay there and save the energy. “Could ya unlock the door at least?” Mimzy waits, but doesn’t hear the lock slide. “Alastor?”

“It’s fine locked.”

Whatever, Mimzy decides. If he passes out, it’s not like he won’t come round again. Right?

But what if he hits his head? Or chokes on his vomit or something? “Al, I need ya to unlock that door.” She tries to sound stern, but adds, “I won’t come in. It’s gross anyway, no offence.” Still nothing. “Al?”

Finally the lock slides open behind the still closed door. Mimzy relaxes a fraction. “Thanks, hon” she calls, resisting the temptation to look inside just for the sake of being nosey. “Ya need anything?”

“A new stomach.”

Mimzy rolls her eyes. “How about some water?”

“It won’t stay down.”

Talk about melodramatic! Mimzy decides if he’s still in there when she’s done cooking she’ll make him the door and force him to drink something.

Oh, shit, her cooking! Mimzy hurries back to the kitchen, where her eggs are starting to stick to the pan. She scrapes them on to the toast, then adds an assortment of side dishes from the pantry.

Once she’s done eating, she dumps the plate, cutlery and frying pan in the sink and runs the tap a little, deciding not to full on wash up. It’s not like Alastor will mind doing it when he’s better. That way, he still gets to do some hosting.

“Mimzy?” Alastor is stood in the doorway, looking about a hundred times worse than he did when he went into the bathroom.

“Shit” mutters Mimzy, “You should sit down, kitten. Ya look like you’re ready to drop.”

He nods, then sits not on the couch or at the kitchen table or anywhere sensible like that, but on the floor in the doorway with his back against the frame. Mimzy stares. “For fuck’s sake, Alastor! Not there!”

“Sorry” he mumbles, “I’m just feeling a bit indisposed.” He stays sat on the floor, holding himself like he’s been shot.

Which actually ain't impossible. Mimzy feels a shiver of real concern and crouches down beside him. “Hey, Al? Ya didn’t go and get yourself hurt by someone on that list of yours did ya?”

Alastor shakes his head. “No. I’m actually just ill. It’s pathetic.”

“Well ya might feel less pathetic if ya got off the floor.”

“In a moment. I just…fuck.” Alastor curls tighter around himself.

“Okay” Mimzy decides, “This ain't normal. What’s going on?” When Alastor doesn’t reply, Mimzy asks, “Should I call a doctor?”

Alastor straightens up a little where he’s sat, putting his head back against the doorframe. “No. It will pass eventually.”

“Can it pass somewhere that ain't the doorway?”

Alastor moves like he’s about to stand up, then sags again. Like he actually can’t stand up, even though he tries to pass it off as completely his own choice to sit back, telling her, “It’s comfortable down here.”

“Bullshit” Mimzy tells him. She watches him shift against the doorframe, but it ain't clear this time if he’s trying to stand up or trying to find a position that hurts less. Cause there is real pain there: She can read it in his face.

If he hasn’t been shot, what the hell is this? “Has this ever happened before?”

“No. And trust me, I’d remember this.”

“Does anywhere hurt apart from your stomach?” Getting no reply, Mimzy adds, “Come on, Al: I can’t help if ya don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“Well ya obviously need it!” And he kind of did ask, Mimzy decides, by dumping himself on the floor at her feet like a dying cat. For all his famous communication skills, Alastor is useless at just saying what he needs. “Come on, spill: What’s the problem?”

“The problem is I’m not some pathetic wretch who needs to be taken care of like a child!”

“I meant, what are your symptoms or whatever?”

“I refer you to my previous statement.”

Mimzy’s had enough of this. He wants to suffer alone? Fine, let him! And maybe if she backs off he’ll actually talk to her. Reverse psychology or whatever. She stands up. “Well then, get out the way of the door then and let me past!” she tells him, kicking him lightly to emphasise her point.

Alastor howls in pain when her foot makes contact. Mimzy drops to her knees. “Shit, shit, shit! Alastor? Kitten? Shit, what did I do?”

“…not you” Alastor pants at last, “You didn’t mean to.”

Mimzy calms a little: He ain't broken. Just really sick, it turns out. This ain't no small thing. “I’ll be right back” she tells him and steps over him and into the rest of the apartment before he can ask what she’s doing.

Luckily, she knows a good doctor. Well, she knows a doctor who’s generous with prescriptions for whiskey, at least, and lets her organise some fellas to pretend to hijack the trucks it’s delivered in now and then in return for a cut. She isn’t sure what he’s like with actual medicine but Alastor needs help and she has to call someone. “Dr Reeves?” she says, when the operator puts her through, “It’s Mimzy. Listen, I got a problem…”

Dr Reeves asks her a load of questions she don’t know the answer to and don’t want to, but she manages to make it clear just how unusual it is for Alastor to be making a fuss like this. He’s happy enough to do a call out. Or, well, happy might be putting it strongly: It is nearly eleven p.m. by now after all. But he agrees to come to the apartment is the important thing, because getting Alastor across town to a doctor’s office ain't happening. Just getting him to the couch is bad enough. He flinches and shakes all the way there, letting her take more and more of his weight so he can focus on clutching his middle. He might say he hasn’t been shot but he’s looking that bad that Mimzy still peels his arm back to see for herself once he’s finally sat down. Alastor whimpers at the movement. Mimzy reassures herself that there’s no blood and puts his arm back. Alastor whimpering ain't something she ever wants to hear again. “It’s okay, sweetie. There’s help on the way.”

Alastor wakes up a little at that. “What?”

“I called a doctor.”

“Mimzy! I specifically asked you not to do that!”

“Yeah, yeah, have it out with me when you can walk on your own!”

“I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself! I don’t need you deciding for me if any assistance is required!”

“Looking after yourself? I practically carried you to the couch! Anyway, what’s the big deal? You’re sick, so see a doctor! It’s not like ya can’t afford it!” In case he has some money trouble he ain't told her about, Mimzy adds, “And if ya can’t afford it, I’ve got dirt on the guy. He’ll do it on discount.” Of course, her dirt also implicates her, but really, what are the chances she’ll have to blackmail the doctor? Alastor can pay, he’s just being melodramatic about the whole thing. And he has the nerve to act like she’s the one who brought the drama here! “Anyway” she adds, “Ya need help. This obviously ain't something that will go away on its own.”

“I should be able to pull myself together” mutters Alastor. He keeps up his death grip on his stomach.

“What if it’s something serious?” Which it obviously is, but Mimzy don’t want to worry him. Or maybe she does. She’s worried, after all! Why not share it? After all, he’s the one putting her through this! “Think about it, Alastor, what if it’s typhoid or something?” Then that sinks in and she adds, “Shit, what if it’s typhoid?” She takes a sharp step back.

Alastor rolls his eyes. “It’s not typhoid, Mimzy.”

“Well how do you know? Are you a doctor now?”

“No, but I don’t need one. I’m sure this is just a bad stomach flu.”

“Sure enough to bet your life?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, cher.”

“Oh you do not get to call me ridiculous when you’re acting like seeing a doctor’s the end of the world! What’s your problem?”

“The problem is you bursting in when I’m not at my best pursued by a hired assassin!” Alastor looks angry for a moment, but it quickly fades, and he just looks wrung out.

“I weren’t pursued, that’s the whole point of coming here! And it’s a good thing I did ’cause you’d obviously rather die than get help!”

“That’s not true.”

“Why not just see a damn doctor?”

Alastor mutters something. Mimzy comes closer, risking infection to ask, “What was that?”

Reluctantly, Alastor repeats, “I don’t like being at anybody’s mercy.” His voice drops a little as he adds, “Especially a man’s.”

Mimzy shrugs. “Well you’re just gonna have to put up with it. It’s not like ya gave me enough warning to track down a lady doctor here.”

Alastor smiles bitterly. “So sorry if my medical emergency wasn’t properly planned.”

“So you admit it’s an emergency?”

Alastor’s smile vanishes. He hunches over himself protectively and says, “Just because it’s bad doesn’t mean it won’t resolve on its own.”

“Sure it will: By killing ya. And what’ll happen to me then? You think the hitman will back off cause I’m grieving? Ya think I can ask Magee to wait?”

“I’m not going to die, Mimzy. I just…I’d rather wait. It might turn out to be nothing.”

“You’re just saying that cause you’re scared.” Mimzy expects this to provoke him into cooperating just to prove her wrong, but there is a flash of fear on his face before he puts on a smile and replies, “Now, Mimzy, of the two of us, who’s panicked and called for unnecessary medical help?”

“Unnecessary my sweet ass” Mimzy mutters.

They both shut up for a while then. Mimzy pours herself another drink while Alastor huddles miserably on the couch.

“Is it going away on its own yet?” she deadpans.

Alastor glares, then looks away, but not before she sees the fear. She sighs and adds, “Look, I’ll be here. If you’re worried about the doctor being a creep, don’t be: I know the guy.”

“Coming from someone who knows half the mobsters in the city, I don’t find that particularly reassuring.”

“Hey! I know some great people! Okay, and some real assholes, but I can always tell the difference, you know I can. Worst Dr Reeves will do is overcharge ya. He don’t have it in him to hurt ya for fun or, or get off on you being at his mercy or whatever the fuck it is you’re worried about.”

“He’s a man, Mimzy. He has it in him.”

“Some men are alright. Take you for instance.”

“I kill people.”

“Okay, bad example. What I’m saying is, I’ll be here. I can stay here the whole time he examines ya if it helps.”

Alastor doesn’t look particularly convinced by this, but he shuts up. He stays curled over himself on the couch, looking tired and sick. Mimzy sits down next to him and he yelps when the couch moves. Mimzy rubs his tense back. “It’s really that bad, huh?”

Alastor doesn’t reply, maybe hoping she’ll cancel the doctor if he don’t confirm it. Well, good luck with that.

Finally, there is a knock at the door and Mimzy gets up to let the doctor in.

Then she pauses. What if it’s not the doctor? What if Magee’s hitman found her. “Alastor? Since you’re so fine, could answer the door?”

Alastor seems to wilt where he’s sat, but he makes an effort to get up. As he stands, he gasps sharply and sits quickly back down. Sitting must hurt too, because there’s that little whimper again. Mimzy says, “Shit. Okay, you stay there, sweetie.”

Another knock. Should she pretend no one’s home? But then what if it is the doctor? She has to let him in. Alastor needs help.

Mimzy takes a deep breath and reaches for her handbag, pulling out the little gun she bought to replace the one she lost back with that business with the countess. She hasn’t fired it yet but here’s hoping it works as well as it’s supposed to.

She goes to the door and cautiously opens it a crack, angling the gun so it points straight at whoever’s there.

Who is Dr Reeves. He tenses at the gun, and Mimzy relaxes and lowers it, opening the door wider.

“Is there anything I should know?” he asks, reluctantly stepping inside and nodding to the weapon.

“Nah, just a misunderstanding.” Mimzy wishes she’d brought her handbag along to hide the gun away again but she didn’t, so it just hangs awkwardly at her side. She turns to the pretty young nurse who’s followed the doctor in and says, “Sorry about the scare but you know how things can get in this city.”

Reeves seems to shake himself and indicates the nurse. “Kathleen is here just in case.”

First name terms, huh? Looks like someone’s having some fun behind his wife’s back.

As well as Kathleen, there’s a whole lot of equipment beside the usual bag. The two medics are weighed down by it all as they follow Mimzy through to the living room.

They find Alastor sitting upright and doing his best to look completely fine. Being the talented radio host he is, he also sounds fine when he greets the doctor and nurse with the words, “Thank you for coming out, but there was really no need. I’m quite able to manage the symptoms until whatever this is passes.”

Dr Reeves looks sceptical. “The symptoms are bad from what Mimzy here said” he replies, “Since I’m here, I’d like to take a look if you’ll let me?”

Alastor’s smile tightens. “Ah ha, no. I’m sorry, dear fellow, but I have no intention of letting you do anything to me.” The tone he says those last few words sound a little less radio host and a little more serial killer and Reeves glances nervously to Mimzy, and then to her gun.

Honestly, Mimzy is tempted to just point the gun at Alastor and tell him to shut the hell up and cooperate already. But he’d never talk to her again if she did that. Instead, she sets the gun down and rounds on him. “For fuck’s sake, Alastor! I went to all the trouble of getting these good folk here…”

“…when I specifically asked you not to…” Alastor mutters.

“…And I did it because I was scared for ya! I still am!”

“There’s really no need to be. I’ll be alright.”

“Bullshit will ya be alright! Yet here you are, dismissing my feelings!” The idea comes to Mimzy outta nowhere and she throws herself into it, looking as upset as she can. Between assassins and Alastor getting scary ill, it ain't much of a stretch. “Acting like I must just be imagining things! Or nagging ya! You’re just like every other man!”

Alastor looks a little flustered. “That’s not…I’m not…Mimzy, you know it’s not like that!”

“Ain’t it? Cause here I am with valid concerns about my good friend who can’t stand up on his own and you’re acting like you know better just cause I’m a woman and everyone knows we’re all weak and hysterical and shit!” Out the corner of her eye, Mimzy sees Kathleen hide a smile like she knows what’s up. Dr Reeves looks completely lost and maybe like he’s about to agree with the hysterical diagnosis.

Alastor looks downright alarmed. “Mimzy, you know that’s not what I think!”

“Then prove it by letting the doctor examine you!” Mimzy points angrily at Dr Reeves, who takes the hint and steps closer. He holds his bag up to Alastor, who looks from him to Mimzy and back before muttering, “Fine. I’ll submit to being examined if it puts your mind at ease.”

“Put my mind at ease cause I’m a feeble woman?” demands Mimzy. She’s getting kind of invested in the performance now.

“Put your mind at ease as my friend” says Alastor. He turns to the doctor. “Now shall we get on with this?”

He’s acting like he’s the one in control here. Good, thinks Mimzy, that’ll help him cooperate.

“Very well” says Reeves, setting his bag down and taking stuff out. “If I could have you lying down on the couch, Mr Leclair?”

Alastor lifts his feet onto the couch, which seems to make the pain worse, if his stifled groan is anything to go by. His eyes glaze and Mimzy worries for a moment he’s gonna pass out on them. Which would actually make things easier, but she’s not rooting for it. Kathleen obviously thinks it’s a possibility too, because she goes over and steadies him. Alastor flinches a little at her touch.

Once he’s got his feet up, he leans back, propping himself up on the arm of the couch. “I am not lying down” he insists.

Dr Reeves lets this slide, wisely in Mimzy’s opinion. He asks, “Mimzy said you’re in pain?”

Alastor glares at Mimzy like she’s committed some unforgivable betrayal. Mimzy says, “Tell him you’re in pain, Alastor.” When Alastor doesn’t, she tells Reeves, “It’s real bad, like I said.” She glances back at Alastor and sees he has given in and dropped the act at last, wrapping his arms back around his middle. She points. “See?”

Alastor actually bares his teeth at her and unfolds his arms. Reeves takes the opportunity to jab him in the belly. Alastor yelps and Mimzy hurries over and puts a hand on his shoulder, telling the doctor, “Hey, careful!”

“I’m just confirming a theory” says Reeves.

Alastor finishes his muttered curses and asks, “What is your theory?” in a tone that says he’s mentally already digging Reeves’ grave in case it ain't a good one.

Reeves ignores asks, “Did the pain start in the middle? And then move down and to the right?”

“Answer my question, doctor.”

“Perhaps answer mine first.”

Mimzy groans. “Someone answer someone’s question! Alastor, where’s it hurt? And you know I’ll start poking ya myself if ya don’t tell us!”

Alastor sighs, and tells the doctor, “Yes. To both questions.” He draws his knees up slowly.  

Reeves nods, and he and Kathleen share a look. Reeves taps Alastor’s knee and says, “I still need to be able to touch your abdomen.”

“Fuck off” Alastor mutters.

Mimzy pinches his shoulder. “Alastor!”

Alastor glares at her. He is shivering, she realises, and looking worse than he did when Reeves got here. She tells him, “It’ll be easier if ya just cooperate.”

“Easier for whom?”

With Alastor distracted, Reeves pulls his knees down. Alastor tries to push the doctor away, but stalls at the movement, closing his eyes and biting back a pained sound. Mimzy puts both hands on his shoulders now and murmurs, “Just let them work, sweetie.”

Reeves lifts Alastor’s top, and Alastor tenses and shifts back a little, like he’s trying to escape. He’s got nowhere to go cept into Mimzy now she’s stood behind him. She squeezes his shoulders, hoping he’ll realise she’s not about to let anything happen to him.

Well, except for letting him be examined, which is bad enough. First Reeves does some basic doctor stuff on Alastor, taking his pulse and his temperature, shit like that. Just tiny movements seem to be hurting Al now and he winces every time Reeves sits or stands, making the couch dip and rise. He's tense too, and Mimzy suspects that ain't just the pain, but at least partly all the touching and having some guy in his personal space, even if it is a guy with a medical degree. She keeps her hands firmly on his shoulder.

Next, Reeves repeats the whole poking him in the belly thing, only slower now. Al makes the awful whimper again and pulls his knees back up while Mimzy tells the doctor, “I didn’t get ya over him to torture the poor guy!”

“That’s not my intention.” Reeves turns to Kathleen and tells her, “We were right.”

Kathleen moves over to the medical equipment and starts some mysterious preparations. Alastor asks, “Right about what?”

Mimzy adds, “Ya got a bet riding on him or something?”

“It’s your appendix” Reeves tells Alastor.

“My what now?”

“Oh shit” mutters Mimzy. She’s heard of this. And she ain't no nurse so just her hearing about it’s a bad sign.

Kathleen asks, “Is there a big table he can lie down on?”

Alastor answers, “I’m not lying down.”

“Actually you are” says Dr Reeves, “Your appendix is inflamed and we need to operate.”

“Nonsense” says Alastor.

“Alastor!” Mimzy gives his shoulder a warning squeeze. She asks the doctor, “That shit’s serious, right?”

The doctor nods and tells Alastor, “You’ve got two options: We operate here or we operate at Charity Hospital. Given how close you are to a rupture, I recommend we do it here.”

“I’m not letting anyone operate on me.”

“Ah, then we’re on to option three.”

“Which is?”

“You die.”

Mimzy’s grip tightens reflexively. “Alastor, don’t you dare die!” She turns to Kathleen and tells her, “Kitchen table’s through there.”

Kathleen goes into the kitchen holding a cloth and a bottle of something. Mimzy can hear her get to work scrubbing and a strong smell of disinfectant reaches them.

Alastor is glaring at the doctor but asks, “You’re certain?”

“I’d bet my life on it.”

“Or, rather, mine.”

“The only real risk to your life is if we don’t operate. Infection, complications, we can deal with those as they arise.”

“How very reassuring.”

He hasn’t said yes, so Mimzy tells him, “Alastor, if you die cause you’re scared of a little surgery…”

Alastor turns his glare on her. “I’m not scared, Mimzy.”

That’s bullshit. Mimzy can tell how scared he is. She can’t even blame him. She’s scared and it ain't even happening to her. She tells him, “You’re having this surgery, Al. No arguments.”

“I suppose not. I’ve got a broadcast tomorrow. Death would be rather inconvenient.”

Dr Reeves looks like he’s about to say something about how unlikely broadcasting tomorrow is, until Mimzy silences him with a look. She figures breaking it to Alastor that he won’t make tomorrow’s show can wait until he’s safely drugged.

Reeves goes off to the kitchen, carrying some of that mysterious equipment and apparently ready to help with the clean up job because the scrubbing sound coming from the kitchen redoubles. Mimzy hears someone running the tap and wishes she’d done the washing up.

Left alone with Alastor, she finds her hand drifting back to his hair. He responds by tilting his head back to rest against her. She tells him, “It’s a shame we can’t give ’em the cleaning stuff from your satchel. That would get the job done.”

Alastor shakes his head very slightly. “Everything in there’s to remove stains, not to kill germs.”

“It’s the same thing ain’t it?”

“Oh, Mimzy. This is why I never eat at your place.”

“Hey!” Mimzy glares, but she’s pretty sure Alastor is too out of it to notice. She says, “Well someone can’t be feeling too bad to be sassing me.”

“I feel awful, cher” says Alastor, his voice growing smaller and less transatlantic as he speaks, “I think it’s almost worth dying to avoid them touching me again.”

“You’ll be asleep, Al. You won’t feel it.”

“Promise you’ll stay in the room.”

Mimzy grimaces. For the whole surgery? She just can’t. She’s gotten a little better with blood and guts in the time she’s known him, but not that good.

And not his blood and guts.

But if this is what it takes to get him on the table, she’ll say it. “Of course, sweetie. I promise.”

Getting on the table turns out to be a drama all of it’s own. If getting from the kitchen to the couch was bad, going back the same way sounds like agony if the pained little noises and muttered curses Alastor keeps up all the way are anything to go by. Once they’re in there, he has to haul himself up on to the table with the doctor’s help, and by the time he lies down with his knees drawn up, he’s panting and trembling. Once Mimzy puts her hand to his shoulder, he closes his eyes. She asks, “Can I get him a pillow?”

“I’m afraid not” says Kathleen, coming round the table to stand behind Alastor’s head, “They don’t do well with carbolic acid.”

Mimzy strokes Alastor’s shoulder with her thumb. She kinda expects him to perk after a rest, but he just lies there, breathing in gasps, his body tensed around his middle. Mimzy hopes they won’t try to uncurl him until they’ve knocked him out.

Over on the other side of the room, Dr Reeves scrubs his hands at the kitchen sink. The washing up, Mimzy notices, has been dumped in a tub in the corner and coated in something strong smelling.

Next, the doctor starts cleaning a collection of scalpels that look like they’ve come outta Al’s satchel. Meanwhile Kathleen takes a cloth out a bag, a kind of gauze and soaks it in a clear liquid she measures carefully from a bottle. Alastor opens his eyes at last, and, seeing Mimzy watching the nurse, turns his head to do the same. “Chloroform?” he asks.

Kathleen nods. “And ether.”

Alastor watches apprehensively as Kathleen fits the gauze into a little wire net thing that’s bent around a hoop. As she approaches Alastor with it, he flinches back, then gasps when the movement jostles his stomach. Kathleen slips the net thing over his face and Mimzy realises, right, it’s a mask. The nurse says, “Don’t worry, it’ll kick in in a few minutes” which maybe ain't as reassuring as she’d hoped, because Alastor reaches up like he’s about to pull the thing off. Mimzy catches his hand. “Leave it, Al.”

“Mimzy?” Alastor’s voice is muffled through the mask. He squeezes her hand hard, the other hand reaching for his face. Kathleen grabs that one and tells him, “Don’t worry, Mr Leclair, we’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

Alastor turns his head like he’s trying to knock the mask off. Then his movements go sluggish and his knees start to sag sideways where he still has them bent. Kathleen guides them down, straightening his legs, and he groans. Mimzy strokes his hair again with her free hand. “I’ll see ya when this is over, sweetie, okay?” She tries to leave but Alastor is gripping her hand too tight to wrench free. He tells her, “Mimzy, don’t worry. ’m gonna kill the hitman for you.”

Mimzy gives the nurse a nervous smile. “He’s delirious, poor lamb.”

Kathleen comes back to the head of the table and inspects the mask. “Just concentrate on breathing” she tells Alastor.

Alastor’s eyelids flicker closed, then open. He squeezes Mimzy’s hand again, but he’s losing his fight to stay awake. Soon his hand is a limp weight in hers. Mimzy sets it gently down on the table. Then she announces, “Well, I’ll leave ya to it then” and slips out the door before anyone can respond.

Once she’s back in the living room she relaxes at last. No blood and guts display for her. Leave that to the professionals.

Maybe she should have wished them luck? But they don’t need it, right? They know what they’re doing. Maybe wishing luck would imply they don’t and jinx the whole thing.

Look at her, worrying about a little operation! Really there’s no need to worry. Right?

She waits for a bit, hearing the occasional murmured conversation from the kitchen. And, once, laughter. What the fuck? Mimzy would storm back in and yell at them about how funny this ain't but who knows what she’d see then.

She drinks some more of Alastor’s whiskey. Then she thinks, shit, someone better call the station. No way will Al be able to broadcast tomorrow, or probably for a week or so. She finds the number in the little book by Alastor’s telephone but when she rings, no one answers. Right, of course: It’s well past midnight by now. She scribbles a note to call them in the morning.

Then she waits some more.

Thing is about waiting, it gets boring after a while even if you’re waiting on something important, like a friend not dying. Mimzy considers putting on a record, but what if it distracts the doctor and nurse from fixing Alastor? Nah, she can’t risk that.

She flicks through a few magazines but they’re mostly about radio. Radio shows, radio mechanics, Alastor is a real dweeb. Mimzy finds a few articles about music and interviews with performers who’ve made the big time, lucky assholes. Al has scribbled notes in the margins of pieces about people he interviewed himself, obviously doing his homework.

Well, he can get right back to that once he’s better. Because he will be fine.

Mimzy stands up and goes over to the book shelf, thinking she’s bored (or maybe worried) enough to want the distraction of reading an actual book, but it’s a false alarm. She ain't that desperate yet.

In the end, she passes the time experimenting with her make up, trying a few new looks she saw in Vogue, a magazine she’ll have to recommend to Al in case he’s planning on leaving her here without entertainment again any time soon.

Finally, the kitchen door opens. Mimzy tries to set her compact mirror down and ends up throwing it to the floor as she stands up to hear the news.

Shit, what if it didn’t work? What if Alastor is dead in there?

But Dr Reeves says, “Success!” and launches into a whole long explanation of the surgery, which Mimzy don’t want to know about, so she doesn’t listen. She peers past the doctor to watch Kathleen taking the mask of Alastor’s face and putting things away.

Alastor is sprawled out topless on the table. Well, topless except for a whole lot of bandages. He looks several shades paler than he should. Almost grey. Mimzy pushes past the doctor and goes to him. When she touches his hand, he feels so cold that she has to watch his chest rise and fall for a bit to reassure herself that he made it.

“He’s going to be out for a while” says Dr Reeves, trailing after her, “And then he’s going to be confused and nauseous.”

“Uh huh.” Like Al hasn’t had enough of that. Mimzy watches him breathe a little more.

Like he’s reading her worst fears and is enough of an asshole to make them real, the doctor adds, “And he may experience breathing difficulties. Keep a close eye on him, and call us if there’s any trouble.”

“Sure.” Alastor is the person she calls if there’s any trouble. Strange to think he could be the source of it.

And great, it sounds like she don’t get to sleep at all, not even on the couch. 

“I’ll leave some instructions about the care of the wound” says Reeves, taking out a notebook and starting to scribble them down, “And make sure he has my contact details, won’t you? A follow up appointment would be for the best.”

Really, Mimzy can’t imagine Alastor willingly making a telephone call to invite the doctor back to poke and prod at him some more but she nods.

They carry Alastor to bed between the three of them, awkwardly manoeuvring him like a piece of furniture through doors and around obstacles. Mimzy is uncomfortably aware how much he’d hate this if he was awake.

She’ll have some explaining to do when he does. Pretending she was staying for the surgery seemed like a good idea at the time. And, hey, it got him to cooperate didn’t it? In the moment, she just wanted to keep him alive and everything else could be worried about later. Now it is later.

There’s some discussion about the bill. Mimzy has all the cash from her apartment with her, what with that seeming like a good thing to pack while running away from an assassin. Being as her living room is the centre of a pretty respectable liquor business, it’s not nothing, but she decides not to mention it to the doctor. Some of it ain't really hers, after all. She’s in pretty deep with a few loan sharks right now, and she needs to pay for the next shipment. Her little arrangement with Reeves only keeps her whiskey so long.

In the end, Reeves is decent enough to settle for a down payment, and Mimzy’s assurances that Alastor will cover the rest. Probably he can tell from Al’s fancy apartment that the man can afford it. And, Mimzy thinks, if Alastor has to call the doctor to settle the bill, well that’s a chance for Reeves to ask about how the wound’s healing, maybe persuade Alastor to let him take a look. A long shot, but it’s something.

And then Reeves and Kathleen leave, and Mimzy is left alone with Alastor.

This really ain't how she wanted tonight to go. Honestly, she was hoping Alastor could have seen to her little problem by now and they’d be out dancing. Or, well, probably heading home from dancing by now: It’s almost dawn. Mimzy is more used to seeing this time of day from the other side, when she’s just getting in. It ain't so fun after a night of waiting and worrying.

And now she’s alone, Alastor is still all helpless, and she’s got nothing to do except wait and make sure he don’t die.

Time was, she could call Alastor’s mama and leave her to it. If she were alive, that woman would drop everything and come out here to care for her precious boy. She’d know what to do. How’s Mimzy supposed to figure it out? Even if Alastor lets her, which he probably won’t.

Still, she’s lying low here. At least taking care of him – if she can figure out how – won’t cut into her valuable time since she’s stuck here anyway. And anyway, how hard can it be? Make him rest, make him drink plenty, simple.

Except that it’s Alastor, who makes stubborn an art form. But Mimzy figures she’s been a match for him so far. And he’ll be asleep for the first part. That’ll help.

Mimzy drags a chair into the bedroom and takes up her position by his bed. She watches him for hours. Or, well, it feels like hours. The clock says it’s only been one, but it must be broken. Then Mimzy finds herself starting to nod off. She gets up and makes herself a coffee, then puts that record on after all.

She half hopes Alastor will be woken up by the music but he’s still out when she gets back to the bedroom. And still breathing, she reassures herself.

The curtains are closed. Mimzy opens them, hoping the light will keep her awake, but it just stings her eyes and she closes them again.

The coffee doesn’t work. And the music works the opposite way, making her sleepier. Mimzy goes and takes it off the turntable, then returns to the bedroom and slips off her shoes and jewellery. Alastor has got to be past the worst by now, right? If he was gonna stop breathing, he’d have done it already, and really, what could she do if he did? Call Reeves, sure, but what could he do from all across town?

So Mimzy clambers into the bed, telling Alastor, “Budge over, Al.” He doesn’t, of course, but it feels good to talk to him. Mimzy turns off the light, then turns it back on adding, “Hey, you should go on your side in case you puke. And if you do that on me, I’ll kill ya myself.” She tugs at him, then rolls him gently away from her, so that he’s lying on his left side. Good. It's the right they cut into anyway, probably. Mimzy tells him, “Keep breathing, Alastor. I don’t want to wake up next to a corpse.” Then she goes to sleep.

She wakes to the sound of Alastor being sick over the side of the bed. “Aw, sweetie” she mumbles, sitting up and turning the bedside lamp on.

She rubs his back until he’s done. Once he is, he settles back and closes his eyes.

Wait, he’s leaving her to clean up his mess? Mimzy sighs and gets up, reluctantly coming round to his side of the bed.

There ain't much mess to be fair. Alastor barely had anything in his stomach. She finds one of his handkerchiefs and drops it on to the little splatter, then puts her shoes back on to wipe it up with her foot. No way is she touching that with her hands. This is way worse that cleaning up blood. At least she’s used to that.

Once the floor is wiped, she considers just leaving the handkerchief where it is. Alastor can pick it up when he’s better. It’s his mess, and anyway, he’s way better at dealing with bodily fluids. Well, except the fun ones, she figures.

But if she leaves it, it’ll stink out the room. Grimacing, Mimzy fetches another handkerchief and uses it to pick up the soiled one, suppressing a few gags of her own as she carries it into the bathroom and drops it in the trash can there. Then she washes her hands thoroughly and finds a different trash can in the living room. She brings it back with her to the bedroom.

Alastor has rolled on to his back and is blinking sleepily at the ceiling. “Hi, Al. Welcome back and all.” Mimzy sets the trash can down by the bed and sits down next to him.

“Mimzy? Where’d I go?”

“Oh, nowhere you need to worry about right now.” If he don’t remember what happened, Mimzy ain't about to tell him. That can wait til he’s properly awake, not lying here with his eyelids drooping again.

“That new speakeasy on Iberville Street?” Alastor guesses.

“Nowhere that fun” mutters Mimzy. She nudges him, “Here, Al, get back on your side, sweetie, in case you’re sick again.”

“I feel sick” he complains, rolling obediently to his side and wincing at the movement. Once he’s facing her – and, more importantly, the trash can – Mimzy strokes his back. “You’ll feel better soon” she tells him. She wonders if she should get him to drink some water, but she’d have to sit him up for that and he looks settled, snuggling into the sheets and closing his eyes.

He opens them again before she can stand up. He reaches for her with something like panic on his face. Mimzy sits back down takes his hand in both of hers.

“What is it, kitten?”

“Mimzy, can you call my mama?”

Mimzy manages to keep her face completely blank but her hands tighten around his. “Sure thing, sweetie” she lies, “She’ll be here. You just try to get some more rest, okay?”

He nods and closes his eyes at last. She stays perched next to him until he’s asleep, then tiptoes back round to her side of the bed.

Another lie. Mimzy is aware she’ll never be able to get back to sleep now. She lies back down all the same, snuggling up to him in case he’s awake enough to appreciate the comfort, then rolling away from him because he smells of sick people and chemicals.

She slips out of bed and goes through to the kitchen, figuring now she’s up she might as well make breakfast.

The kitchen is a mess. Mimzy hadn’t really noticed it last night, when Alastor looking like a fucking corpse had kinda sucked the limelight away from everything else in the room. Now, she sees the smears of blood on the table, and how everything around the room was just shoved out the way to make space for all the medical equipment, the chairs lined up against the far wall and the washing up still sitting in disinfectant in the corner.

At least the worst is just blood. Definitely not as bad as puke. Mimzy fetches Alastor’s satchel and gets to work.

After breakfast (or lunch, technically) there’s another problem: She just ate the last of the food, not counting preserves that won’t make a decent meal on there own. Or if they do, she don’t know how to make that happen. And she can’t exactly go out shopping with a target on her back. So how is she supposed to keep Alastor fed? Mimzy thinks hard for a moment, then remembers the telephone out in the hall.

By the time Alastor wakes, Mimzy has been busy. Not just smoothing things over with the station either, she’s made other phone calls. She’s answered his door several times in the last few hours, always with her gun in hand, but it’s just been parcels from the folks she called so far.

Her stack of banknotes is looking a little thinner. But that’s a problem for another day. Sure, she didn’t want to give it all to Reeves but this is different: They’ve got to eat.

Alastor appears in the living room doorway once the last of it’s arrived, pausing to lean in the frame. Mimzy hurries over. “Shit, Alastor, what are ya doing out of bed ya idiot?” She starts steering him back the way he came, adding, “How long you been awake?”

“Not long.” Alastor rubs tiredly at his face. “Mimzy, what happened last night?”

“I’m sure ya can piece it together, sweetie.” As they reach the bed, Mimzy gently pushes him back on to it. He flinches as he lands. Mimzy fetches him some water, and sits down beside him while he drains the glass.

He frowns as he apparently thinks back over last’s nights events. He looks down at himself and examines the bandages. Then he sets the empty glass aside and attempts to peel the bandages back until Mimzy slaps his hands away and says, “Leave that! You’ll give yourself an infection, Alastor.”

Alastor scowls but lets his hands drop. He asks, “Just how bad a state is my kitchen table in?”

“That’s what ya care about?” When he doesn’t answer, tells him, “It’s fine. It’s a table, Al. Ya can replace a table. I only got the one of you. So lie down and rest, ya hear me?”

“You didn’t stay.”

Mimzy draws back a little, shocked. It crosses her mind to deny it, but what comes out is, “How’d ya know?”

“You said you’d see me afterwards.”

“You remember that?”

“I think so.”

More room for denial then, but Mimzy stays quiet. After a moment, Alastor adds, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay.”

“I would have” she says, “It’s just…There’s blood and there’s blood, ya know? Well you probably don’t. But sure, I can clean up a bit of the stuff here and there but I couldn’t stay and watch them cut into you, Alastor. I just couldn’t. I’d have fainted or something, and that’s probably the last thing anyone needs in an operating room.”

“I understand. I only asked because…well.”

“Look, nothing happened. Dr Reeves ain't some monster. He just did his job and fixed you up, and I was right outside the door the whole time.” Mimzy pats his shoulder. “Now can ya do me a favour and get some sleep?”

Alastor lies down at last. “Just for a few hours” he tells her, “I’m needed at the station.”

“No you’re not” she tells him, “They’ve got someone covering. Oh, and they sent flowers.”

Alastor sits up so fast he gasps and puts a hand to his stomach. Mimzy mutters, “Shit” and hurries over, peeling his hand back and examining the bandages.

“Who?” Alastor demands.

“What?” No blood, thank fuck.

“Who’s covering?”

“I don’t know! Some radio dweeb! You’ll find out when ya listen to the show.” In an undertone, Mimzy adds, “If you’re still alive by then.”

Alastor lies back with a groan. “Garrod will completely mess it up! He won’t play anything like enough jazz. And Lopes will go off script during the interview, he always does.”

“Well so do you.”

“That’s different. I know what I’m doing.” Alastor sighs heavily. “My audience expect certain standards, Mimzy! This is a disaster!”

“Yeah, yeah” mutters Mimzy, “Meanwhile you almost died, but hey, let’s not dwell on that or nothin’.” When Alastor doesn’t reply, she jabs him in the shoulder. “Hey, Alastor, start dwelling! Ya could have died! What the hell would have happened if I didn’t come round?”

Alastor opens his mouth, then closes it again. He looks away. “I’m aware all this has inconvenienced you” he mutters.

“Inconvenience! Try terrify! Alastor, if I hadn’t got chased by an assassin over a little misunderstanding, you’d be dead right now.”

“…In other words, I was always going to be fine?”

Mimzy glares. “I mean it, Al! If I hadn’t come round, no way would you have called for help on time!  You need to take better care of yourself!”

He stares at her, unimpressed. “Are you finished now?”

“No! You could have died, Alastor, and what was I supposed to do then? You’d die, and I’d be stuck with a hitman after me, or even if I dealt with him, there’d be someone else eventually! The way people are, there’s always someone with a grudge. I’d have died next, Alastor!”

Alastor looks genuinely upset at the thought. “I’m sorry, Mimzy.” He runs a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean for things to get out of hand. I really didn’t know how bad it was.”

“Well ya could feel how bad it was! Don’t be so damn stoic next time.” Mimzy folds her arms. “And let me take care of ya til you’re back on your feet.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Well I’m stuck here anyway. I gotta hide out from the bastard Magee’s sent after me, remember?”

Alastor frowns. “Does he know where I live?”

“Magee? No, he barely knows we’re friends. I don’t show ya off to my mobster pals. You’re useful to hold back, sweetie.” Like a gun, Mimzy thinks, or a contact in the Bureau of Prohibition.

Not that Alastor is just a weapon or a useful contact. He’s a real friend. Her only real friend, when it comes down to it. And he almost died. “You go back to sleep, kitten. I’ll have dinner ready when ya wake up again.”

“I’m not particularly hungry.”

“Well tough, you’re eating something.” Mimzy grins, “And anyway, it’s soup from that little restaurant ya like over in St Claude. I called them and they sent it over.”

Alastor frowns. “To the apartment?”

“Sure. They don’t normally do take outs, but they said for you they’d make the exception. And that place where we met? They’ve sent over everything I need to make gumbo for tonight. Which I’m sure I can work out how to do. I mean, how hard can it be? And I got more coming from all over town for the rest of the week. Soon as they heard you were sick, restaurateurs from all across New Orleans were scrambling to make ya better. And Sam sent over some good rum he’s got shipped in from all the way over in Jamaica. And that sweet little thing from your station is baking fresh bread and that café across the street is going to be sending over the good stuff on the daily.”

“It seems everyone knows about my recent incapacity.” Alastor frowns, but sounds a little touched all the same. He takes her hand again. “Thank you, Mimzy. I don’t know what I’d do without you, cher.”

“Any time, sweetie. But try not to make a habit of it, okay? I need ya alive.”

“Yes. And disposing of assassins. I will see to that, once I’ve recovered.”

“You’d better. You owe me. Money, as well as a favour.”

“Of course.”

“And I mean it, about needing you alive. You gotta be more careful, Alastor.”

“I will.”

“Promise me? I don’t want to be left all alone.”

Alastor chuckles. “I promise I’ll outlive you, dear. How’s that?”

“…Kind of creepy, coming from you.” Mimzy smiles. “But I’ll take it.”

Chapter Text

“Alastor, I need a man.”

Alastor scowls. Mimzy seems to be constantly on the search for one of those, for reasons he can’t possibly fathom. “Well you’ve never had any trouble finding one by yourself in the past, dear.” Still, he leans on the bar of their latest favourite speakeasy and tries to look interested. It helps that he is more than a little zozzled and conversation is sliding over him in a comforting haze.

Really, he’d prefer to be dancing than talking about Mimzy’s love life, but she insisted on another drink. Now she says, “No, not like that! I mean I need muscle. I’ve got a shipment lined up for Tuesday night and the guy who was going to come let me down. Went and got shot robbing a drugstore. So now I need someone else to go with me just in case things turn nasty.”

Alastor pushes his glass away, uncomfortably aware that she must have suggested that extra drink in hopes of getting him drunk enough to agree. “Mimzy, dear, you know full well that I can’t risk my employment by getting caught assisting you with one of your…more interesting projects.”

“Ah, come on, Alastor, I don’t ask ya for much!” Mimzy shuffles closer, leaning in to his personal space. Usually, this wouldn’t be welcome, but hours of drinking have made him more amenable to touch. He finds himself tilting his head to rest it on top of hers. Her hair is very soft.

“Please, Al?” she says into his curls. “If ya don’t it could end real badly for me.”

Alastor feels a little pang at that, but he still lifts his head from hers, replying, “It could end badly for me if I do.”

“Only if we get caught!”

“Exactly.”

“We won’t get caught. Come on, live a little!”

“I do. I live a very comfortable life on the proceeds of a job I love. I don’t want to jeopardise that by getting tangled up in some hairbrained scheme.”

“Hey, watch what you’re calling hairbrained! I put a lot of thought into all my projects, you know I do.” Mimzy shifts away from him to sip her drink.

“Sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to impugn your planning skills. But if I help and we end up under arrest, my employers would take a dim view of it.”

Mimzy rolls her eyes. “Your boss breaks prohibition all the time! How come he gets to complain if you help keep him in gin?”

Alastor takes a breath for patience. Mimzy is admirably honest about her illicit activities. She doesn’t understand that not everyone can be. “It’s one thing to enjoy the occasional drink” he tells her, “And quite another to feature a convicted bootlegger as primetime host of a popular radio station.”

“Ah, like you’d be convicted! I mean, I’ve never been, have I?” Mimzy raises her glass. “Nine arrests, no charges! I’ve been proven more innocent than most folk ever are!”

Alastor frowns, aware, even in his drunken state that that is not how things work.

He posted bail on most of those occasions, with the exception of a time before they met and a time when she had a convenient beau willing to help. Just paying for her freedom until the charges were dropped (a mixture of lack of evidence and a few well placed bribes as he understands it) was a risk. Had her antics made the papers, questions would have been asked at the station about his connection to an alleged criminal. Despite – or perhaps because of – his occasional veiled references to speakeasies on his show, his superiors expect him to maintain a good reputation, at least on a surface level. They don’t let just anyone broadcast.

Mimzy pushes his glass back towards him and says, “Hey, drink up. I wanna get back to dancing.” She does a little Charlston move on the spot to emphasise her point, then downs her own drink. Alastor obediently concentrates on his whiskey.

Mimzy asks, “Will ya think about it, at least? Tuesday night, eleven o’clock. You know the little private dock I’m using?”

He does, having dropped her there a few times. Giving her a ride is fine. Plausible deniability if she gets caught. He could feign ignorance and be free to pay bail or bribes. It would be harder to explain actually joining in. “Sorry, dear.”

“Aw, Alastor! I could really use the back up here! Who knows what’ll happen to little old me if I go out there alone!”

Alastor frowns. He has quite a few ideas what could happen to her, and none of them pleasant. “Surely there’s someone else you can ask?”

“Like who? Joey Pagani just got sentenced to a nickel, Donny Maurin’s got this new obsession with keeping to the straight and narrow – good fucking luck, I told him, but he didn’t take the rod out his ass – and ya know me and Johnie split when he crawled back to that bitch of a wife of his. Honestly, Alastor, what has she got that I don’t?” Mimzy pauses, then adds, “And there are maybe a few other fellas who said no just because I renegotiated my cut the last few times. And used my gun to back it up. But who cares? I didn’t actually shoot them and if I do most of the work, I should get most of the money, right? But now they’re holding grudges and leavin’ me in the lurch. Some people, I’m telling ya.”

Alastor shakes his head. “Well you can’t go alone.”

“Exactly! So will you come?”

“No. And nor should you. Find another way to smuggle the stuff in.”

“That’s not how it works” Mimzy tells him, “There’s systems I gotta work with here. Anyway, if I found another way I’d still need muscle. Come on, Al, I’m just asking for once, just until Nicky Ballard gets out the big house. He’ll be out in time for the next shipment, I just need help with this one.”

“Can’t you delay it?”

“Course not! I got a business to run.”

A brutal business, Alastor is well aware. Even most men would bring back up. As a woman whose entrepreneurial instincts take her into the midst of violent men, Mimzy should have protection. She shouldn’t have to choose between less money or less safety. But even so, he tells her, “You’ll just have to renegotiate the delivery date. I really can’t risk my job.”

Mimzy folds her arms. “Can’t or won’t?”

Alastor drains his glass, and, feeling the whiskey he’s already had weaken his grip on his manners, tells her, “Fine: Won’t. I value my job. I’m not risking it for one shipment.”

Mimzy draws herself up. “Value your job, huh? How about my life, do ya value that?”

“Of course I do! But Mimzy, you don’t have to go!”

“I’m collecting my shipment with or without back up, Alastor!” Mimzy points an accusing finger at him and adds, “Time to decide which ya care about more: Me or your little radio show!” Then she leaves, stomping away from the bar to find someone else to dance with.

Her or his show. Alastor gives it some thought over the next few days. Obviously, he’ll have to accompany Mimzy. Leaving her to face danger alone is out of the question. But he doesn’t telephone her building to tell her so, hoping that she won’t count on assistance just this once and might still find someone else, one of her many questionable contacts, to step in.

And besides, why not let her sweat? Mimzy is asking him to risk everything. While Alastor loves Mimzy dearly, he also loves his job, and he is well aware of how much he’d resent her if her antics caused him to lose it. Which he absolutely would if he was caught bootlegging. But there’s the catch: If. Chances are, they wouldn’t be caught. Or if they are, they’d be caught by that section of New Orlean’s finest who diligently track down bootleggers only for the bribe money. With than in mind, Alastor makes sure to bring plenty of cash on the evening in question, as well as the gun he purchased several weeks ago.

So far, he has only used it once. Just not as satisfyingly visceral as a knife. But a recent name crossed off his list had enough protection around him that Alastor couldn’t snatch him off the streets and have any fun with him.

He makes his way to the docks slowly. He still hasn’t telephoned Mimzy. Best to leave her uncertain he will show up until the last minute. She might still be able to find someone else, or delay the shipment after all.

That or cancel it. It’s one shipment. She could wait and gather more lackeys and resume her activities once she has the back up of men who don’t have jobs in radio to worry about.

But she won’t wait. And he can’t blame her for that. Waiting would be a risk to her reputation on the bootlegging scene, just as joining her will be a risk to the reputation he has to maintain in polite society.

He is keenly aware that, by helping her with this, he is setting a precedent. His mama explained once that friendship is a matter of give and take. Mimzy is refreshingly good at the taking.

Once he reaches the little dock, Alastor waits in the shadows, beyond the reach of the lamplight. Mimzy appears, wrapped up in a fur stole and makes her way quietly past the little boathouses, clutching her handbag. Alastor watches for a moment, hoping she won’t be alone.

She is. Damn. Well then, he will have to go with her. “I made my choice, dear” he tells her when he steps into the little pool of light cast by a lamp.

Mimzy steps back sharply, then relaxes when she sees who it is. “Oh, hi, Al. What choice?”

“You said I had to decide between risking you and risking my show.”

“Oh, gee, I’m really flattered that it only took ya four days!”

“So you should be. This is a one off, you understand? I simply cannot make a habit of this.” A useless line to draw but he has to at least say it.

“Yeah, yeah” says Mimzy, stepping past him and towards the river. He sighs and follows.

They walk in silence for while. Alastor isn’t entirely sure whether she is angry about his reluctance to help, or if she is simply staying quiet to avoid the attention of any lurking dry agents. Perhaps both. Generally, Mimzy’s activities are not quite largescale enough to be likely to be worth the Bureau of Prohibition’s time, but then, being a smaller operation also means they can investigate without too much effort or resources, and without coming up against the city’s nastier gangsters. Best not to be complacent. Alastor is happy to follow Mimzy’s lead and stay quiet.

Mimzy leads him to a little motor boat and finally speaks in a low whisper. “Did ya bring a gun?”

Alastor taps the weapon concealed beneath his jacket. Mimzy nods her approval. Then she tells him, “We can’t use the motor right away, it’s too loud. Can ya row?”

“I grew up in the bayou, cher. Of course I can row.” As helps her into the boat, Alastor adds, “Though I must ask, what was your plan if I’d said no?”

Mimzy shrugs. “Risked the motor, I guess. Or given rowing my best shot. I’ve seen it done plenty of times, it don’t look that hard.”

Alastor rolls his eyes and turns his back on her to take up the oars. It has been years since he last rowed, but like the proverbial bicycle, it is not a thing one forgets. They make good progress away from the lights of the dock and into the wide expanse of the river.

After a while, Alastor says, “I’m sorry, Mimzy. Obviously I care about you more than the show. I was just hoping you’d change your mind about this.”

“Wasn’t going to happen, Al.” Mimzy turns on a flashlight and angles it in the direction of their travel. Grudgingly she adds, “Thanks for coming and all.”

“Any…ahem.” He cannot say anytime, Alastor warns himself. She’d take that literally.  

“That cough sounds bad” she says sarcastically, “Hope ya don’t catch a cold out here.”

Alastor lets this slide with sneer. He steers them further along the river, the only sound the occasional splash of the oars. As he gets back into the swing of the motion, the splashing becomes less frequent, the oars dipping in and out the water silently.

After a while, Mimzy, staring out into the darkness, tells him, “Ya can use the motor now.”

Alastor tucks the oars under the benches and turns around, able now to face the way they are going. This means facing Mimzy, who is perched on the end of the boat, still wrapped in her fur.

He is less accustomed to these motorised boats than to rowing. He has been in several, on pleasure cruises and hunting trips with colleagues from the station, but never as the driver. Still, Alastor revs the engine and the little boat surges forward. He takes a moment to familiarises himself with the mechanism for controlling their direction and speed while the engine deals with their propulsion. Mimzy yelps as the boat zigzags and jolts. “For fuck’s sake, Alastor! Ya trying to sink us?”

“I’m trying to steer us, dear. Do you know how to drive this thing?”

“Course not! What do I look like, a fisherwoman? What happened to growing up on the bayou?”

“Mama could hardly afford a motorboat.” Alastor experiments with slowing the vessel, then speeding up again. Mimzy swears and grips the prow as it wobbles. “Just switch back to rowing!” she yelps, “We’ll just have to be late!”

“No, no, no, I’m sure I can figure this out. It’s certainly an easier thing to teach oneself than rowing would be, just for the record.”

“Alastor?”

Alastor shifts the tiller, causing the boat to wriggle, and telling her, “It’s rather simpler than the gear stick in a car.”

“Alastor!”

Alastor glances up and sees the cargo ship looming from round a gentle bend. “Ah” he says, then moves the tiller again, steering them around the ship as it bares down on them. Mimzy mutters, “Fuck, fuck, fuck” as they pass it. Alastor is a little unnerved himself, but manages a confident smile, which becomes more genuine as they progress down the river. The night is cool and calm, perfect conditions for a crash course in boating.  As for the bends, they are gentle, and the river is too wide for a boat of this size to notice them. So long as they stay in the middle, they won’t have any unfortunate encounters with the banks.

Mimzy relaxes once he is driving them at a consistent speed, eventually even settling back and asking, “How was work?”

“Oh, fine. Lottie has a new beau.”

Mimzy smirks. “Bet that takes the pressure of ya.”

“Oh it does. Now we can concentrate on being colleagues and friends, with none of this crush nonsense.”

Mimzy laughs like he’s said something funny. Alastor adds, “She will talk my ear off about him, of course, but in my experience, that passes.”

“Aw, sweetie, ya poor thing. First you got to fight ’em off til they find someone else, then you get ditched for the someone else. Lucky you’ve got me, ain't it?”

The idea that Mimzy would never ditch him for a sweetheart is laughable, but Alastor will admit that she always comes back. After all, where are any of them tonight? He smiles and replies, “It is indeed.”

After a while, there is no city left on either of the distant banks, which means far less illumination. The beam from the flashlight is swallowed up by the darkness ahead. Alastor says, “I’m driving blind here, Mimzy. Do tell if we’re about to crash, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry, doll face, I’ll let ya know soon as I see anything up head.”

Given that her view is likely only marginally better than his, this isn’t particularly reassuring, but Alastor supposes she must be familiar with this stretch of river by now.

A few minutes pass, and the glow cast by the city behind them grows fainter still, then disappears. Then Mimzy leans forward, narrowing her eyes, then sits back and says, “Cut the engine, Alastor.”

Alastor does, leaving them with darkness and silence. Alastor doesn’t dare break the latter by asking questions, though he isn’t sure what exactly Mimzy is concerned about. It seems highly unlikely the Bureau of Prohibition would follow them out here when they could lie in wait back at the docks and search the boat when they return. Mimzy peers ahead for a moment, then tells him, “Let’s switch back to oars for a bit.”

Alastor feels around at his feet for the oars, sits with his back to her and finally asks, “Why?”

“Oh, nothing ya need to worry about” says Mimzy evasively.

They move on, slower and quieter now. Rowing, Alastor has a view of the stretch of water that seems to have unnerved her opening up behind them. He stares around, but still sees nothing but darkness.

It is a while before Mimzy judges it safe to turn the motor on again. Alastor sets the oars down again, turns around and resumes steering. “Care to explain?” he asks.

“Oh…nothing ya need to worry about.”

This is the opposite of reassuring, but since she seems reassured that whatever the danger was has passed, Alastor says no more.

The land on either side of the river is featureless and dark. Alastor’s senses strain to make out anything beyond their little circle of torchlight. 

“Careful, Alastor” says Mimzy, and Alastor peers ahead to where she is pointing, then swerves to avoid the section of tree trunk floating ahead.

A section of tree trunk that watches them with a knowing, beady eye as they pass. Alastor wonders if the alligator is here by coincidence or if it knows a free meal is likely in this section of river. It is not a reassuring thought.

Finally, Mimzy straightens up, opens the handbag that Alastor knows must contain her gun and announces, “Here we are.”

A fishing vessel waits up ahead, cocooned in its own little bubble of light. As they approach it, Mimzy lets out a low whistle. Two notes, not unlike birdsong. Alastor stops the engine as they draw alongside the other boat, but keeps his hand poised to switch it back on. His other hand reaches for his holster.

A man appears on deck. He looks like a fisherman, and perhaps even is one, when he isn’t making a better living this way. Mimzy calls up, “Hiya, Pierre. It’s Mimzy.”

Alastor doubts that anyone on first name terms with his friend could mistake her voice or the way she brushes herself down fussily as she stands, as though she is in a dancehall and not a little boat on the river. Next, Mimzy withdraws a wad of cash from the bag and stands on tip toes to pass it to Pierre, who leans over to take it without a word.

“I hear King’s boys are out tonight” he grunts as he flicks through the wad with practised ease, holding them close to a hanging lamp to check the denominations.

Mimzy nods. “I thought I saw ’em back there but it was nothing.”

Alastor frowns: It wasn’t alligators, then, that she was looking out for when she asked him to cut the engine, but men who used to work for the recently departed mobster Mr King. The man had been a lot worse than an alligator and Alastor doubts his cronies are much better.

“Let’s hope not” says Pierre. “I got my Tommy just in case.” He inclines his head and indicates an item that makes the boat a lot less like a fishing vessel now Alastor has spotted it: A Thompson submachine gun lurking among the barrels and boxes on deck.

“It ain't you that’s got to worry” Mimzy says, “No way they’d come all the way out here just to pick a fight with your bosses. It’s us little guys who’ve got to watch out for them these days.” For some reason, she gives Alastor a dirty look as she says this. Puzzled, he frowns back.

Pierre shrugs, then disappears below deck. Alastor leans over to tell Mimzy, “You should have warned me about King’s gang!”

“Gangs, now!” says Mimzy, “It’s all splintered up into little cliques now the bastard’s dead. It’s not like he appointed an heir or nothing. Seems like he thought he’d live forever.” Mimzy tuts. “I guess he never counted on you.”

Ah. So she knows about that. Before Alastor can reply, Pierre remerges, carrying a large crate that he levers down to them on some sort of pulley system probably designed for fishing nets. Several more follow, and Mimzy and Alastor shift them around, creating a little jingle of clinking glass as they arrange the crates to maximise the space, then secure them against tumbling overboard. Finally, Mimzy tells the man, “Thanks. You take care of yourself, sugar. Say hi to that wife of yours from me.” Then she nods to Alastor, who restarts the engine and turns the little boat around.

Mimzy tucks herself among the crates, then lights a cigarette. “Want one?” she offers.

“No thank you, dear.”

“Suit yourself. Anyway, I was saying about King? Al, ya really need to think about the politics of taking out a guy like that! Ever since he went down, all the fellas that worked for him have turned on each other and it’s making life real hard for us honest folk just trying to make a living.”

“He was branching out from smuggling alcohol to smuggling desperate women, Mimzy. I couldn’t have that.”

“What so ya just killed the guy? He was the most powerful gangster in New Orleans! There are consequences, Alastor!” Mimzy draws deeply on her cigarette and explains, “Time was, I paid him a little cut and he’d let me come out here a certain number of times. I stuck to the limit he set – well, mostly – and we didn’t have a problem. Now, all his old employees are fighting each other to control of the business. Me and the other small timers, we used to just fly under their radar. Pay up when we had to and they didn’t notice us the rest of the time. Now it’s chaos. At least ya knew what to expect with King. He kinda kept order.”

“Order is stifling” Alastor replies, “Think of this as an opportunity, dear.”

“I would if my idiot business associates hadn’t all got themselves shot or arrested just as it all goes down. I mean, you’re not about to help me take the opportunity are ya? You almost didn’t even come here tonight!”

“Ballard will be out of prison soon. You’ll have the required muscle then.”

“Barely. He’s one guy with maybe five brain cells.” Mimzy smokes a little more and adds, “My point is, this gig’s gotten more dangerous. Ya think King would bother sending his boys out here to poach my shipment? Course not. But now his gang’s in pieces they’re all scrambling for every last bit of leverage or trying to set up on their own and suddenly they notice how I’m making a steady profit under their noses. It’s been a real drag, Alastor.”

“I’m sorry, dear, but he had been on my list for a while, as you well know.”

Mimzy shrugs. “I figured you’d never get round to him.”

“I probably wouldn’t if he’d stuck with rum running” Alastor watches the darkness ahead for a while, then adds, “Though I’ll admit, I have been busy these last few months.” That unfortunate occasion when his damn appendix decided to try to kill him has given him renewed drive: He is not going to live forever than there are so many names on his list.

Mimzy replies, “Well, how ’bout ya warn a gal next time ya decide to take out a big player.” Then her eyes widen and she twists to stare ahead of them. Alastor asks, “Is something wrong?”

She flaps her hand at him, which he takes as his cue to cut the engine. Mimzy, meanwhile, has switched off the flashlight. Next, she drops her cigarette in the river. As the little spark of it is swallowed by the water they functionally disappear.

Only darkness and silence for a moment. Alastor slips his gun from his holster, feeling the reassuring weight of it in his hand.

The drone of engines reaches them from up ahead. Mimzy mutters, “…Shit. We got company.”

“King’s old pals?”

“Them or some other assholes.” Mimzy’s tone shifts from mostly scared to mostly angry as she adds, “Either way they want my shipment and they’re not gonna get it!”

Either way, thinks Alastor, they’ll be heavily armed.

“Al, you’re not gonna like this but we gotta speed right on past them. Pierre will have cleared off and there ain't nowhere to hide back there, but if we can make it back to the city…” That awful if hangs in the air while the sound of motorised boats comes steadily closer.

One handed, his other hand still firmly gripping his gun, Alastor revs the engine, but doesn’t steer the boat forward. He waits. Engine rumbling, the boat drifts a little.

“Alastor?”

“Not yet” Alastor tells them, “We’ll move when they’re closer. Confuse them.” That and hopefully gain a head start, if their boats don’t turn easily. But what hope is there of that? Alastor knows if he were to resort to piracy, he’d opt for an easily manoeuvrable vessel.

Mimzy nods. Alastor’s eyes have adjusted to the dark enough that he can see her, huddled in her stole and clutching her own gun.

Or perhaps his eyes haven’t adjusted at all: Perhaps he can only see her because the light from their assailants’ boats is reaching them. As soon as he thinks it, the light becomes more obvious, slicing through the darkness to find them. Mimzy scrunches her eyes up. “Alastor?”

“Not yet.” Alastor drops to his knees behind a crate, keeping his grip on the tiller. “Take cover, dear.”

Mimzy scrambles to the floor of the boat just as the first shot rings out. Above the noise, someone yells, “Mimzy you bitch! We know you’re there! Hand the goods over and no one has to get hurt!”

Another shot skims the side of the boat, splintering the wood. Alastor tightens his grip on the tiller and the gun. At least with his experimenting earlier, he has a good idea of how fast the boat can accelerate from nothing.

There are two boats, both about the size of their own. Alastor, peering past the glare of the lights, can just about make out the men onboard. They are so close now that he can’t make out what they’re yelling over the combined roar of their engines.

And then the boats draw to a near stop, the men perhaps uncertain as to why they aren’t fleeing. The engines lower to a hum.

Another shot. This one zips past Alastor’s head and into the river behind him. Mimzy whimpers, covering her own head. Alastor pulls on the tiller and sends them speeding past the other boats, jumping up as the men shout in confusion and shooting one of them in the chest. Then he drops back down among the crates, hearing a satisfying splash behind him. “Yes!” Mimzy yelps, “Ya got one!”

“I did” Alastor agrees. “Unfortunately, there are…”

More gunfire. “…Quite a lot of them” Alastor finishes. Perhaps three per boat. Or four? As they speed into the darkness, guns sound behind them. Mimzy flattens herself against the floor of the boat, shifting backwards to wedge herself under the seat at the prow. “Shit!” she yells. She fumbles to slide something across the floor to him but there are so many crates in the way that it gets caught. Mimzy curses, then picks it up and flings it over the crates. It bounces off the engine by his head and Alastor scrambles out its way as he realises it is her gun. “Mimzy!”

“What? You got a clearer shot over there!”

“I need to use one hand to steer!”

“Well ya ain't doing that right now!”

She has a point: Alastor quickly jumps up, glimpses the water ahead illuminated by the lights from their attackers and ducks down again. “We don’t appear to be about to crash.”

Mimzy looks about to argue but more gunfire interrupts her. Alastor fires back and, judging by the cursing and groaning, surmises that he has achieved a non-fatal shot.

Not good enough.

“Al, I think we’re drifting!”

Realising she is right, Alastor grabs the tiller and redirects them to what he estimates to be the middle of the river.

Another spray of bullets splatters into the water around them. One pierces a crate, sending splinters and glass into the air around them. “Fuck all of ya!” Mimzy yells, “Go find your own!”

Glass grazes Alastor’s hand. He sees the blood before he feels the pain. Why are their lights still so close he can see it? “Ah, I’ve spotted a flaw in my plan.”

“Now ya tell me!”

“We’re a lot heavier than they are.”

“Hey! What ya saying about me?”

“No! Mimzy!” Alastor puts his bleeding hand to his face. “I mean, we’re weighed down by the cargo. We’re going to have to lose some.”

“What? Fuck no! Alastor I might as well chuck money at them!”

“Or to the bottom of the river” Alastor agrees, “So the choice is yours: Throw one crate overboard where no one can get it or let them board us and take all of it for themselves?”

Mimzy glares, but reaches for a crate, hoisting it away from where it’s wedged between two others. “Okay, okay. One crate.” She positions the crate on the edge of the boat, then ducks behind it as more bullets fire over their heads. “Oh, that does it!” she yells. She wrenches the crate open and pulls out a bottle. “Ya want booze?” she shouts to the men, “Here’s some booze!” She throws the bottle, then reaches for another. “Here! Take it ya bastards!” She throws again, still swearing loudly enough to compete with the engine.

Whether any of the bottles reach the other boats, Alastor can’t tell, but they must at least come close because there are confused shouts from the men in pursuit. Alastor uses the distraction to jump up and shoot one of them in the face. He topples into the water. Mimzy whoops in delight and shoves the half empty crate into the river. With one less weight they pull forwards a little, but the other boats have also lost weight, in the form of passengers, and they quickly close the gap. “Damn it, Alastor! Ya made me throw away good rum for nothing!”

Two down, thinks Alastor. But plenty left in each boat. Then he thinks, ah: The boats! Manoeuvrable, lightweight: Easily pierced. He jumps up and fires again, at the boats themselves this time. He succeeds only in shooting a man in the leg. There is a howl and Alastor flings himself to the floor as the man fires back. Injured, he fires wide, and Alastor hears a honk and a splash as some unlucky water bird drops into the water.

Waterbird. They are probably tucked up in their nests this time of night, which means they are too close to the bank. Alastor tugs on the tiller again, steering them away from where the splash sounded. This change of direction seems to take their perusers by surprise, so Alastor zigzags some more, causing them to waste bullets on the empty water as the boat dances about.

“Alastor, watch it!” Mimzy puts up a hand to shield herself as a crate slides against her.

“Sorry, dear.” Alastor jerks the vessel to the side again and springs up, fires twice at the hull of the nearest boat. This time he is rewarded by splintering wood.

…And a click. “Ah” he says as he ducks back down. He reaches for where he wedged Mimzy’s gun but finds it has slipped free.

“Alastor?”

“I, err, don’t suppose you’ve seen your gun?”

“For fuck’s sake, Alastor! I gave ya that for safe keeping!”

“You threw it at my head, dear. Ah, here it is.” Alastor raises the weapon and turns back to their pursuers, but is relieved to find they sound further away. He risks a glimpse and confirms that the men on one boat are scrambling to plug the leak, while the other boat has slowed to assist it. Torch beams are aimed at the hole, not in his eyes, giving him a clearer line of sight. Five men left. He shoots one of them in the torso. Four.

He slams himself down as they resume firing. Apparently, they decide to abandon the damaged boat because there is some scrambling and cursing, growing more distant as Alastor and Mimzy’s boat continues away from them. Deciding to prioritise getting away over using the chance to shoot again, Alastor yanks at the tiller, accelerating into the darkness. “Holy shit!” gasps Mimzy, grabbing hold of a crate as it slides past her.

As the noises from behind them die down, Alastor risks raising his head to see where they are actually going…

…then ducks down quickly when a bullet whizzes past it. Mimzy groans. “I thought we lost the bastards!”

Alastor checks her gun. “Do you have spare bullets?”

“What do I look like, a walking gun store?” Mimzy gestures to the gun. “We got those six shots.”

“Five. I used one already.” Five shots, four men. “Mimzy, I’m going to turn this boat around.”

“What? And go where?”

“Just around them in a wide circle. They won’t be expecting it and some of them are injured anyway. While they’re wrong footed, I need you to shoot.”

“Can’t you do that?”

“I’ll be steering the boat.” Alastor crawls forward to press the gun into her hands.

“I dunno, Alastor. I ain't good at this sorta thing.”

“Nonsense. I know you Mimzy. If there’s one thing you can do, it’s shoot a man.”

“What because of Bert that time? And Joe? Alastor they were close range!”

Alastor gestures behind. “Well they’re not getting any further away!”

Mimzy bites her lip, listening as the other boat heads towards them. “Fine. If I die, I’m killing ya.”

“I won’t let you die, Mimzy.” Alastor lets the other boat follow for a while. Long enough without firing, hopefully, for the men to think they’re out of bullets. Then, without warning, he swerves, pulling the boat into a wide, full speed arc around the other vessel, water spraying as they tilt. The men slow their boat to aim and Mimzy fires, then shrieks in delight at the resulting splash. “I got one!” She and Alastor both scramble for cover as the men come to their senses and fire back, Alastor flattening himself against the engine and pulling on the tiller to reorientate the boat back towards the city. As they resume fleeing in a straight line, their speed picks up.

More gunfire from the other boat. Mimzy fires again, but this time hits the other boat’s engine, the bullet ricochetting away into the dark waters. She passes him the gun, telling him, “You try” then ducks back behind a crate.

Alastor grips the gun. Three bullets. Three men. He starts to rise but sinks back as more gunfire zips past his head. More glass shatters and Mimzy yells, “Watch the merchandise!” Then she shrieks as more bullets rain down. Several strike the hull, cutting through the wood by Alastor’s hand.

Followed by cold water. “Ah. Mimzy, dear, do you have a toolkit to hand?”

“What’d want a toolkit for…oh.” Mimzy peers round her crate to stare at the hole, then shrinks back the men in pursuit fire again.

Alastor ducks too, getting his shirt wet against the now slippery floor. Another shot from behind and the engine judders to a stop. “Fuck.”

“Shit! What do we do now?”

Alastor reaches into the water pooling around his knees and snatches up a blade of glass. He keeps that in one hand and grips Mimzy’s gun in the other.

The boat shakes as the other boat draws up alongside it and a man by the prow reaches out to grab their hull. “You’re gonna pay for that bullshit back there” he growls.

Alastor raises the gun, then drops it when he realises that the other two men already have their weapons trained on him. The man who has hold of their boat pulls it flush against the other vessel with a jolt. One of the armed men steps forward…

…then stumbles back as a bottle hits his shoulder, shattering. Mimzy jumps up, yelling, “Yeah, ya bastards! You want my rum? Let me help ya to some!” as she throws another bottle. This time she hits the other armed man square on the head and he doesn’t stumble. He simply falls backwards, into the water, and doesn’t resurface. As the man at the helm swears, Alastor dives for the man still on his feet, kneeing him in the gut and driving the glass into his neck. Blood sprays into the water. The man howls, then gurgles, then falls. Alastor reaches for the man’s gun but something hits him hard on the head. Dazed, Alastor is aware of Mimzy swearing as the final man advances with an oar. He raises Mimzy’s gun and then realises, no, he dropped it. He looks at his empty hand while the man clobbers him over the head again, knocking him into the water.

For a moment, there is nothing. Then Alastor becomes aware he is sinking through cold water. The realisation has him scrambling for the surface, the movement costing more and more effort as his clothes soak up water, the wool becoming heavier and heavier.

Swimming in clothes, he quickly realises, is very different from swimming in his undergarments as a boy. Swimming in shoes! Somehow, it is almost impossible. His lungs start to hurt. Above him, a noise like a spray of gunfire. Mimzy, no…

Alastor surfaces at last, drawing a deep breath.

“Alastor!”

“Mimzy? Thank goodness! I thought you’d been shot.” Alastor swims over to the boats…

…which are both sinking fast.

“I almost was” says Mimzy, who is up to her ankles in water. “This idiot went for the other idiot’s gun” she indicates the man with the oar, who is now very much dead, “So I grabbed it and it went off and got the other boat! Well and him but still. Now they’re both going down!” She reaches out to help Alastor as he pulls himself onboard. Onboard being only marginally drier than the river, and fast slipping into it. “You okay, sweetie?” she asks as Alastor regains his footing.

Alastor swallows back a sharp response and reaches for his head. No blood, he concludes, feeling his skull and examining his fingers. Though it is hard to tell in the dark and with so many corpses bleeding into water he was just swimming in. “I think so.”

“Good. Help me inta their boat” Mimzy instructs, “There might be something there we can fix our hole with.”

This seems unlikely: The lip of their hull is almost level with the river now, water starting to splash over the side as well as through the hole. Still, Alastor steadies Mimzy automatically as, clinging to him, she takes a step over the side so that she is briefly standing in both boats at once. When the other boat tilts sideways, she shrieks and Alastor quickly pulls her back. As they stumble against each other, their boat shudders and suddenly they are up to their knees in wate, then their thighs, and then there is a sinister lurch as the boat sails serenely out from under their feet and towards the bottom of the river.

“Shit, the crates!” Mimzy dives for the nearest as it tumbles past her and struggles to stop it from sinking. It pulls her under and Alastor hurriedly grabs her, dragging her to the surface where she spits water in his face. “Mimzy, leave it!”

“No! We got to get these to shore!”

“It will be hard enough to get ourselves to shore!” Alastor, aware how heavy his clothes already are, slips his jacket off. It floats briefly, then slips under, snagging a floating bottle as it goes.

“Shit, no, no way, Alastor, am I losing our entire cargo after all that!”

Alastor’s gaze trails past her and up the river. “Oh, hello” he says, “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

“Huh?” Mimzy follows his gaze, then yelps and splashes as she spots the alligator. Alastor reaches for the nearest corpse, which is floating face down. He rolls it forward, then grabs a floating oar to push it until it drifts towards the alligator. “I suggest we leave” he tells Mimzy, “Before our pal here calls his friends.”

“Shit, shit, shit. Yeah. Sure. For fuck’s sake though, all that rum!”

Later Alastor will wonder if just swimming to shore was as dangerous as all the events that preceded it. The Mississippi is wide and deep, and who knows how many undercurrents and hungry alligators they slipped past by sheer dumb luck. Already tired from his earlier dip, he focuses on keeping his head above the water and moving forward, swimming diagonally to the current as his mama taught him to do in such an eventuality.

Well, perhaps not quite this eventuality.

Eventually, he kicks his shoes off and lets them sink. His pants are heavy, but he resists the urge to shed them. Things are not quite that desperate yet.

Mimzy, for her part, keeps up a litany of complaints at first, but then she starts to tire and falls quiet. Alastor is relieved at first, then worried enough to call out to her. They develop a pattern after that, checking where the other is every few strokes. Mimzy shrieks at one point and insists an alligator brushed past her leg, but nothing happens and Alastor privately thinks the reptile might have been a figment of a frightened imagination.

When they finally haul themselves out the water, they stagger away from the banks, clinking to each other, and then collapse onto the muddy ground. “Fuck” breathes Mimzy at the sky. Then, louder, “Fuck! Those fucking assholes! All that rum, all my hard work! We almost died! Fuck!”

Alastor sits and runs a hand through his dripping hair. “We are alive, dear.”

“Yeah. Somehow.” Mimzy sits. She is still in heels, Alastor realises. His own feet are quite bare, his socks lost along with his jacket, shoes, money and gun. “You owe me a drink, dear.”

Mimzy hands him a bottle. Alastor stares at it.

“What?” Mimzy asks, “I saved one. One outta all that!” She gets to her feet, exhaustion making her totter in her heels. “And I don’t know about you, kitten, but I could use a pick me up.”

“Mimzy” says Alastor, “That is the best idea you’ve had all evening.”

Chapter Text

“It’s a complete disaster” says Alastor, lowering the paper to stare in horror at Mimzy.

“Hm?” Mimzy glances up from stirring her coffee.

Alastor pauses. Something is wrong with her face. He should have noticed it when she came in. “Where’s your smile, my dear?”

Mimzy rolls her eyes. “Where’s yours?”

Alastor jabs at the paper. “Gone, thanks to President Coolidge. The Radio Act! What do politicians know about radio? All this rot about controlling the so called chaos of broadcasting! Chaos is where the creativity comes from!”

“Uh huh.” Mimzy returns her gaze to her coffee.

“And the nonsense about it being about ensuring quality programming! Up until now, the listening public decided what was quality! Now it’s some white man in Washington! It’ll be the smaller stations that suffer. And you can say goodbye to shows that give voice to the likes of you and me!” Alastor sips his own coffee and adds, “Well, except me.” His popularity is such that the station couldn’t afford to fire him even if his parentage and his show’s tendency towards gossip and anti prohibition stance makes obtaining a licence challenging. Years ago, it would have been a different story.

Perhaps he should relish this crushing of the competition. But if anyone is going to crush the competition it should be him! “They’re only doing it because they’re terrified of jazz and all the so called immoral behaviour it supposedly inspires” he declares, then pushes the paper aside in disgust.

Mimzy doesn’t look as moved by his outrage as one would hope. She is still stirring the coffee, not drinking it.

She didn’t hug him when she came in. Which is good, obviously. Alastor hates being hugged so he isn’t at all upset about that.

Has he done something wrong?

Switching on a smile, Alator leans back and says, “But enough about that whacky nonsense! How are you, dear?” When Mimzy doesn’t answer, Alastor adds, “I’m rather surprised you kept our appointment given how busy you’ve been with dear Lawrence recently.”

Actually he’d been so unsure that she would show up that he’d maximised his chances by asking to meet in her favourite café, a place where virtually everything on the menu is too sweet for his tastes. And here she is. With any luck she is finally growing tired of Lawrence’s dubious charms.

Mimzy makes a disgruntled noise. “Him. Yeah, I’ve seen him. Too much of him.”

Alastor straightens up. “Has he hurt you?”

“Not the way you’re thinking.”

Alastor has no idea what to make of that. A broken heart perhaps? But Mimzy is usually an entertaining mix of blasé and vengeful when a man jilts her. This is different.

There is still something is wrong with her face. It’s not just the lack of smile. Alastor stares, then realises it’s not wrong, just different: She isn’t wearing makeup. This is the first time he’s seen her without what she refers to as her “face” on, even counting the handful of occasions that they have ill-advisedly shared a bed after a drunken night out. On those occasions, she has always woken in good time to correct the smeared remains of her lipstick, kohl and rouge.

“Take a picture, Alastor, it’ll last longer.”

“Sorry, dear.” Alastor slides his gaze to her cake. She hasn’t eaten it.

Mimzy lifts her coffee at last but doesn’t drink it, only scowls at it. Alastor asks her, “Would you like something else?”

“Nah. This is fine.” She still doesn’t touch the cake.

“Mimzy, darling, what’s wrong?”

“Why would anything be wrong?” returns Mimzy in a monotone.

“You’re not your usual charming self.”

“Well excuse me if I ain't being entertaining enough for ya!”

“That’s not what I mean. Has something happened?”

Mimzy finally looks at him properly. She seems about to deny it for a moment, but then she sighs and glances around. Confirming they are alone in a quiet corner, she leans closer and tells him, “I think I’m in trouble.”

Alastor hides his look of annoyance by sipping his coffee. Mimzy may have had less time for dancing with him recently but suffice to say that it wasn’t Lawrence she called upon when she landed in a spot of bother with a creditor last week. Alastor’s bruises are only just starting to fade. Since then, he’s had to endure concern at work from the colleagues who bought his story about a mugging, and poorly suppressed disapproval from those who don’t believe a word of it but who know how crucial his show is to the success of the station. He gets away with borderline scandalous content and even the occasional hangover on the strength of his popularity with the audience but there is a limit, especially now the Radio Act has passed, and he doesn’t want to push things by turning up having clearly been fighting another week in a row.

But then, if Mimzy needs help, she needs help. One can’t always plan these things. “Who is it this time?”

“Ya guessed right the first time” replies Mimzy moodily, “That bastard Lawrence.”

“I thought he hadn’t hurt you?” Alastor frowns. “I thought you were getting on with him?” Of course, a man can change for the worse, he reminds himself. They are known for it.

“I was” says Mimzy “Too well.” She stares resignedly at him for a moment. “You got no idea what I’m talking about do ya?”

“Well you haven’t told me, dear.”

“I said I’m in trouble.”

“What sort of trouble? Has he threatened you?”

“No, Al, trouble.”

“Again, Mimzy, of what kind?”

“I’m late.”

“For what?”

Mimzy gives him a ferocious look. “I’m late, Al. My monthlies didn’t show!”

“Oh!” Alastor blushes.

“Yep” says Mimzy, sitting back and taking up her mug again. “My life is over.”

“Ah.” Why? Alastor wonders. Monthlies? That would be… “Ah. I see.”

“Yep.”

“So you’re…?”

“Looks like.”

“Mimzy, dear, you shouldn’t have taken the tram here! If I’d known you were expecting, I would have collected you in the car!”

“Oh don’t give me that bullshit. This is enough of a shitshow without you fussing.”

“Have you told Lawrence?”

She nods grimly.

“Will he do the right thing?” Much as he hopes so for Mimzy’s sake, Alastor feels a little pang about the prospect of her disappearing into marriage. None of his married friends have much time for fun. Their husbands always eye him with suspicion and their children sap all their time and energy for socialising.

But Mimzy rolls her eyes and replies, “He already did the right thing for the wife he’s already got.”

“Ah.” One would think he’d learn his lesson by now, Alastor thinks.

“He went on and on about how he’s got three kids already” Mimzy adds, “Made out they need every cent so I’ll just have to take whatever he can spare. But I’m telling ya, Al, money was not a problem all those times he booked fancy hotels for us!”

“Would you like me to have words with him?”

“What? No! How will he pay up if he’s dead?”

“I mean actual words, cher.”

Mimzy relaxes, but shakes her head. “You do that and he’ll just back off even more. I got no power here, I need to play nice.” She stabs the cake with a fork without eating any. “But even if he pays, I’m screwed. Fallen.” She frowns. “Well, I guess I fell already but now people will be able to tell.” She takes a bracing gulp of coffee and adds, “I’ll lose my figure.”

“My mama always said that sort of thing is worth it” Alastor offers uncertainly.

Mimzy’s scowl intensifies. “Yeah, well, your mama loved you. What am I supposed to do?”

Alastor tries to picture Mimzy loving a baby. It feels a bit of a stretch. Actually, he is in agreement about this being an utter catastrophe. Raising children is for caring people like his mother to handle. Mimzy, for all her admirable traits, is bound to get it wrong. And if she somehow gets it right, she’ll hardly be able to spend long nights in the speakeasy with him. And to do it all without the support of a husband! She’ll be miserable. He’ll be miserable. And they won’t even be able to hold it against the child without damaging it and rendering the sacrifice of all their leisure time pointless. “Perhaps it will be different when it arrives” he tries.

Mimzy shudders. “Great, so I’ve just got to sit here and wait for this parasite to take over my life but that’s okay cause I might get attached to it?”

“When you put it like that…” Alastor admits.

“It’s okay” Mimzy tells him, “There’s other ways.”

“Such as?”

Mimzy gulps more coffee. “You want the cake?”

“No thank you”

“Me neither. C’mon, let’s go. I need some fresh air.”

They take their time walking to where Alastor parked his car. Of course, letting her make her way home on the tram is out of the question. She shouldn’t have come out in this heat at all, in her condition. Alastor asks, “Is there any way to be sure?”

“I gotta go to a doctor for that. Actually, I could use some funds…”

“Mai oui.”

“And…Do ya mind if I come back to your place to make the call? I know we got a telephone in my apartment building but I don’t want all the neighbours overhearing this.”

“But of course, my dear.”

“Thanks, Al.” Mimzy relaxes a little, and hooks her hand over his arm. For all she is irritable – and perhaps that is the pregnancy or the stress or both – she also seems relieved to have told someone who can offer at least some limited help.

She is quiet all the way to his apartment, and subdued as she leafs through the White Pages to find the doctor’s number. Not knowing what else to do, Alastor makes tea for them both, since Mimzy had seemed unimpressed by the coffee back in the café. He glances over with a frown when Mimzy dials a number and gives the doctor’s receptionist a false name.

Once she puts the phone down, she tells him, “I’m going in at three.”

“Today? Better to know, I suppose.”

“That depends what it is I’ve got to know.” Mimzy slumps into a chair and watches him move about the kitchen.

“Dr Reeves again?” he asks.

“No. I don’t want him to have anything over me if I can help it. I’ll only go to him if I need…you know, a follow up.”

Alastor wants to ask why she didn’t give her real name, but she looks miserable enough. Besides, while it doesn’t seem necessary to keep her identity from a doctor, he understands the desire to be discreet. He is all too familiar with the way the world treats unmarried mothers. For every well to do family who employed his mama to cook or clean or wash their clothes, there were dozens who turned her away, not wanting to taint their household with the scandal of her. Even he, as a child, was sometimes treated as a bad influence not because of boyish hijinks along the lines of putting dead mice in drawers or lit matches on sleeping drunks, but because his parents weren’t married. His father, he is certain, faced no such judgment.

He shakes off these unpleasant memories and tells Mimzy, “I’m not on air today. I’ll drive you to the appointment. And then I insist you stay for dinner.”

Mimzy rolls her eyes. “I ain't made of glass, Al. And if you tell me I’m eating for two when you serve that dinner, I’ll throw it in your face.”

Alastor laughs, despite the threat being clearly serious and the situation far from funny. Mimzy drains her tea and tells him, “I don’t got to be stuck with it, ya realise. Like I said, there’s another way.”

Alastor stands, gathering up cups and jugs and dumping them in the sink. “You mean adoption?”

“I was thinking more a trip to a back alley clinic if ya know what I mean.” Mimzy looks at Alastor. “You don’t know what I mean, do ya, Al?”

“Not a clue, cher.”

Mimzy shakes her head despairingly. “It’s easy for you men.”

“Far too easy” Alastor agrees. His own father epitomised it. The man had a well paid job, a respectable place in the polite society that shunned mama and a choice of women to beat if all that become too much. A company pension at the end of it all, had he lived long enough. As it was, his widow got that money and mama got nothing, which was far better than the man’s visits. Alastor was old enough by then to find work and compensate for the loss of his father’s sporadic and highly conditional contributions.

That was why he waited as long as he did.

“I guess there’s adoption too” says Mimzy, “But I’d still have to ruin my figure and go through all the pain of childbirth.”

Alastor freezes. “It’s painful?”

“What the fuck, Al, of course it’s painful! How did you not know that?” When he doesn’t respond Mimzy adds, “Ya know people die of it, right?”

“Yes, but that’s when something goes wrong! Surely if nothing goes wrong it can’t hurt?”

Mimzy stares at him incredulously. Alastor searches his mind for any hope that he is right and comes up empty. “But” he says, “But then…I…mama must have…Oh.”

Mimzy relents with a sound that is part annoyance and part concern. She gets up and gives him that hug at last. Alastor leans into it holding on to her tightly. She tells him, “Sweetie, your mama loved you. She’d have said you were worth any pain.”

This is no comfort at all. Any pain leaves room for sheer agony. And there was Alastor thinking that he’d never hurt those of fairer means. Now he finds out he hurt his own mother?

Mimzy catches sight of the clock and pulls away from him. “Shit, we gotta go!”

Soon, they are driving through New Orleans’ bustling streets. Staring out the front of the car, Mimzy says, “Maybe adoption is better. I could just pass it off to someone stupid enough to want it and get on with my life.” She fishes in her pocket and pulls out a cigarette, lighting up and inhaling deeply. “Ya want a gasper?”

“Not when I’m driving.” Alastor waits until Mimzy seems a little more at ease before asking, “Why did you give a false name to the doctor? He’ll need to see your medical records, cher.”

“Why? It’s simple ain’t it? I’m screwed or I’m not.”

“But a doctor has to be confidential” Alastor points out, “If you’re worried about it getting back to Mrs Sanchez.”

“That ain't what I’m worried about” replies Mimzy, “I just don’t want the doctor knowing my real name in case I get rid of it.”

“Why would the doctor care if you get it adopted or not?”

Mimzy stares at him, and seems about to launch into a lengthy explanation, but then she just shakes her head and turns to look out of the window. Alastor is a little puzzled, but doesn’t press her. After smoking a little longer, Mimzy says, “That bitch Sanchez won’t care anyway. Least not at first. She’ll have me dancing til I start showing and then I’ll be out the door.”

“I won’t allow that.”

“Well what can you do? I won’t be able to dance once I’m showing, I’ll be the size of a horse! And everyone will see.” Mimzy puffs agitatedly on her cigarette, then adds, “Stupid, ain't it? Usually I don’t give a fuck about scandal. But this ain't the sort of thing that adds a little spice to a girl’s reputation, it’s the kind of thing that ruins it.” She leans back, glowering out the window. “The men who come to the club hear I don’t mind if a fella’s married and they think they could be in luck and it gets them all riled up for the show. But if they hear I’m pregnant? No one thinks that’s sexy. And it reminds them someone else has been there first and men get real weird about that even when they knew it already deep down.”

“I’ve said it before, dear: Men are animals.”

Mimzy makes an affirmative noise and draws on her cigarette again. Alastor asks, “Are you sure you should be smoking that?” He has only ever read good things about the health implications of smoking in the scientific journals, but he has noticed that the activity doesn’t do much good for Myrtle, one of Mimzy’s fellow dancers, who is already in frail health.

“Al, if you try to stop me, I will crash this car.”

Given the situation, Alastor lets that pass. They drive on in silence for a while. Mimzy stamps out the cigarette on the dashboard and sits looking out at the passing streets. Finally, she says, “I just hate that I’m alone in this. Damn Lawrence. What did I ever see in the guy?”

Before Alastor can reply that he honestly has no idea, the doctor’s office comes into view. He parks as close to it as he can. Mimzy may insist she isn’t as delicate as her current state implies, but there is no reason for her to have to walk too far.

Actually, should she be wearing those heels? But if he points that out, she’ll probably hit him with them.

“Shit” mutters Mimzy, “I should’ve put a ring on.” She stares critically down at her hand with its ringless ring finger. “I mean, I don’t got a ring nice enough for a proper handcuff but they could just think my fiancé is a stingy bastard.” She glances apprehensively at the doctor’s office. “He’ll know I’m thinking about getting rid of it” she says.

“That’s none of his business, surely?”

“I wish.” Mimzy continues to stare.

“Wear gloves” Alastor suggests.

Mimzy glares at him. “Ya think he won’t see through that?”

“Well you’re already late, dear. I can’t drive us around looking for a ring.” Actually, Alastor has a wedding ring back in his apartment he could have leant her if he’d known. His grand-mère’s ring, originally, but he doesn’t remember her. What he remembers is his mama wearing that ring every day, taking it off only for certain tasks in the kitchen. Then, she’d give it to him and say, “Look after my maman’s ring, mon ange” and he’d sit holding it very carefully until she was done, feeling that he was guarding something precious. Once, his father had come in, and Alastor had instinctively popped the ring in his mouth for safekeeping, before the man could catch sight of it and accuse him, as he sometimes did, of being girly. As if there is something wrong with being like the half of the human race who don’t hit their spouses.

Mimzy gets out the car. “Wish me luck” she mutters.

“Good luck, Mimzy.” As if luck will save her. The damage is already done.

Alastor waits, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Perhaps he should have gone in with her? He could have played the doting fiancé, all apologetic that this is happening before he could even buy a ring.

Really, there is no reason he couldn’t play the part more widely.

Not that Mimzy will need a fiancé, surely? She has expressed no interest in keeping the child. But what if she has a change of heart after the birth? Mama always said she didn’t understand just how much she would love him until she held him for the first time.

Mama had been advised by several people to give him up for adoption. Just telling him that had made her tearful. And keeping him made her life harder in ways that Alastor doubts Mimzy – lacking both his mama’s grit and forgiving grace – could cope with.

He will not have Mimzy face the choice his mama made with poverty like a gun at her back. He will not have Mimzy face the hardship and derision his mama faced if she ends up loving her child.

Alastor sighs, wishing, not for the first time, that he could call mama and ask her advice.

She would tell him to do it, he thinks. She would immediately set aside all her many qualms about Mimzy and start knitting baby clothes. That he isn’t the father would be a minor detail. To mama, a baby was a baby, no matter the colour, sex or parentage. She would be proud of him. She would tell him he is being like Saint Joseph. Really, Alastor thinks, it is no wonder the world is in the state it is in when even God leaves another man to raise his child.

But this is ridiculous! There was a lot mama didn’t know about him, and if she did, she’d agree he is the last person in the world who should be raising a child.

Alastor swears under his breath and climbs out the car, then leans on it, letting the afternoon sun warm his face and calm his writhing thoughts.

Of course, marriage is not a simple process even if he wanted it. He’d have to lie about his race when they apply for the licence and hope no one challenges him. But perhaps he is being overcautious. Perhaps it is just a matter of smiling a charming smile and pretending to be Portuguese.

It would give Mimzy financial security, not to mention a reassurance that she isn’t alone.

And perhaps being married wouldn’t be as awful as he suspects it must be. He enjoys spending time with Mimzy after all. But all the time? Just the thought is tiring.

And she wouldn’t be the same if she were caring for a baby. Or at least, one would hope not. A baby! In his apartment! Alastor values having his own space, somewhere to retreat to when being sociable and charming gets tiresome. Sharing that sanctuary with anyone – let alone a bawling infant – is not a prospect he relishes.  

Family life sounds far from entertaining. Gone would be the days of speakeasies and dancing. No more brunches, no more parties, no more spontaneous day trips.

No more hobby. Or perhaps, more hobby. He has to keep something.

None of this sounds remotely appealing. But what’s the alternative? Abandon Mimzy to her fate? If he does that, how is he different from Lawrence? Or his father, come to that, who absolutely would not have married mama even if it had been an option.

Not that living with the man would have been anything but hellish. Which should perhaps tell him everything he needs to know about what a disaster this would be. Alastor knows he would never behave as brutishly as his father but he can’t deny he has some brutality in him. Anyone looking for confirmation can just ask Mr King. If they can find all the pieces.

Well. Doesn’t that just go to show that simply being around him is bound to damage the child? Child rearing should be left to gentle, caring people, and in Alastor’s experience these people are all women.

They are also not Mimzy. Mimzy is delightfully self serving, refreshingly shameless and always looking for a thrill or a quick buck. She is far from the mother he had and even he turned out to be killer.

“You okay, doll face?” Mimzy has emerged from the doctor’s office.

Alastor switches on a smile. “But of course, dear.” He waits until they are both back in the car before asking, “Well?”

“Well, it was a real drag. The doctor prodded me about but I guess I’ll have to get used to that if I’m gonna actually be pregnant and end up like a beached whale and all, but still. And then I had to pee in a cup, fucking disgusting. It’s a good thing ya gave me that tea.”

“And…?”

“Oh, he can’t tell yet. I gotta go back in a week.”

A week of this? Alastor shudders and hoists his smile up higher. “Well why don’t you stay at my place until then?” It could be a test to see if he can stand it.

If he can’t, perhaps he is justified in just giving Mimzy an allowance of some sort if she keeps the child? But then, isn’t that still abandoning her? Even his father provided financial support now and then.

Mimzy shakes her head. “No thanks, sweetie. I wanna be on my own.”

“Come back for dinner at least.”

“I’m not hungry. Just drop me off at home.”

Alastor drives in silence, steeling himself. When he pulls up in front of Mimzy’s rundown apartment block she moves to get out and he says, “Wait a minute, dear.”

“What?”

Alastor takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to do this. He really doesn’t want to do this. But that is beside the point. Mimzy is his best friend and she needs his help. “Mimzy, if you do decide you want to keep it…”

“I won’t.”

“But if you do. I…Since Lawrence can’t walk you down the middle aisle, I could always…step in.”

“Huh?”

“So that you don’t have to be an unwed mother. I could…well.”

“Oh fuck you, Alastor! I don’t want a pity proposal!”

“It wouldn’t be pity! Just friendship.”

“Sweetie, there’s a lot more to marriage than friendship.”

“Well obviously we wouldn’t do any of that sordid business. I’d insist on separate bedrooms.”

“Gee, thanks. Such a charmer you are.”

“But apart from that! I think I could do the job.” Alastor says this with a confidence he does not feel. Really, he has no idea how to be a husband, even one without any unseemly obligations.

“Marrying me is a job now?”

“A duty.”
Mimzy laughs. “Be serious, Alastor! What about your hobby?”

“I don’t do it at home.”

“So I’ll just be stuck with a kid while you’re out having fun?”

“The offer’s there.”

Mimzy is silent for a moment. She stares at him, her expression shifting from annoyance to something Alastor can’t quite name. “You don’t want this” she tells him.

“Nor do you.”

“So why even ask? For fuck’s sake, Alastor, can ya really picture yourself being a husband? A confirmed bachelor like you?”

A husband? Alastor can’t quite supress a shudder at hearing it out loud. “It’s just a thought” he says.

Mimzy makes a there you go gesture. “See? You’re getting cold feet already and ya didn’t even get me a ring yet!”

Mama’s ring might fit Mimzy. And if it doesn’t, Alastor has heard from numerous ladies of his acquaintance that such things can be altered. But could he bear to have mama’s ring altered? Could he bear to not have it to hand when he wants to look at it but instead see it only at a distance, on Mimzy’s finger?

Mimzy goes on, “And what’s all this separate bedrooms bullshit? You think I want to live like a nun?”

“I’m not asking you to live like a nun, Mimzy.”

“Then you’re saying I can have affairs and make you look like a cuckolded idiot and all your friends will hate me! Gee, thanks, real nice marriage you’re offering me there!”

“Well perhaps you should have thought of that before you got yourself into this mess!”

“Watch it! It’s easy for you! You can have all the sex you like and you don’t get pregnant!” Mimzy folds her arms with a huff. “Not that you do” she says grudgingly after a while.

Alastor frowns. “Get pregnant?”

“Have all the sex you like.”

“Oh. Actually I do.”

“Wait, what? I thought ya never had any?”

“Precisely.”

Mimzy rolls her eyes. “You’re missing out, Al.”

“Given your current predicament, I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Mimzy huffs, then glares out the window. She asks, “You really are still a virgin, huh?”

Reluctantly, Alastor nods. It’s not that he’s embarrassed, just that he is well aware that others respond badly to a man of his age holding the status.

Mimzy gives him a long, considering look. “Don’t ya mind that?” she asks.

“Not at all.”

She appears to thinks over. “You said ages ago you were just trying to figure your type out.”

“I did: It turns out my type is no one.”

Mimzy thinks some more. Alastor wonders idly if she’ll do herself an injury. “You should go to the doctor about it” she tells him.

“Ah, yes, because society is crawling in venereal disease, women are being violated and we have more unwanted children than we know what to do with, but somehow I’m the problem.”

“Well…You said it, sweetie. It’s weird.”

“I’m sorry if my not wanting to have my way with anyone makes you uncomfortable, Mimzy.”

“You giving me a pity proposal makes me uncomfortable.”

“I’m only trying to help.”

“You’re trying to make me your beard. Gotta be real convenient for you to get yourself a nice lavender marriage with a wife and kid and ya didn’t have to do any of that sordid sex stuff to get it.”

“Convenient isn’t the word I’d use” Alastor grinds out.

“Bullshit it ain't! Al, you’ve got to know everyone thinks you’re a homosexual…”

“…they what?”

“…and if ya trick me into keeping the brat and being holed up in your fancy apartment with it, with a manacle on my finger, you don’t got that problem no more!”

“I was merely trying to offer you a way to keep the child if you decided you wanted to!”

“Well I won’t!”

“You might if half of what my mother said about how women love their children is true.”

“Well I’m sorry I’m not as saintly as your precious mother, Al!”

Mimzy shuts up then and they sit in tense silence, both glaring ahead. He will not, Alastor decides, be giving her mama’s ring.

“Look” says Mimzy after a while, “If you ever change your mind and want to do the dirty with a gal, you know where to find me. I’ll set you up with someone who won’t judge.”

If he ever wants to murder someone he knows where to find her, Alastor thinks. Then he feels a shiver of self disgust. Mimzy is expecting a child. Just thinking about hurting her is unacceptable unless he wants to be like his father. Maybe just the looming shadow of husbandhood is doing its work, turning him into a tyrant.

Not that she has accepted his proposal so far. But he determinedly doesn’t withdraw the offer as she gives him a cross, “Bye, Al” and gets out the car. He watches until she is safely inside, then drives home.

It’s a long week at work. Alastor chatters into the microphone only half aware of what he’s saying half the time, and putting on records whenever he senses himself losing track of the script. Mr Poole drops a few hints about an early night being a good idea.

All of which is proof that marriage is a terrible idea. No amount of late night drinking in the speakeasies ever knocked him off his game like this. Murder never knocked him off his game like this.

He gets a few digs in against the Radio Act, at least. Attacking something – even verbally – relieves the stress a little. He considers choosing a target and attacking more literally. Lawrence springs to mind. But lashing out at times of stress is a sure way to be caught. He forces himself to be a model citizen.

He calls Mimzy’s apartment building several times but she’s never at home. That or she has asked her neighbours to tell him she’s out. Ironic that the neighbours must think they’ve had some sort of lovers’ quarrel.

By the end of the week, he resorts to looking for her at the club, showing up in the afternoon, aware that if she is on stage tonight that gives her time to talk to him while she gets herself ready in her dressing room. Evans, the gruff and scarred handyman-bouncer informs him that not only is she not in, but she called in sick for one show this week and simply didn’t turn up for the other. “Mrs Sanchez says she’ll be out of a job if she don’t show soon” he warns.

“I’m sure she wouldn’t fire someone who’s worked here so long on such meagre grounds” Alastor replies.

“Works is putting it strongly” Evans mutters.

“Mimzy is one of her top dancers and she knows it.”

“When she’s here, maybe. No use if she don’t show is it?” Evans eyes Alastor suspiciously and adds, “I figured she was with you.”

Alastor laughs to cover the pang that sparks. “Aha, no! I haven’t seen her all week.” Perhaps he should just go to her apartment instead of telephoning. But that is a lot more confrontational than pretending to run into her at a club he frequents so he simply adds, “If she shows up, do tell her I was asking after her. And if she doesn’t, remind Mrs Sanchez that the glowing reviews I give her club on my show might become somewhat less enthused if she fires Mimzy.”

Evans glare but replies, “Sure. I’ll pass it on.”

Alastor makes his way home.

His front door is open, the lock clearly picked. Alastor is immediately on edge. Has an acquaintance of Mr King tracked him down? Or the police? He considers slipping away but this is his apartment. He’ll have to return eventually. Wishing he had a weapon, he steps inside.

Mimzy is sat on his couch. She stands up as he enters and comes over to give him a hug. “I’m sorry” she says into his chest, “I lost my temper at ya. It was a real shitty day. The doctor was a judgmental asshole and I was scared and, and then you were there giving me the last proposal anyone wants no offence, and I just…I had to let it out on someone I guess!”

“I suppose that’s what friends are for.” Alastor pats her awkwardly.

Mimzy sniffles a little. “Yeah.”

Alastor wants to ask her what her news is, but it seems too sensitive a question to just blurt out so he sticks with telling her, “They’ve missed you at the club.”

Mimzy breaks the hug at last. “You went there?”

“Well, you weren’t answering my calls. I was worried about you.”

“Aw, doll face, I was just waiting around and wishing the week would go faster so I at least know for sure” Mimzy frowns and adds, “That and wishing I could go back in time and find a diaphragm that works.”
“A what now?”

“Hey, any chance of a drink?”

“Of course, where are my manners.” Alastor goes into the kitchen and sets about making coffee. Mimzy trails after him and sits at the table. Alastor finally asks her, “Have you gone back to the doctor?”

“Not yet. I got that at six. I’m his last appointment of the day, probably so I’m not there at the same time as all the kids and old ladies who might get corrupted by the likes of me.” Mimzy rolls her eyes.

Alastor tuts. “Once you know for certain, you’ll have to find a different doctor.”

“I do know for certain” says Mimzy grimly, “I can feel it. The damn thing’s in there. But yeah, I’m thinking a different doctor is the way to go. Someone like Reeves who ain't exactly on the straight and narrow already and won’t rat me out.”

Alastor puts her coffee down in front of her and takes a seat with his own. “Mimzy, dear, disapproving as society is towards unwed expectant mothers, you haven’t actually committed a crime.” He sips his coffee and can’t resist adding, “For once.”

Mimzy stares at him for a moment. “Aw, shit. I forgot you didn’t know about the other option.”

“Other option?”

“If I don’t give it away and I don’t keep it like a sucker.”

“There’s a third option?” Alastor feels a flicker of hope.

Mimzy sips her coffee. “Yeah. Some doctors, they got ways to deal with it.”

Alastor tries to work out what on earth she means.

“I mean they can get rid of it, kitten. Just make it all go away.” 

Alastor frowns, wondering how on earth that works. Then he decides he doesn’t want to know. Perhaps Mimzy misreads his frown because she tells him, “It ain't a person yet, Alastor.”

“Well obviously” agrees Alastor. He has to admit to himself that a lot of how all this works is a mystery to him, but one thing he can be sure of is that the person in this situation is Mimzy. So far, the baby is simply an idea, and a distressing one at that. “Well in that case” he says, “Why worry? That sounds like exactly what you need!”

But Mimzy doesn’t smile. She says, “Maybe. Thing is, it’s risky. If I got an infection from it, I could die real horribly, real fast.”

Alastor’s heart sinks. He’d hoped for a moment this could be fixed and they could go on as they always have. “Then it’s out of the question” he decides.

“Hey! Ya don’t get to tell me what to do!”

Evidently not. He would have told her not to go to bed with Lawrence. She is right though. This is her choice. “Fair enough. I won’t stop you if you insist on going to one of these doctors. In fact, I’ll drive you there myself. But if it risks your health, is it really worth it?”

“Giving birth risks my health” Mimzy points out.

Alastor considers this. “Which is more dangerous?” he asks.

“I don’t know, I’m not a doctor!” Mimzy sighs deeply. “And even if I asked one, how’d I know they’re telling the truth? The ones with the unofficial services will say giving birth is worse cause they want me to pay them to help me avoid it, and the ones who don’t help with that that will say abortion is worse because shame on me for getting myself in this mess.”

Suddenly, Alastor feels very angry. “It doesn’t seem a very fair choice.”

“Tell me about it!” Mimzy sighs. “I guess if I just have it and give the brat up, I don’t gotta worry about being prosecuted while Lawrence gets to act all shocked by my behaviour like this ain't all his fault in the first place and then just walk away.”

“I wouldn’t let him walk” says Alastor.

Mimzy ignores this, adding, “But having it’s a terrible idea. All that pain and it’ll ruin my body, Alastor!” She sighs. “Maybe the other way is better. But wouldn’t that hurt too? I guess I could get drunk before. It’d be a bad look to do that before childbirth.” She drinks her coffee in silence for a while before adding, “The thing with adoption, I’d have to figure out where to hide out once I start showing. I’d have to hole up somewhere where no one knows me for the whole pregnancy.”

“Don’t worry about that, dear. You can wear a ring and go stay somewhere out of state. I can cover the costs.”

Mimzy offers him a smile. “Thanks, Alastor. I don’t know what I’d do without you, sweetie.” She drinks a little more. “See, and ya can do that without all this getting married nonsense.”

“The offer is still there if you do end up wanting to keep the baby.”

“Eh, what are the chances?”

Alastor waits to see if she has made a decision regarding adoption or whatever the mysterious medical alternative entails, but she says no more. As he watches, Mimzy seems to sink deeper into her thoughts, looking pensive and drinking less and less of her coffee. Wanting to know, and deciding she could use a distraction, Alastor asks, “By the by, do people really think I’m homosexual?”

Mimzy gives him a considered look. “Would ya mind if they did?”

“Not especially on my own account. But I doubt my superiors at the station would be thrilled.”

Mimzy waves a dismissive hand. “Ah, like you’d be the only employee they’ve got who’s into that.”

“I’m well aware that some of my male colleagues prefer to dance with each other at the speakeasies but they live in fear of our supervisors finding out. If anyone is gossiping about me, I’d prefer to know.”

“It comes up now and then” Mimzy admits, “But I always set ’em straight.”

“You tell them I’m not interested in anyone?”

She shrugs. “I tell them ya could have fooled me what with all those times we’ve been in bed together.”

Alastor coughs, almost spitting out his coffee. “Mimzy!”

“What? It’s not even a lie, we have been in bed together! It’s not my fault if they take it the wrong way!”

Alastor supposes this is true. Besides, he could do without rumours of that sort. “Thank you, dear. I think.” He glances at the clock. “Would you like me to come with you to the doctor?”

“Nah, but give me a ride, could ya?”

They drive through the streets of New Orleans once again. Mimzy is quiet and gradually appears more anxious, fidgeting in the passenger seat. Turning away to look out the window, she tenses at the sight of a mother coaxing a truculent toddler down the street. Pausing at a light, Alastor watches the unenviable domestic scene too. As they drive on, Mimzy says, “If I do have to have the brat, let’s at least hope it’s a boy. That way he won’t have to deal with growing up and getting pregnant by some lowlife.”

“Let’s hope it’s a girl. Then the world won’t have another lowlife.”

Mimzy sighs, then pats his shoulder again. “Men ain't all like that” she says, “You’re not too bad.”

“I kill people, Mimzy.” It is not the first time he’s had to remind her. Sometimes, Alastor wonders if his friend conveniently forgets this fact when she isn’t calling on him for just those services.

“Well so what?” she replies, “You’ve always been good to me.”

The doctor’s office comes into view. Alastor parks as close as possible again. “I could come in with you” he offers.

“No. I don’t want the bastard thinking I can’t face him on my own.” Mimzy draws a deep breath, then lets it out. “Okay. Here goes.” She doesn’t move. “At least I’ll know” she adds.

“At least you’ll know” Alastor agrees. Paltry comfort, he thinks.

Mimzy nods, once. “Right. Okay.” She gets out of the car and goes inside.

Alastor waits. He checks his watch. A few hours yet before he’s due on air: Good. Time enough to comfort Mimzy once she knows the worst.

It doesn’t take long before she reappears, smiling and almost bouncing on her feet. She gets into the car and leans in to give Alastor a hug. Baffled, he simply tenses. She ignores this, sitting back to tell him, “It’s all okay! The doctor said I’m fucking up my body with all the late nights and I need to get my stress levels down and the monthlies will come back! Ha! I never thought I’d be happy to hear that! And I told him, I said you try not being stressed when the monthlies don’t show on time, it’s a self fulfilling cycle isn’t it? And I asked did he have anything so I don’t have to worry about the whole thing anymore but he said he wasn’t about to support sin so I told him to fuck himself because no one else would…”

“Mimzy?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not pregnant!” She hugs him again.

Alastor feels a colossal weight lift from his shoulders. He sags into her embrace. “There’s no baby?”

“Nope. No baby.” Mimzy pats her belly, which is apparently mercifully devoid of parasitic life. “Oh, Alastor, I’m so happy!”

Alastor smiles, his grin wide and genuine. “Congratulations, dear.”

“I know, right? Come on” she taps a little tune on the dashboard, settling back in the passenger seat “Get me to the juice joint! I wanna celebrate.”

“It is joyful news” Alastor agrees, starting the engine.

“I know” She smirks “I feel so blessed.”

As they set off back into the traffic, she tells him, “I meant what I said earlier: I don’t know what I’d do without ya, Al.”

Alastor feels his smile soften until Mimzy adds, “Now put your foot down! I want that drink!”

Chapter Text

“…and then he paid for everyone’s champagne” says Mimzy, smiling as she powders her face, “Just like that, like it’s nothing. Everyone was looking at me like I’m royalty or something. I’m telling ya, Al, I’ve struck gold with this one.”

“Gold is a good analogy for Clyde” says Alastor, “It’s pretty, it buys lots of things, and it isn’t especially useful otherwise.”

“I don’t need him ta be useful otherwise.” Mimzy sets the powder brush down, selects a lipstick and adds teasingly, “So you agree he’s pretty?”

Alastor, sat on the less comfortable of her dressing room’s two chairs, scowls at this. Mimzy smirks, then applies the lipstick with a practised ease.

“He has a certain aesthetic value” Alastor admits, “Even I can see that. But I don’t really see why that would make a sensible person wish to spend time with him.”

“Well you wouldn’t.” Mimzy leans forward on her arms and kisses the mirror to blot her lipstick. “Look at it this way: He’s aristocracy. Rich! Think about it, if he’s such a big spender he pays for strangers’ drinks just to show off, he probably won’t mind getting me a whole apartment once I’ve sweet talked him a little.”

“Well, there is that. I do hope you don’t get too bored in the meantime.”

“I don’t date for the entertainment value” says Mimzy. Sure, she figures, some of her sweethearts are fun and all, mostly between the sheets. No point trying to explain that to Alastor though. Anyway, she’s come to realise over the years it don’t do to get too attached, fun or not. Men who ain't married want to tie her down after a while, or take over the rum running business, or both. Married men ditch her for their precious wives after a while. And they all get weird about her dancing on stage, liking the novelty at first, then getting more and more suspicious that they won’t be the last audience member she’ll let get closer after hours. Which, okay, they won’t be. But point is, they start acting like she’s their territory after a while.

Clyde is turning out to be especially bad for that.

Mimzy examines herself critically, touches up the powder and says, “I figure the thing with dating is to make an impression, take what you can and leave. Like with bank jobs.”

Alastor laughs. But then he looks a little pensive and says, “Be careful, won’t you, dear. There’s something about him.”

“You think there’s something about every man I date.”

“…Not just the ones you date.”

“There, see? Anyway, I can always tell.” Mimzy focuses on applying her kohl, leaning closer to herself in the mirror.

Alastor not liking Clyde has been a real drag. Clyde has looks, money and certain talents between the sheets. He’s a catch. And what does her best friend do? Grouses. Gets all overprotective with these something about him hints. Hints being all Alastor can give her because he can’t prove anything. Maybe there’s nothing there.

Anyway, if there was, she could tell. It’s true that Mimzy can always tell. Mostly. Sure, there was that one time with Cornelius Rake, but that was one time! Mimzy has led a life that’s given her plenty of practise at knowing when someone’s about to try and hurt her. She only wasn’t wise to Cornelius because…

…Well, okay, because of his money. Okay, so maybe Al has a point about being careful. She’ll keep her eye on Clyde. If he does something to piss her off or scare here, she’ll ankle. After spending his money of course.

In the room’s reflection, Alastor is frowning at the floor, his arms crossed. Mimzy tries to lighten the mood with, “Anyway, he’s not gonna be here tonight so you’ve got me to yourself.”

“I’ll try to contain my excitement” says Alastor, dryly.

“Well if you’re gonna be like that I could always find someone else to pass the time with.”

“I can’t deny you’re good at that.”

“Oh, here we go!”

“Here we go with what?”

“The whole Mimzy gets a man row! Ya sulk because I’m off with a fella, and not around to be your plus one, and I get annoyed because who the fuck do ya think ya are and then we fall out over it! Can we skip it for once?”

“You’re not my only option for a plus one” says Alastor.

“But I’m the only one who won’t read too much into it! Anyway, haven’t ya missed little old me while I’ve been fooling around with Clyde?”

“My life has had a regrettable lack of drama these last few weeks, yes.”

“Hey! I ain't all drama. Sometimes I’m just a charming gal who likes a drink and a dance.”

“That I have missed” says Alastor sincerely, “And would have even if the paramour in question had been worth your time.”

Mimzy rolls her eyes. “And we’re back to you not liking Clyde. And it ain't like I’m the only one ditching friends, Alastor. Ya told me you were gonna be at my show last night and there weren’t no sign of ya.”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but an opportunity arose that I simply couldn’t pass up.”

“Oh? One less creep in the world?”

Alastor grins. “You’ve heard about that horrible series of attacks on ladies in the Tango Belt?”

Mimzy turns to face him, giving a little clap. “You got the bastard?”

“Indeed. Really, he was asking for it, walking around alone at that time of night, wearing such stabbable clothing.”

“Congratulations, sweetie, I know you’ve been after that one for a while.”

Alastor preens a little and seems about to share the gory details, so Mimzy ain't sorry when then there’s a knock at the door and Evans yells in, “Mimzy! You got ten minutes!”

“Okay already!” Mimzy yells back. To Alastor she adds, “Sorry, sweetie, I’ve got to go.”

Alastor sits near the back of the club while Mimzy performs. She’s only half aware of him, focused as she is on her musical numbers, and riling up the crowd in between. It’s a busy night. The club is packed with men, some with dates, some each other’s date, some alone and looking to feel less alone by putting the moves on the waitresses and hatcheck girls, and eyeing up the dancers. Mimzy is sure to involve a few in her chatter in between dances, hopping off the stage and sashaying out into the crowd to flirt artfully. She catches Alastor’s eye a few times: He’s looking half amused, half scornful like he always does when she works the audience. Time was she thought he was judging her but now she understands it’s the men he’s judging. He just don’t get why anyone would think with a body part that ain't their brain. He looks at these other fellas like a man might look at a dog they don’t like.

Meanwhile, the fellas look at her like she’s made of gold. She ain't everyone’s type; Mimzy is self aware enough to know that. Some guys like their women taller, or slimmer, or more refined and modest. But even accounting for taste, it’s amazing how invested they get in a show if she so much as hints that her affections – and her body – are available. The handful of women in the crowd look awed, or, sometimes, jealous. Mimzy can’t blame them. This is where she shines.

She’s exhausted by the time she returns to her dressing room. The show was a success, of fucking course. Now it’s time for the fun stuff. The jazz band have started up in earnest out there and Alastor will be ordering her a drink if he knows what’s good for him. She slips out of her dress and into a fresh one for the next round of dancing, not on stage this time. That done, she checks her makeup in the mirror. Nothing smudged: Good.

The door opens behind her and Mimzy whips round to say, “Hey, I could be naked in here for all ya…Oh shit.”

“Hello, Mimzy” says the man in the doorway. He slips inside and shuts the door behind him. “You remember me?”

Mimzy smiles, feeling the expression falter. “Silvano! How’ve ya been?”

“How the fuck do ya think I’ve been after five damn years in the big house?”

“Sorry, silly question.” How the fuck did he get in, Mimzy wonders. Ain't this place supposed to have a bouncer now? Then again, it ain't like Silvano can’t act like he knows her well because he kinda does. Mimzy inches to side, looking past him to the door, then freezes, smiling wider, painfully, as Silvano prowls closer. Just her luck that prison bulked the bastard up. Plenty of guys let themselves go in there and here he is looking like he could wrestle a bear. She tells him, “Ya look like you could use a drink, sugar” and forces herself to step a little closer. She can feel herself shake. “I’ll fix ya one on the house.”

“You owe me a lot more than a drink, bitch! You sold me out!”

“Why would I do a thing like that?” …Because him being put away and his business left up for grabs sure worked out well for her is why, but hopefully Silvano has forgotten boring little details like that. “You got caught because of some anonymous tip off, Silvano. Have ya ever known me ta be anonymous?”

He chuckles without humour. “Oh, and you taking over my business is just a fucking coincidence?”

“Well someone had to keep things running for ya! That brother of yours weren’t stepping up. Say, how is he? I bet he’s glad you’re out at last. It’d be a real shame to do something you regret and end up back inside.”

“Oh, I won’t regret this.” Silvano steps closer, and Mimzy retreats. She tries, “Well, hey, where’s my thank you? I ran everything for ya! Found us new customers! Kept the whole business warm for ya.” And fat chance she’ll give it back, but that can wait until she ain't dead.

“You stole the damn business! After you sold me out!” Silvano advances and Mimzy backs up again, bumping into the dressing table and holding up her hands. “Now, sugar” she starts, then feels her placating smile slide away completely as he pulls out a gun and points it right at her. She swallows hard and says, “Look, how’s about we talk about this?” Her own gun is in her handbag on the other side of the room. Shit.

“Talk” grunts Silvano. He doesn’t lower the gun.

Talk. Okay. She can do that. “I’ve been busy while you’ve been away, which was absolutely not my fault, I never ratted ya out, ya heard that all wrong! Anyway, the business is going strong, I’m sure I could see my way to getting you a cut of the profits. A goodwill gesture.”

“Goodwill gesture?! It’s my business!”

“Sure, sure. Well, you’ll be running things too, obviously.” Figures he wouldn’t have let this go. Mimzy supposes there ain't much to do in prison ’cept hold a grudge. No wonder fellas seem to leave their senses of humour inside. She pastes on a smile and says, “I just mean you’ll get your share of the proceeds to date.” She reaches around behind her, her hand moving while the rest of her clenches in fear “How’s that sound?”

“Like too fucking little, too fucking late!” Silvano’s free hand, the one not holding the gun, closes around her necklace and she flinches. He tugs and pearls spray across the floor. Mimzy darts to the side but he moves too, grabbing her, and angling the gun at the side of her head. Mimzy yelps, “Well how am I supposed to get ya your money if I’m dead?” She struggles free but there’s nowhere to go except back against the dresser. Mimzy presses against it, leaning away from the gun.

“Don’t you worry your pretty face about that, bitch. I can get my business back without your help.”

“Yeah?” Mimzy laughs weakly. She reaches behind her again, searching. “Then why’d you even come here?”

Silvano leans closer, his hot breath in her face. “I wanted to watch you bleed.”

Mimzy’s hand closes round a perfume bottle on the dresser. She swings it at his face and makes a desperate grab for the gun as he staggers back. He brushes her off and raises it…

…And then his neck opens up like a second mouth and he falls forward. Blood hits Mimzy’s face, then hits her shoulder as she finally jumps to the side, getting out the way as Silvano topples. He crashes into her dressing table, spilling blood, then crumples to the floor. His eyes gaze emptily up at the ceiling as blood pools beneath his head.

Mimzy flings herself into Alastor’s arms. “Oh my stars, Al, am I glad to see you!”

Alastor doesn’t return her hug and, stepping back, Mimzy realises that’s because he’s holding a switchblade in one hand and a drink in the other. He asks, “Mimzy, dear, are you alright?”

“I am now. Shit, that was a close one.” Mimzy glances at Silvano, then quickly away. Not so quick that she don’t notice how the blood flow is already slowing. “Ugh, fuck, I’ve got blood on my face!” She plucks the handkerchief from Alastor’s breast pocket. “Ya don’t mind, do ya?” she asks as she rubs frantically at her face. She feels like she’s just smearing it red but has to hope some of the mess is shifting. Once her face feels dry at least, her eyes fall on the door she’d been so desperate to reach a few moments ago. Alastor must have shut it as he came in but there’s no lock on it. She mutters, “Shit” again and hurries over to wedge the less comfy chair under it. Turning back, she finds Alastor staring down at Silvano with an expression of mild interest on his face. He asks, “And this would be…?”

“Silvano. Nico’s brother. Ya remember, the guy I was dating just as I was getting myself established in the gin trade?”

“Ah, that reminds me: I bought you a southside” Alastor says, holding out the cocktail.

Mimzy recoils. “It’s got blood in it.”

“So it has. My apologies.” He puts the glass down on the dresser, then seems to notice how much blood there is on that too. “Ah, well, this is quite a mess.”

“I’ll say! Ya couldn’t have killed him with a blow to the head or something?”

“A little hit and miss that method. If you’ll pardon the pun.”

Mimzy figures puns are the least of her worries right now. She asks, “I don’t suppose ya got your satchel with you?”

“I came straight from work.” Alastor bends and wipes the switchblade on Silvano’s pants, then flicks it closed with a practised, one handed ease and puts it back in his pocket. He looks around.

Mimzy watches him. “So that’s a no? You got a switchblade!”

“Just in case.” Alastor shrugs. “But I don’t have anything else. Do you have a towel somewhere?”

Mimzy shakes her head. “But there’s one in the ladies’ room” she tells him, “I’ll get it.” She starts for the door, but Alastor gently takes her shoulders and steers her back, saying, “Ah ah ah, you’re in a state that might raise some questions, cher.”

Mimzy  looks down at her blood stained dress. “Oh yeah.” She inspects Alastor. He has some blood on his chest too, possibly from when she hugged him, and some on his sleeve from reaching around Silvano to cut his throat. He follows her gaze and sheds the jacket. “I’ll see what I can find” he tells her, “You get changed. How attached are you to that dress?”

“I can live without it.”

Alastor nods. “Use it wipe up the blood on the dresser before it dries then. It won’t be perfect but it will do until we can clean more thoroughly.” He bends over the body and makes a sort of bandage with his jacket. Kinda ironic since Silvano don’t got any need for that no more. “His heart has stopped pumping the blood out, of course” Alastor says conversationally, “But this will soak up any last drips.”

“Uh huh” Mimzy pointedly doesn’t watch as Alastor half lifts Silvano, but stares when she realises he is stuffing the body under the clothes rack built into the far wall. “What the fuck, Alastor?”

“Well we need him hidden somewhere in case anyone comes in.” Alastor tugs at Mimzy’s hanging dresses until they fall across the corpse’s face and shoulders. Next he stacks a few hat boxes up, partly hiding the lower torso and hastily folded legs.

“I won’t let anyone in” Mimzy says, “I’ll just say I’m indisposed.”

“Just in case.” Alastor pulls the comfy chair over and places in front of the rack. Mimzy says, “I can still see him.”

“You’re looking for him. If anyone glances in, they won’t register him.”

“Ya sure about that?”

“No. But since you don’t have any closets or convenient large trunks it will have to do.” Alastor gestures to the floor. “As plans go, this one will work better once there isn’t a large pool of blood in the middle of the floor, so let’s see to that, shall we?”

Once he’s gone for supplies, Mimzy slips out of her dress and, steeling herself to unhook it from the rack, into a new one. She wipes at the mirror with her old one, then at the dresser itself. Blood is splattered up the legs and streaked down the wall behind the mirror. The more she scrubs the more she notices. Her dress is out of clean patches before she’s done.

There is a knock on the door. “Mimzy?”

Just Alastor. Mimzy lets him in. “I told Evans I spilt a drink” he tells her, coming in loaded with a cloth, a bucket and a scrubbing brush. “He offered to come himself but I told him you didn’t want company.”

“What, apart from you? He’ll think we’re fucking in here, Alastor.”

Alastor blushes. “At least that will explain why it’s taking us so long to reappear” he says grudgingly.

They get to work on the dresser, the wall and the floor. The water in the bucket is soon red and there’s still traces of blood clinging to the woodgrain, but the puddle is soaked up. Once they’ve done as much as they can, Alastor sits down in the less comfy chair with a sigh. “I should have brought us some refreshments while I was out there” he says. He lifts the cocktail from the dresser and examines the swirls of red within it.

Mimzy takes the comfy chair. As well as being comfy, it has the advantage of facing away from Silvano. She indicates him with a gesture. “How long’s it gonna have to be there?”

“Until after closing time, I’m afraid. I’ll have to wait until then to tip the water away too.” Alastor raises the glass to his lips and takes an experimental sip. “Hm. This isn’t bad.”

Mimzy shudders. “Ugh, gross, Alastor!”  

“Sorry, dear.” Alastor tips the rest of the bloody cocktail into the bloody water in the bucket, then drags the bucket under the dresser. Now the room looks normal so long as no one looks too closely.

Including at her dress, Mimzy realises. She examines the blood stains and sighs. “How come you didn’t get messy doing all that?”

“Practise.”

Mimzy selects a third dress from the end of the rack that isn’t draped across Silvano. Fourth if ya count the one she performed in. “I’ll change again I guess.” When Alastor moves to leave she adds, “No, stay here. It’ll look odd if you’re in and out all the time.”

“But if you’re changing…”

Mimzy flaps a hand at him. “Just turn around and close your eyes already!”

Alastor does, facing rigidly away from her. Mimzy wriggles out of her dress, kicks it under the rack against Silvano’s limp bulk, and wriggles into a fresh one. Then she reaches over her shoulder and attempts to fasten it. When she can’t reach, she wriggles again, but it don’t help. “Hey, Al, I don’t suppose ya could…” Mimzy trails off with a gasp as the door handle moves. Shit, shit, shit! They’ve got a body in here! As the door opens, Mimzy does the first thing she can think of to distract attention from anything else in the room: She pulls her dress down and steps right out of it. In the same moment, Alastor turns, sees what she’s doing and freezes.

“Mimzy? What the fuck is this?”

Clyde is in the doorway. Great. Just great. Of all the people! Mimzy greets him with, “Honey, this ain't what it looks like.”

Clyde looks from her, to Alastor, and back again. Mimzy has to admit to herself there’s only one way it can look: Alastor is in his shirtsleeves, blushing deeply with a look of panic on his face as he turns from her to Clyde, and she’s in her underwear. She instinctively moves to cover herself but realises that’d defeat the point of stripping in the first place: She needs Clyde’s eyes on her.

Which they are. Just not in a good way. Mimzy tries to think of anything to say and comes up with, “So, funny story! I got stuck in my dress, the zip’s broken or some shit, and Al here was just helping me out, ain't that right, Al?”

“Um. Ahem. Yes.” Alastor doesn’t look at her. Mimzy ain't sure if that makes them seem more or less guilty.

Clyde laughs incredulously. “Oh, he was just helping you out? In your dressing room?”

“Well, yeah, I’d hardly be taking my dress off anywhere else now would I?”

“I don’t know, Mimzy, you tell me.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean I caught the end of your performance. You were practically in the front row’s laps.”

Mimzy rolls her eyes. Besides her, Alastor says, “The key word is performance, old chum.”

“You can shut your hole!” Clyde snaps at him. He seems about to turn away from them both in disgust which would mean looking elsewhere in the room. Mimzy hurries up to him, regaining his full attention with her heels and her not much else. It crosses her mind that maybe if she can charm the guy enough she’ll get to keep him. “Baby, please, I promise it’s nothing! Alastor just happened to come in just as I was stuck in the dress and he was helping me out, I swear that’s all!” She wraps her arms around Clyde’s shoulders. “You know you’re all the man I need” she purrs. She puts his hands on her hips.

Clyde pauses then, staring down at her. Then he seems to shake himself, swings her aside and advances on Alastor. “You bastard!” he snarls, “I fucking knew you were after my broad!”

“Wait!” Mimzy trails after him, “You got this all wrong, honey!”

Clyde ignores this, still yelling at Alastor, telling him, “The way you swan around her all smug, thinking you’re so smart! But I could tell!”

Alastor smirks and asks, “Could you now?”

For fuck’s sake, thinks Mimzy. Clyde will take that as confirmation. She snaps, “Alastor!”

Clyde yells, “Yeah I fucking could! It’s damn obvious, the way you dance with her, the way you buy all her drinks!”
“He’s just being a gentleman” puts in Mimzy.

“Well he ain't one!” snaps Clyde, “Yeah, I’ve asked around! You grew up dirt poor, ain't that right, pal? Oh yeah, I know that and a lot else besides, you sick bastard!”

Alastor’s expression has turned icy. “Pray tell.”

“You act all innocent but I know.”

Alastor stills. Mimzy stares at Clyde. How the hell would he of all people work it out? Alastor is so careful!

Slowly, Alastor reaches for the pocket with the switchblade. His hand pauses when Clyde continues, “You’re the same with all the ladies” He turns to Mimzy and adds, “Did you know that? You’re not special, Mimzy.”

“She’s special” says Alastor quietly.

“He dances with married women, single women, he don’t care.” Clyde shoves Alastor hard in the chest and adds, “But he doesn’t take them home, do you, you freak? Maybe it’s the husbands you’re really after.” Clyde nods knowingly, all pleased with himself.

Alastor tilts his head. “You…think I’m a ladies’ man and also a homosexual?”

Clyde shrugs defensively. “Sick bastards like you don’t make your mind up.”

“Oh? Do I detect a hint of jealousy, hm?”

Clyde goes for him then, grabbing Alastor by the scruff of his shirt with one hand and raising the other in a fist while Al just laughs. Mimzy decides she’s had enough of the pair of them and ducks under Clyde ’s arm, snapping, “Alright, that does it! Clyde, you can get the fuck outta here!”

“What? Mimzy!”

Wait, so he wasn’t gonna break up with her? Huh. But Mimzy is too angry right this moment to dwell on that, or on how rich and handsome the guy is. She yells at him, “No one hits Alastor and expects to get me inta bed! Get outta here!”
“Wait, you think you can ditch me?”

“It’s happening, ain't it?” Mimzy shoves him back a step. “Go on! Bank’s closed!”

When Clyde just stands there huffing and spluttering, Mimzy strikes him a few times in the chest, backing him to the door and shoving him out of it. Out the corner of her eye she catches Alastor wave tauntingly at the man. Slamming the door, she rounds on him and growls, “You can shut up and all!”

“Sorry, dear.” Alastor doesn’t look remotely sorry. He keeps on grinning, then seems to register how she’s still in her under things, and turns away, grin still in place.

Mimzy takes a moment to look around the room from the vantagepoint of the doorway, relaxing as she notes how little she can see of Silvano from here. She’d have to be looking, she thinks. Hopes. “I don’t think he noticed anything. Well, I mean, nothing that’ll come back to bite us.” She bustles back over to the comfy chair and sits down with a sigh. Alastor tenses slightly, examining a corner of the ceiling. Mimzy asks him, “Are you alright, sweetie? He didn’t hurt ya did he?”

“Not at all, dear.”

“Good. Why the fuck did ya laugh when he grabbed ya?”

Alastor pats the pocket with the switchblade. “I could have stopped him permanently if I had to. Anything up to that point is just entertainment.”

Mimzy shakes her head despairingly and glances around for her handbag. Finding it, she extracts her cigarettes and lights up. “So we got to wait til afterhours to get rid of Silvano?” she asks.

“I’m afraid so.”

Mimzy puffs unhappily a few times, then says “Ya know, Clyde  was right about one thing?”

“Oh?”
“You do got a habit of buying me drinks.” Mimzy smiles winningly and bats her eyelashes. It’s lost on Alastor, who still ain't looking her way, but her wheedling tone must get through to him because sighs and asks, “What would you like?”

“A southside. And hold the blood this time.”

Alastor nods. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Put some clothes on.”

Chapter Text

“Alastor, I’ve got a problem.”

There is a sound like a badly supressed sigh on the other end of the line before Alastor responds with, “Mimzy, dear, I’m covering the midday slot today. It had better be something that can be resolved quickly.”

“Oh, charming! Sorry I didn’t let ya know in advance I’d be on the lam” Mimzy glances out the hotel window. “Look, I’m at the Hotel Monteleone and I need a change of clothes, a different handbag and an escort. Oh, and a wig!”

“…a wig?”

“There’s one at my place. Just raid my bedroom, there’s everything ya need in there. Just hurry, okay?”

Once she puts the phone down, Mimzy sits on the bed and waits. She is tempted to look out the window again but resists. Not easy, with everything going on down there but she don’t want to draw anyone’s attention. It was enough of a risk coming to the hotel instead of trying to run, but she could only run so far and the police have the area surrounded now so there’s no point dwelling.

What if they start searching the buildings around the store? What if one of the guys talked? Mimzy knows most of them got arrested. Maybe all. Which should be good, right? So long as they don’t rat her out she can keep all the profit. It ain’t what it could have been thanks to that lousy bastard Maurice but it’s something. Split one way it could work out as plenty.

If she gets out of here herself that is. What if the doorman who showed her into the lobby talks? He probably only let her in because all the commotion from the robbery hadn’t spread this far down the street when she arrived but he sure knows now, now the whole length of the neighbourhood is crawling with police. Well, and maybe after a few of the fellas maybe fired a few shots at them. What if the doorman hears the police are searching for a woman? Are they searching for a woman? They obviously know someone got away or they wouldn’t still be hanging around. But do they have a description?

Maybe they don’t know about her. Maybe the fellas have been gentlemen and not mentioned she was involved.

Nah, that don’t sound very likely.

At least she got her little taste of what the profits could have been. She looks it over now. Nine diamond necklaces and five engagement rings. Shame she won’t be able to keep them. Well, maybe one. Or two.

After what feels like forever, the telephone rings, making her jump. A crisp voice tells her a “gentleman friend” is here to see her and Mimzy tells them to go ahead and let him up, then hopes to God it’s Alastor.

It is. Thank fuck. “You took your time” she tells him.

Alastor tuts. “If you wanted me to be quicker you should have robbed a jewellery store nearer your apartment.” He tilts his head. “I am right, aren’t I? It’s you the police out there are looking for?”

“…Maybe? Hey don’t look at me like that! I need the money! I’ve run up this tiny debt with Big Celino and he’s calling it in like the bastard he is, plus things have heating up with Nicky Ballard again. I got to have the funds to hire some muscle that don’t need to be on air six days a week. And maybe buy a chopper while I’m about it.”

Alastor’s expression slips from disapproving to concerned. “Dear, is this something you need help with? Other than a change of clothes, I mean.”

“Nah, I got it handled.”

“You’ll tell me if that changes?”

“Yeah, yeah. You got the clothes?"

Alastor has it all in a suitcase which Mimzy figures was good thinking: Nothing would call attention like a man with a handbag. She puts the case on the bed, opens it and pulls out a printed dress with a draped neckline. “Good, this’ll do. I was worried you’d think all dresses are the same and bring me an evening gown or something.”

“Give me some credit, cher.” Alastor glances at the window as a cop outside shouts an order to another cop. “Are you certain this will work?”

“Sure it will. Anyway, I don’t know that they’re even looking for me or if they’re just looking. I cleared off as soon as that double crossing bastard Maurice ditched us. Can you believe that? I let him in my bed and he screws me!” Mimzy considers the phrasing and adds, “Ya know what I mean.”

Alastor blushes. Mimzy gathers up the dress, the handbag Al brought and the old one, then heads for the fancy en suite bathroom. She pulls the door closed to undress, so she can carry on letting her feeling out while she strips. “Anyway, I was telling ya about Muarice? The dirty rat just snatched the best part of the haul right out my hands, drove off in the getaway car and left me and the other fellas to take the blame! Ya know, I’m starting to wonder if he knows about me and Kenny. Either that or this has to be the worst way I’ve ever been dumped. Maybe both.”

Beyond the door, Alastor replies, “Well I hardly pride myself as an expert in these matters, but in this case I do think it’s safe to conclude that the pair of you are no longer courting.”

“Yeah, but is that because of Kenny or did he just get bored of me?”

“Mimzy, dear, I don’t believe anyone could ever be bored by you.”

“Thanks, Al.” Mimzy sheds her dress “How’s it looking out there anyway?”

“The police have set up checkpoints along the street they’re searching passing pedestrians.”

“Fuck! Searching how?”

“I believe common synonyms include looking and combing.”

“This ain't funny!” Mimzy snaps, “I mean are they searching bags or patting people down?”

“Both. They patted me down. But I suspect an unassuming white lady might be allowed past with just a bag search.”

Mimzy reaches into her handbag for the jewels she managed to keep out of Maurice’s greedy hands. Putting them in her bag ain't an option then. “Maybe I should wear my new diamonds? Hiding in plain sight and all that?”

“It seems a bit of a risk. How many are there?”

“…good point.” Maybe she can get away with wearing the rings, maybe not, but no one wears nine diamond necklaces at once. These little gems are going to need to go places no diamond oughta see. “Hey, Al?”

“Yes?”

“How’d ya feel about having nine diamonds up your butt?”

“Mimzy, dear, there are some things I won’t do even for you.”

“Some gentleman you are!”

“When my mama taught me about being a gentleman, I can assure you this didn’t come up.”

“Fine. I’ll put them somewhere discreet.”

“What about leaving them here? Hide them somewhere in the hotel and come back for them when the police leave.”

Mimzy considers this. It ain't a bad plan but she isn’t ready to let these little beauties go. “No way they wouldn’t be found by the cleaners” she tells him, “No, I’m taking them with me.”

“Please spare me the details of how.”

In the end, the how ain't to awful. After a little experimentation Mimzy hangs them off the straps of her slip so they dangle between the fabric and her bare skin, barely noticeable if anyone feels for them and she’ll have a dress on on top. The ring she hides in her bra. Any cop tries to look in that and she’ll scream and make a scene til he backs the hell off.

“Alright” she says as she slinks out the bathroom, “Just the wig now.”

Alastor hands it over. Mimzy locates a little mirror on a bureau by the bed and slips it on, taking care to tuck all her real hair under it. “How’s it look? Sanchez had me wear it for a musical number a while back. Supposed to be modelled after Gloria Swanson.”

“It’s lovely, dear, but it doesn’t match your eyebrows.”

“Oh that’s okay, no one could tell when I was up on stage.” Mimzy glances at the window. “I guess out there I’ll just have to walk fast and hope no one pays me too much attention. Ya could have found me a frumpier dress, Alastor. I look like a million dollars in this! I’m trying to be incognito here.”

Alastor studies her for a moment. “I have a question.”

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you wear the wig while you were doing the job?”

“Oh, because it might fall off. I go in there with my regular hair and maybe folk won’t pay it much attention. Heat of the moment and all. But if I wear a wig and it falls off, they’d remember that alright.”

Alastor considers this. “Fair enough. Now, shall we?” He offers her his arm.

“Thanks, sweetie. Ya know, just you being with me should help: Pretty much everyone else got arrested so the bulls will be looking for a woman on her own.”

“I suggest we avoid exiting the street where I was searched or it will be  obvious I was collecting you. We’ll walk in the other direction for a while.”

“Sure. Hopefully everyone will think we just met up here to make whoopee.”

Alastor blushes again and busies himself collecting up the empty suitcase. Mimzy bundles her old dress and handbag into the new one, pausing when her hands encounter a problem. “Oh shit. What about my gun?”

“Ah. Well, that will have to stay behind. I doubt it can be smuggled the way of the diamonds.”

“Well I can’t just leave it here! Can’t it go in your suitcase?”

“And I explain in how when I’m searched again? Mimzy I don’t have time to be arrested today: I’m due on air in an hour.” Alastor gently takes the bag from her and extracts the old one. “Don’t check out yet” he tells her, “Leave your bag here and collect it tomorrow, once the fuss has died down.”

“That’ll have to do I guess” says Mimzy doubtfully “Oh, and, when I do check out, ya couldn’t see your way to loaning me the money for my bill could ya?”

Alastor sighs wearily. “I was already budgeting for it, cher.”

“Thanks, Al. I owe ya one.”

In the end, they leave her old clothes in the room as well, bundling them and the gun into the old handbag stuffing it all in the back of a draw. Then Mimzy locks up and hangs the Do not disturb sign on the door, and they set off downstairs.

As they make their way back down to the lobby, Mimzy makes a show of clinging to Alastor’s arm. Nothing to see here, she tries to project, she ain't no jewellery thief, she’s just a sweet innocent gal who hooked up with some guy in a hotel room. Alastor just about tolerates the clinging until they get outside, and then he takes it all more seriously, glancing about discreetly and putting a protective arm around her.

They have to walk right past the jewellery store. There’s police tape up and cops crawling all over the place, some dusting for prints. Well good luck with that, Mimzy thinks, she wore gloves. She turns away, not wanting to draw attention to herself by staring. Then she figures it’d look strange to not stare and looks back, until Alastor coughs discreetly and she faces forward again.

As they approach the cops stationed at the end of the block, Alastor greets them with a cheerful, “Good morning, officers!” playing up the transatlantic accent and smiling a charming smile. Beside him, Mimzy stares at the ground, not daring to look up on account of how her hair don’t match her eyelashes.

Once of the cops grunts a reply and indicates that Alastor should step aside to be searched. They’ve got a lot of questions about why his suitcase is empty but Alastor just laughs and asks them to tell him which law bans carrying an empty suitcase. There are a few double takes when he gives them his name and Al confirms that sure, he’s that Alastor Leclair by hinting that he’s needed at the radio station in an hour. He’s so good he makes it sound incidental. Their manner warms then, but not completely. They still pat him down, while Mimzy hangs back, hoping that her lack of eye contact and general caginess will be put down to how Alastor is telling the officers that no, no, they didn’t see anything suspicious, they’ve only just left their hotel after all, while one of the cops glances at her bare ring finger and frowns.

Mimzy forces herself to relax as her bag is taken and searched perfunctorily. Nothing much in there, just her keys and her purse transferred from the bag she had on her when she did the job. Once it’s put back in her hands, Mimzy clutches it and waits while they finish searching Alastor.

Who hates being touched of course. Mimzy can tell from his smile tenses that his patience is wearing thin. She gets a pang of guilt then, but it ain't her fault the bulls are stupid.

Still, she owes him one. She’ll treat him to some whiskey on the house at the club, she decides. She can probably swing that with Sanchez. Or just not tell her.

She smiles apologetically as Alastor rejoins her. Neither of them speak until they are round the corner and halfway down the next street.  Then Mimzy says, “Sorry about getting you out right before your broadcast, sweetie.”

“These things can’t be helped, I suppose. We’ve a bit of a walk I’m afraid: I parked the car near the other end of the street.”

They walk a little further before Alastor figures it would look less suspicious if he collects the car alone, and leaves her looking in the window of a clothing store while he does that.

By the time he picks her up, Mimzy is mentally running through a checklist of all the things she could buy with the little stones concealed about her person. Settling back in the passenger seat she tells him, “Ya know, paying debts is important and all, but I could probably keep one of these little diamonds right? Or two, or so.”

“I imagine you could.”

“It’s a shame I couldn’t get more. It was supposed to be so simple, just a quick overnight job, into the store, into the safe and then bam, lousy Maurice ditches us!”

“At least you weren’t caught.”

“There is always that. And if I get a good enough price for the diamonds I can afford to lie low for a bit. I could buy me a world cruise. I figure it could be fun to see the world.”

“I’ve always been quite happy here” says Alastor, “In New Orleans, the world comes to us.”

Mimzy rolls her eyes. “That a line from your show?” When Alastor just smiles, she sits back to watch the city roll past the window. After a while she changes topic with, “So are ya all set for Mardi Gras? You’re broadcasting from the parade ain't ya?”

Alastor brightens. “Yes, it should be very entertaining. I’m confident that we’ll be able to give our listeners a high quality transmission despite the challenges of recording in such a noisy environment. The technology is improving all the time, you know.”

Mimzy does know, on account of how he’s told her a thousand times before, but she figures he’s earnt the chance to talk her ear off today, so she lets him chatter away about transmitters this and sound quality that. Finally he leaves off and asks, “Should I take you back to your place?”

“Nah, just somewhere near the club is fine.” Probably she should lie low today, and she’d rather do that someplace fun. Or as fun as that bitch Sanchez lets it get. Mimzy slips the wig off and puts it in her handbag, then runs her hands through her hair. “I’ll see you there later?”

“Of course. Since I’m at work in the daylight hours for once I’ll be there bright and early.”

Mimzy looks out the window, eventually telling Alastor, “Here will do. I like this place.” She steps out when he pulls up in front of the café, turning back to tell him, “Thanks, doll face. Drinks are on me tonight.”

“I may hold you to that, dear. Until then.” Alastor smiles warmly and drives off. Mimzy makes her way into the café and sits down.

It’s a darling little place. Once she’s spent a little time in the ladies’ room, extracting the diamonds from her undergarments and putting them safely back in her handbag, she orders a coffee and a generous breakfast. She is celebrating after all. Kinda.

Okay, so the job didn’t quite go according to plan and sure, it looks like she and Maurice have split but he was a bastard anyway and like Al says, at least she weren’t caught.

Mimzy passes an enjoyable few hours pondering which fencer to take her diamonds to and what they might pay for them. Enough for a whole lot of dresses even once her debt is paid and she’s hired more goons. Well, and then more still, to replace the ones who just got arrested.

Once it gets to about the time Sanchez will be opening up the club for the cleaners, Mimzy pays up and leaves, ready to suck up to the bitch to be allowed to hang out until opening hours. She can help with makeup or something. It beats hiding in her apartment until she’s finished handling Celino and Ballard.

Stepping outside, she stops short when a man blocks her way. She only has a moment to register who it is. “You! But…”

Then there is a loud bang and a lot of pain, and then Mimzy is looking at the sky. It feels like the sidewalk tilted to catch her but obviously it didn’t. she must’ve fallen. Maybe hit her head. Everything feels fuzzy like that.

Okay, she thinks, so maybe she didn’t have all this as handled as she thought.

She can hear people screaming and running, towards her or away, she ain't sure. Everything feels far away and she ain't gonna stay awake for long. She knows she should be scared but honestly she don’t got the energy with the way the blood is pumping outta her, and it hurts bad enough that passing out don’t seem a bad idea.

It’s cold.

It’s good Alastor ain't here, she thinks, as everything starts to spin way from her. Otherwise the bastard would have got him too, and right before he was going to do his big Mardi Gras broadcast. Mimzy wouldn’t want that for Alastor. He was always such a pal.

Chapter Text

Distantly, Alastor is aware that he is drunker than he’s been for a while. Since before his seven year sabbatical in fact, and his tolerance for alcohol lowered regrettably during that experience. Suffice to say it was not a seven year party.

Husker is judging him, which Alastor, struggling to both stay upright and keep Mimzy upright, knows is very hypocritical of the cat, but also finds funny. Lucky for Husker. He plays his laugh track, but it comes out garbled.

Mimzy is faring no better, clinging on to him and saying, “So muz…so much for being quiet.” She stares around the hotel lobby, her gaze settling on Husk. “Hi Husker, sorry about waking ya.” Of course, she doesn’t look remotely sorry. She smirks at Husk, then adds, “I thought we were being quiet.”

Alastor tells her, “We were…”

“You weren’t” mutters Husk.

“…Husker here is just waiting up for the effeminate spider.”

Mimzy peers at Husk again. “The porn star? Oh, in your dreams, Husker, ya old sap!”

Alastor chuckles. Husk looks unimpressed, and asks, “What hell did you two idiots do to yourselves?”

Alastor stumbles forward and pets the cat’s ears. “Ah, Husker, don’t worry yourself, my friend. We didn’t do anything you wouldn’t do.”

“I don’t take that as reassuring, boss.”

“Hey” says Mimzy, staggering over to the bar, “What gives? It ain't like you don’t get drunk on the regular.”

“I drink” Husk corrects her, “I don’t stumble about like a clown. I got a good tolerance going.”

“Long years of practise” Alastor agrees, patting Husk’s head.

Husk rolls his eyes and mutters, “Ain't that the truth.” He brushes Alastor off and slinks back behind the bar. Alastor sits down next to Mimzy. She puts an arm around him, her smile warm and tipsy.

Alastor is so very glad they are friends again. It took a little grovelling on his part, and a long, rambling discussion in which Mimzy did most of the talking, but he was able to hint that he turned her away from the hotel for her own good without breaking any, for want of a better word, confidences. Being attacked by a legion of angelic exorcists helped with that, as did being injured. Turning up at Mimzy’s club, days after Vox spread the footage of his encounter with Adam all over Hell, Alastor found his friend worried enough to be inclined to forgive him once she’d finished talking things out at him. Now, she tells Husk, “Make mine a Bee’s Knees, kitty cat.”

“I ain't serving either of ya. You’ve had enough.”

Alastor sits up straight with some effort and tells the cat, “Now, now, Husker, I’m sure your brain isn’t so marinated by your years of drinking that you’ve forgotten who’s in charge.”

Husk, he is gratified to see, is already getting the ingredients for the cocktail despite his pretence at protest. Husk replies, “Uh huh. Well, I guess if you want a hangover tomorrow, who am I to stop ya?”

Mimzy nods in agreement and leans over to sip the drink when Husk hands her.

Next Husk asks, “Your usual, boss? Or are you going to be sensible and have some water?”

Mimzy laughs. “Sensible! Ha! You should have seen him on the dance floor earlier!”

Alastor scowls at her. “I kept up with you, didn’t I?”

“Barely.”

Alastor puts some jazz on, concentrating his power into the radio he keeps behind the bar. Admittedly it is a little wavering, repeating a few rambling beats at first, but he gets it working, then tells Husk, “My usual, old pal.”

Husk rolls his eyes, pouring the whiskey. He must do it wrong because when Alastor lifts the glass, a portion of it jumps out onto the bar. Husk grumbles and mops it up.

Once Alastor has a firmer grip on the drink, Mimzy holds her own glass up in a toast. “Here’s to me, I guess” she says, “And here’s to another crappy year sleepin’ the big sleep down here!”

Alastor clinks his glass with hers. She turns to Husk. “Husker?”

Husk shrugs. “I don’t got a drink.”

Mimzy laughs. “First time for everything, I’m sure!”

Alastor narrows his eyes, feeling his smile tighten. “Pour one for yourself, Husker. It’s bad manners not to toast a lady’s health.”

Husk pours himself a drink. Not bothering to hide his scowl, he holds it up to Mimzy, then knocks it back.

Mimzy nods approvingly. “That’s more like it. You gotta be nice to me today, Husk. I’m relivin’ my trauma.”

Alastor finds himself shifting away from her a little. He doesn’t like how blasé she these annual commemorations, which is entirely unreasonable of him. It is, as she says, her trauma.

Husk just looks puzzled, until Mimzy pats her stomach and explains, “Ninety seven years ago today I got shot right here.”

Husk doesn’t look especially moved. Normally Alastor would delight in how successful his contractee has been in his quest to drown his feelings in alcohol, but tonight it grates. He is aware of a little static punctuating the music still spilling from the radio.

Mimzy adds, “Bled out!” pulling her hand away in a sweeping, drunken gesture indicative of a spray of blood. Then she laughs and sips her drink daintily.

“Yeah” says Husk moodily, “Ya seem real traumatised.” But he tops up Mimzy’s drink when she sets it down, and adds a lemon twist garnish. Interesting: It seems that no matter how hard Husk tries, he can’t quite drown out that pesky empathy of his. If anything, he’s gotten worse at it since they moved into the hotel. Alastor imagines it must be exhausting.

“Ya know…” Mimzy wobbles a little on her bar stool, leaning towards Alastor, “Ya know I’ve always wondered, what even happened next?”

He regards her blearily. “Next?”

“After I was shot.”

The jazz screeches to a stop. Alastor blinks, focuses, and it resumes. He looks away. “Next, you were dead.”

“Yeah but…I mean, who came to the funeral? And who got my jewellery? Who identified my body even?”

“Oh, that was me.”

“You got my jewellery?”

“I identified your body.”

Mimzy sits up straighter.  When Alastor turns back to her, he finds she is looking at him with renewed interest. “Tell me about it” she says.

“I looked at your body and said to the man in the mortuary, yes that’s her.”

“Not like that! I want details!”

“Do you really though?”

“Course! It’d help.”

“It would?” Alastor can’t imagine how.

“Yeah. It’d help me process it all.”

On the other side of the bar, Husk rolls his eyes. “Right” he says, “Because, what with being dead and all, you missed out on your own drama and that must just eat ya up.”

Mimzy glares. “Fuck you, Husker, ya lousy furball! Come on, Al, tell me! I wanna know.”

Alastor studies the contents of to his glass. The jazz disintegrates into feedback and he isn’t sure he is sober enough to coax it back into musicagain. Mimzy prods him. “What are ya waiting for? Spill!”

 Alastor relents. “It was a Thursday” he relents, “The same Thursday you died.”

“Well obviously. They wouldn’t want to leave me lying in the street!”

“Indeed.” Alastor swirls his whisky. All of this was a long time ago, he tells himself. It should be easy to talk about.

Mimzy shuffles closer. “So…?”

Alastor sighs. “So…It was a Thursday.”

“Ya mentioned.”

Husk tops up his whiskey. Funny that the cat warns them against drinking more but then tops them up as soon as things become even a little unpleasant. Alastor is sure there is something there he could mock Husk about but right now he can’t quite tell what.

Mimzy is still looking at him, so Alastor goes on, “I went straight from work to the club. Do you remember the charming Bouchard sisters? They were getting in the same time as me so we were beating gums in the lobby, and it was all very agreeable.”

Mimzy laughs. “And then I went and ruined it by dying!”

“You’d already died, Mimzy. I just didn’t know it yet.”

(Later, Alastor recalls, he would wonder why he didn’t. What was he doing while Mimzy was being shot? Broadcasting by then, most likely. Covering morning shift, running on a snatched few hours of sleep since his show the night before, while Ballard readied his gun and waited outside that little café. Chatting away to his audience while she was gunned down. It feels wrong that he couldn’t tell, that he just went blithely on with his day.)

Alastor sips his drink. Mimzy waits, then seems to grow impatient. “Alastor?” she prompts, leaning forward.

Alastor feels his ears flatten, and corrects them. He goes on, “Balbina Sanchez pulled me off to one side.”

“Oh, I remember her!” Mimzy claps a little, then adds, to Husk, “She was a right bitch!”

Alastor hums noncommittally. He had never minded Balbina for all it had always been entertaining to listen to Mimzy’s less generous opinions on the woman. He adds, “I confess I thought I was in trouble. I wondered if I’d drunkenly opened a tab and she was about to demand payment.”

(And when he’d enquired “Is something the matter?”, Balbina had just shaken her head and murmured, “Not here” and Alastor had realised that something awful must have happened.)

Mimzy laughs. “But it was me!”

“It was you.”

“And she just blurted it out in the lobby?”

“No, she took me backstage.”

Mimzy looks a bit put out by this. Perhaps Husk has a point about her preferring drama to closure. Always charmingly dramatic, is Mimzy.

(It was dramatic, a drama of alarm and concern playing out in his head as he followed Balbina Sanchez through the club and wondered what was so wrong that she couldn’t just tell him in the lobby. He’d wondered if Sam, the club’s elderly former owner and frequent customer, had taken a fall, but then he’d glanced around and spotted him by the bar.)

He knocks back a gulp of whisky. “And then she took me to your dressing room.”

“Oh, charming! Because it was up for grabs now?” Mimzy waits again for him to continue. The pause stretches until she demands, “And?”

(And as they approached the dressing rooms, it became undeniable that it was one of the dancers. And Alastor had betrayed each and every one, hoping that it would be them and not Mimzy but it was still her dressing room Balbina headed for.)

“And as we approached, I started to hope you’d be in there bruised, or taken ill.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“But when we went inside, you weren’t there and I knew immediately that you were dead.”

“Oh, thanks for having so much faith in me!”

Alastor looks at her, the room wavering drunkenly when he turns his head. “Well, you were dead, dear.”

“And she told you? Did she cry?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“That bitch.” Mimzy waits, fidgeting with the stem of her glass until Husk moves it pointedly out her way. “So what did she say?”

Alastor looks away again.

(Balbina had made an admirable but obvious effort to stay calm and to the point. Her voice had barely shaken as she told Alastor that, as his best friend had left the café he’d dropped her off at, a man had barred her path and shot her three times in the gut. She seemed to think he needed details but he didn’t.)

“She told me you’d been shot outside a café that morning.”

“Ya sound real cut up about it” says Mimzy sarcastically. She props her chin on her elbow, rolling her eyes. “Ya wanna put some emotion inta the telling, ya heartless son of a bitch?”

(Alastor had tensed as the account went on. He only needed to know that she was dead, surely. He didn’t need to know how long it took or how Mimzy had been lying in the street. So he’d held up a hand and said, “Yes, I see.” Balbina Sanchez had seemed to think this was a sign he was in shock, as if he were not quite taking it in, so she had added, “She’s dead, Mr Leclair.” Alastor had surprised himself by asking, “Yes, but how?” even though she’d just told him. And she’d told him all the horrible details all over again. And he’d said “Yes, I see” all over again.)

Now, Mimzy waves a drunken hand and adds, “I mean, come on, Al! I was dead! Is a little emotion too much to ask for here?”

“Probably” mutters Husk.

Static spits from the radio in disjointed hisses. Mimzy puts her hand on his arm, telling him, “I’m kidding!” as if sensing distress. Ridiculous as distress would be on this subject tonight. She is sitting right here after all.

The static fades. Mimzy chuckles, squeezes his arm and adds, “Oh you.”

“Yes, well.” Alastor drains his glass and holds it out to Husk. Husk doesn’t look thrilled by this but refills it without a word.

Mimzy holds her glass out too. “Top me up, kitty?”

“Ya realise the more ya call that, the slower I work” mutters Husk as he takes the glass.

Once Mimzy has a fresh cocktail in her hand she says, “Alastor? Come on, tell me the rest!”

“Mimzy, dear, I really don’t think this is a story for a lady.”

“How’d you figure that? It’s my story ain’t it? So come on, help a gal process here!”

More feedback from the radio. Alastor wishes he was sober enough to get it under control. On arrival in Hell, he’d been infuriated by his deerlike features but rather pleased by the prospect of being part radio. Now, he’d quite like to be without such an obvious tell. He goes on, “Mrs Sanchez explained that the people at the mortuary wanted your body identified sooner rather than later and half their staff were finishing for the day quite soon.”

Mimzy looks disgruntled. “Huh. So I was just some chore.”

“Well I must say, my dear, I did have to straighten my coat and fix my hair in your mirror while she went to ask Evans to give me a ride over there.”

(He’d had to take a moment to make sure he wasn’t about to cry. The shock, surely. He’d told himself sternly that grief could wait until after he found the killer.)

“I was a little less than perfectly put together after my journey in and then I had to go straight back out again.”

(Normally, next of kin would identify her, Sanchez had explained, but no one knew who that was. Did Alastor? And Alastor had been chagrined to reply that no, he didn’t. Mimzy had seemed to drop straight from Milton’s embrace all those years ago and into his life. She’d never told him about her family and he’d never asked. He didn’t need to know her background to understand and accept her. She was always just Mimzy.)

Mimzy is scowling now. But if Alastor is hoping to put her off this topic, he’s failed: She shoves him gently and says, “Get on with it, Al! I’m processin.” On the other side of the bar, Husk scowls at her and folds his arms.

Stalling, before he reaches the part she really shouldn’t have to hear, Alastor focuses on little details (he seems to remember them very well), telling her, “Well, Mimzy, it was an unseasonably warm afternoon. Evans drove me past Washington Square, and it was full of children playing and ladies in tea dresses strolling along.”

“Enough with the stage setting already! What about me?”

(She wasn’t strolling along in a tea dress. She was dead.)

Another gentle shove. This time, Mimzy almost topples backwards off her chair. Alastor moves to catch her but his reflexes are numbed and it falls to an unimpressed Husk to steady her. She says, “Come on, Alastor! Get to the good part already!”

(Good part? Alastor thinks). He takes a bracing sip of whisky and continues, “We reached the mortuary and I was shown inside” (and into a network of windowless, cold hallways. No one would be able to tell was sunny outside.) “Evans waited in the car.”

“Huh, typical! Lazy bastard couldn’t even be bothered to come and see me?”

(“I know I never got on with her” the man had said, “But she didn’t deserve that. I’m real sorry for your loss, Mr Leclair” and Alastor had smiled the polite, formal, sad-tinged smile he’d perfected when mama had died and thought this again.)

Now he says, “Perhaps I should stop.”

“What, now? You’re just getting started!”

Husk sighs loudly. Mimzy shoots him a dirty look. Alastor drinks some more. He continues, “The man who took my details led me to a room with a metal door. He told me that the police had finished gathering evidence so I could touch you if I wanted.”

“Ha! Creepy much?”

“He told me that you looked like you were sleeping. I must confess, I was a little perturbed: I hadn’t seen a peaceful corpse before!” The laugh track plays. Husk shudders but Mimzy gives an obliging little chuckle.

The laugh track fades as Alastor adds, “And then he showed me into the room.” He drains the whiskey in one long swallow, then holds the glass out to Husk again. For a moment, Husk looks about to say something, but, wisely, he doesn’t. He pours.

“Al, don’t keep a girl in suspense here.”

Alastor feels his smile tighten. “You were in there on a gurney.” Feedback bubbles from the radio, a string of rustles and scratches that don’t feel like they’re coming from him.

“Well, yeah” says Mimzy, “I could figure that much.”

(Which is odd, Alastor thinks, because he couldn’t. He had been quite sure of the situation all the way there. He knew Mimzy was dead and that he was there to identify her body. But when he saw her, he’d felt a fission of shock. As though, all the way there, part of him had expected it all to be some silly misunderstanding. Part of him had expected some other woman to be lying there.)
Alastor’s glares down at his glass. Out the corner of his eye, he sees Husk’s arm twitch, as if the cat is reigning in an impulse to pat his shoulder. Sentimental fool.

Apparently in lieu of unwanted touch, Husk tops up his drink and gives him a look Alastor can’t quite untangle.

Mimzy asks, “So how’d I look?”

“Positively corpse like, my dear.”

“Alastor!”

(She didn’t look like she was sleeping. Just like with mama, it was easy to tell this wasn’t sleep. One of Mimzy’s eyes had been a little open, an almost wink that was very her and very much not like sleeping. There had been a speck of dried blood at the corner of her mouth. Alastor had found himself wondering if perhaps no one ever really looks like they’re sleeping. If perhaps that is just something people say, like sorry for your loss.)

“Had they done my make up?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake! I was just lying there without my face on? What was I wearing?”

“I don’t know. You were covered in a sheet up to your chin.”

“Oh shit, you don’t think I was naked under there, do you?”

“I hope not.” Alastor sips his drink. “But probably.”

Finally, Mimzy looks a little disturbed. (Alastor refuses to examine why that relieves him). She says, “And all the guys that worked there eying me up!”

“I’m fairly certain you were just meat to them my dear.”

“Exactly!” Mimzy folds her arms. “So, what next?”

“I told the man it was you, of course.”

“And then?”

“And then he left me alone with you.”

“Aw, Al, did you weep over me?”

“I can assure you I did not.”

Mimzy huffs. “Not one little tear?”

“It’s not my style, dear. I just spoke to you.” Alastor feels his eyes widen a fraction. Damn all the whiskey: He hadn’t meant to say that.

Mimzy stares. “You spoke to my corpse? How come?”

Alastor shrugs, something he is aware he slips into doing when he’s drunk. “Just in case there was something to the religious bunk mama’s friends always went on about.”

Mimzy claps her hands excitedly. “And there was but I still didn’t hear it! What did you say?”

“I really don’t recall.”

“Hey, now, don’t tease a girl!”

“Just a lot of nonsense, my dear. That you were talented and beautiful” (And the best friend he’d ever had) “And that I’d kill whoever did it. All true, but all nonsense.”

“Oh Al, you big softie, you.” Mimzy shuffles closer. “And then what?”

(And then he had touched her. Just once on the cheek. She had been cold. Which he had expected. Obviously.)

“And then I started to wonder when I could politely leave.”
“Alastor!”

“Eventually the man came back and showed me to an office.”

Mimzy seems a bit disappointed at the shifting of the spotlight from her remains to the paperwork. “And then?”

“A different man explained that someone needed to pay for your body to be taken to a funeral parlour, stored and embalmed.”

“Oh great, so they dolled me up after you’d seen me naked!”

Alastor feels himself blush. “I didn’t see you naked, Mimzy. You were under a sheet.”

“Fine, whatever. So then what?”

“He took my cheque and said, I’m sorry, and I wasn’t sure whether he meant sorry for my loss or sorry to discuss money at a time like that. But, you know, I quite liked paying. It was something I could do for you. I’d never be able to buy you a drink again. Or so I thought at the time.”

Mimzy raises her glass. “Joke’s on you, I guess!”

Alastor feels his smile slip into something genuine. “Ha! Yes! I’ve bought you many a drink since!” He raises his own glass in salute. It spills a little, and Husk mops it up without a word.

“Of course you have” says Mimzy, “You love taking care of little old me!” She sways a little, putting a hand to Alastor’s shoulder to steady herself. Alastor puts his own hand over it. Mimzy doesn’t appear to notice. She slips off her stool, hand dragging out from under his, and manages to land somewhat gracefully. “Well, I’m done” she announces, “Thank you for a fun time, Al.”

“My pleasure, Mimzy, as always.”

“Night night, sweetie” Mimzy tells him. Then she shifts her gaze to Husk, her warm expression fading as she adds, “Goodnight, Husk.”

“It was, til you idiots showed up.”

As Mimzy staggers off towards the elevators, Alastor raises a hand in her vague direction. “Happy Death Day, dear” he tells her. He is glad that Charlie agreed – enthusiastically, of course – to let Mimzy stay in the hotel tonight, despite her not being onboard with the dear princess’s redemption nonsense.

“Thanks, sweetie” Mimzy calls back as she leaves.

With her gone, Alastor examines the contents of his glass, wondering if drinking any more is really a good idea.

“You okay, boss?”

Alastor hoists the corners of his smile up. “But of course, my good man! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just…sounds like it was a tough day is all.”

“It was ninety-seven years ago. And tougher for Mimzy, I assure you.”

“That don’t mean it wasn’t bad for you too. ’S’okay to be upset.”

Alastor plays the laugh track but it comes out so obviously forced that he switches it off again. “Ah, Husker, you know me better than that!”

“…uh huh.”

Alastor ruffles the cat’s fur, eliciting a growl as Husk steps away. Then he leans over, elbows on the bar, suddenly tired. “I believe I’ll turn in too.”

“You do that” says Husk, “And don’t go starving yourself tomorrow. Protein, that’s the way to deal with a hangover.”

“You’d know, I suppose.” Alastor gets up and makes his unsteady way up the stairs. The elevator would be faster in his current state but he won’t give Husker the satisfaction. Bad enough that he can’t use magic. Whenever he tries to fade into the shadows drunk, he is well aware that he might reappear in entirely the wrong place.

Once he’s in his room, he changes for bed without his usual routine of gramophone and a good book. Far too late for that. Or early.

Far too drunk for that. He clambers into bed and is asleep in minutes.

“Al?”

“Hm?” Alastor sits up before he’s really awake and takes a moment to notice Mimzy stood by his bed in a nightgown. She asks, “You awake?”

“I am now.” Alastor has no idea if he was asleep for minutes or hours.

Mimzy giggles and Alastor scowls above the smile. “Is something amusing?”

“Oh, no, it’s just. Well, it’s kinda funny, seeing the Radio Demon in his PJs and his hair all messed up.”

Alastor feels his scowl deepen. He runs a hand ineffectually through his hair. “Mimzy dear, can I help you with something?”

Mimzy sits down on the bed. Alastor’s bed in the hotel is a lot bigger than the one in his apartment in New Orleans. Suddenly, she seems a long way away. She says, “Just Death Day blues, I guess. I thought I was over it but ya got me dwelling.”

“I did try to warn you, cher.”

“Yeah, yeah. I just thought I was ready to hear it is all.” Mimzy glances at the bayou, then at the bedcovers. “Look, can I stay here? I could use the company.”

Alastor isn’t thrilled by this, tired as he is, but he moves to get up and play host. Mimzy quickly says, “You don’t gotta stay awake on my account.”

Alastor takes a moment to work out what she means. “Oh.”

“What? It ain't like we’ve never shared a bed before.”

“We were both very drunk then.”

“We’re very drunk now. Don’t think I can’t tell, kitten.”

“You do know me well, I suppose.” Alastor shuffles sideways to make room and pulls the covers back.

“Thanks.” Mimzy clambers over and settles in besides him. Once she seems comfortable, Alastor lies down too. He closes his eyes and starts to drift again, until Mimzy adds, “Hey, Al? Thanks taking me out tonight.”

“But of course, my dear. It’s tradition.”

“Yeah.” Mimzy yawns. “Ya know, I missed you all those years.”

For a moment, Alastor thinks she is referring to his seven year absence, but then she adds, “It weren’t no fun, being dead without ya.”

“It wasn’t fun being alive without you.”

“Oh, your little radio show kept you busy, I’m sure.”

(It did. So much so that Mr Poole had finally taken him aside and told him he had to stop coming in seven days a week. He had filled his days with his hobby too, barely sleeping or eating until Mimzy’s killer was in the ground, then ensuring he was joined by plenty of likeminded men. And he ate in every restaurant in town, and he danced in every club but one and he never turned down an invitation.) “Yes, I suppose staying busy did help.”

(It had been months before he had let himself be quiet enough to notice her absence.)

Mimzy tells him, “Me, I just fell down here and had to start again from scratch. I couldn’t wait for you to come join me.” She pauses, and adds, “That came out wrong.”

Alastor chuckles. “Well, I’m here now.”

“Yeah. Goodnight, Alastor.”

“Goodnight, Mimzy.” After she falls asleep, Alastor listens to her breathing for a long time.