He left it three blocks from the destination, and Harry was beginning to look decidedly put out by the fact that he was expected to walk. He kept his mouth shut, though, which was showing more smarts than the Boggart expected out of him. It might have been because the few denizens of the area that they passed looked as mean and dangerous as Humph—and a good half of them were Paras. Furs, mainly, identifiable by their tribal-motif clothing, themed to their species; leather, spikes, and chains, most of it easily removable in case they Were’d out. The duo kept to the alleys as much as possible, with Humph trailing Harry to keep an eye on him until they reached the last gulf of empty space between them and their destination: the back door of The Beau Bayou Club.
It was clearly a happening night; Humph could see the tail end of the line to get into the club, even from all the way over where they were. Looking both ways down the street, he spent several minutes scrutinizing the area for any stakeouts or other surveillance. Getting careless at any point could get him killed in a hurry. Harry, too. And he needed Harry alive if he wanted even a slim chance of figuring this mess out. Either Harry was the best bald-faced liar in the world (doubtful), able to keep his facade up while three-fourths drunk and entirely beaten up (even more doubtful) or he was more important than he appeared. In the Boggart’s world, that usually meant he knew something. Information—the right information—was usually a thousand times more valuable than money, and the easiest way to get rid of information was to kill all of the people that possessed it.
Satisfied that they weren’t going to be immediately surrounded and gunned down as soon as they crossed the street, Humph motioned for Harry to follow him. They walked casually across the street, staying a few feet apart. Humph’s senses were on high alert for even the slightest thing out of the ordinary. They reached the back door without incident. There was one thing out of place, however; a surveillance camera was panning back and forth over the top of the door. Once they got close, it stopped, then zoomed in on Humph. Hm. He must be getting paranoid in his old age.
Now we see if my old code still works. It had been a long time since he’d used the back door of the Beau Bayou, and back then it had been because of a dame. Still, the dame hadn’t been his, the affair had been resolved thanks to his intervention to the satisfaction of all parties, so…
He punched in the numbers, and heard the hum, click of the electronic lock on the door opening. The Boggart ushered Harry in, closing the door behind them. They were in darkness for a few moments before Humph took Harry by the arm and started leading him down the dim hallway they had found themselves in. There was faint red lighting as they moved forward, the smell of spicy food, and loud music thumping through the walls. At the end of the hallway was a large black door; it had a life-sized embossed skeleton in a top hat on it. Humph turned to Harry. “Whatever happens on the other side of this door, you stick close to me. Got it?” Harry nodded. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin when the skeleton talked.
“Who’s your date, Boggart? Not your usual fare.” The skeleton shifted in the door, and uttered a dry chuckle. “Never pictured you as a switch-hitter.”
“Can it, Happy, otherwise I’ll make a xylophone out of your ribcage.” They waited for a few tense moments. “Well, are you gonna let us in?”
The skeleton seemed to grin wider. “Password, please?”
“For the love of—” Humph fumed. “‘You’re pretty humerus, Happy.’”
Harry looked from the Boggart to the skeleton with a vaguely disgusted expression. “Seriously? A bone pun?”
The skeleton cackled; it sounded like a bad wind chime with all of its ribs clacking together. “You and your girlfriend can pass, Boggart. But watch out; they’ll eat your date alive in there. Got some bad actors for customers tonight.”
The door opened by itself. Given its skeletal passenger, it might have been expected to creak ominously, but it was silent—the kind of silence only a lot of money can buy. The loud, thumping music stopped a second or two after the door closed behind them, giving way to something more subdued. The Boggart very much doubted that Harry would have identified either piece—the first had been a loud, brassy number in the New Orleans jazz tradition; the second was also jazz, but cool Chicago-style. Not that one customer in a hundred would know the difference, nor that you’d have risked getting stoned to death in a New Orleans jazz club for playing Chicago tunes. The Boggart opened another door at the end of the hallway, and they walked into the club proper.
It was dark. Most of the lighting was from flickering pseudo-candles on the tables. Overhead, the ceiling had been done with a real-to-life nightscape, showing more stars than you would ever see on an overcast New Orleans night. The walls were made to look like rough timber, as if this was a jazz-joint from about the turn of the 20th century. The rest of the lighting wasn’t coming from any obvious source, but pools of red radiance as dark as blood splashed across everything. They started to pick their way through the crowd, weaving up to the bar. And what a crowd it was; Happy wasn’t kidding when he warned that some of the patrons might fancy eating Harry alive.
Most obvious were the Fangs and Furs; some of the latter actually wore the teeth and claws of vanquished rivals as trophies. But there were some truly strange Paras that were regulars at this club as well; they edged past a table where a human-headed, lion-bodied androsphinx was sipping a mint julep and discussing something with a Jersey Devil. A Bigfoot loomed over the end of one of the three bars around the room. A gorgeous woman in a flowing white dress and blonde hair down to her ankles smiled at Harry, and the Boggart had to grab his elbow and shake it before he did something stupid. The next moment, though, his own good sense—or what passed for it—kicked in, as the woman turned away, revealing that her body was hollow from the rear, as if she was only half of a display mannequin, which was certainly enough weirdness to make Harry back off even if he didn’t know what that meant.
The regular customers of the Beau Bayou were…the deadly sorts of Paras. Most of them were kept in check by the legal system…or by being careful where they picked their victims. They all came here originally for different reasons, but kept coming back for the same one: Whatever you wanted, you could probably find, buy, or arrange to have stolen at the Beau Bayou. There were Norms here, too: the usual assortment of Fang and Fur groupies, who wisely chose to stay close to whomever they were fawning over. But there were others, as well; anyone that might have dealings with Paras that wouldn’t bear the light of day was here, wheeling and dealing with everyone else.
And then there was the bartender at the main bar—the one that the Bigfoot was bookending. As tall as the Bigfoot or a fully wolfed-out Were, the Rougarou had a heavily muscled humanoid torso, humanoid hands ending in claws, the head of a wolf, and literally glowing red eyes. He had a beard as well, neatly braided and finished off with a gold ring, and a very expensive silk brocade vest over a red silk shirt. Presumably he was wearing equally expensive trousers as well, but his lower half was hidden by the bar. Probably just as well. The Boggart really did not want to know whether or not he was wearing pants.
The Rougarou noticed Humph and Harry as they reached the bar, stomping over after refilling the Bigfoot’s bowling-ball-sized goblet. “Humph, long time no see.” Humph knew that the bartender had an extremely rare and ridiculously expensive anti-glamor charm, which was how he was able to recognize any previous but englamored customer on sight. He sniffed, then looked over at Harry. “Who’s the appetizer?”
“Nice to see you, too, Alphonse. And he’s a client. Where’s—”
Humph—and nearly everyone else in the club—stopped in the middle of what they were doing and looked toward the stage. A new song had begun; this one had a singer who had just begun vocalizing. Now every head was turned her way.
She was as blonde as the hollow woman had been, with her long hair done up loosely on the top of her head in a way that somehow made Humph’s fingers itch to find the pins that held it in place and let it f
all down around her. Big blue eyes that should have looked innocent, and instead looked sleepily sensuous, dominated a heart-shaped face. Her neck was a long ivory sweep, her body, in a tight-fitting black beaded gown, was made of curves, and she moved like the wind on the water as she sang.
Humph couldn’t have said what she was singing—blues, maybe. He didn’t recognize the song, and anyway the song was irrelevant compared to the singing. Her voice was like velvet, or cream with a touch of whiskey, and the words didn’t matter at all. Every word held an unspoken promise, and he knew everyone else was hearing the same promise that he was. Of course they did. This was a Lorelei—the German version of a siren—and although she wasn’t luring men to their deaths on the rocks of her river, there were still plenty of rocks to run aground on if you tried to make her hold good to the promise the melody was holding just out of reach.
Her eyes moved slowly over the crowd, until she reached the part where the Boggart and his charge were standing. And her eyes passed over Harry as if he wasn’t there and locked with Humph’s.
For a moment it felt as if he had grabbed live wires in either hand.
Then the song ended, the moment passed, and she dropped her gaze before starting another number. Everyone in the club waited a few heartbeats before they resumed what they had been doing. A few threw wistful or irritated looks over at Humph; clearly something had happened and they felt cheated that it had happened to him but not them.
He shook himself out of it. The spell, or whatever the hell it was, was over. He tried to look around the crowd to see the singer, but everyone was suddenly in the way. Harry tugged at his arm impatiently; a couple of the patrons were starting to leer at him, licking their chops. Humph turned back to Alphonse, still feeling slightly inebriated from the last song. “Anyways, where’s the boss? I need words with him.”
Alphonse had his lips curled up in a wicked grin; maybe it was just the only way that he could smile, but Humph still hated it. “He’s working the crowd; got some new customers in tonight and he wants to make sure they feel at home.” The grin broadened. “But not so much at home that they get out of hand, if you know what I mean.” He pointed the glass that he was cleaning over Humph’s shoulder; he turned to look, and there was the man of the hour himself.
Jeanpaul Beausolei had owned the Beau Bayou for as long as anyone on-planet could remember. It seemed that he and the club had just sprung up one day, and been a landmark for the planet ever since. He styled himself as a retired voodoo priest; no one had really tried to challenge that claim. At least, no one who had lived to talk about it afterward. He had a theatrical personality—or at least a theatrical persona—and themed his in-public look to match his bar. It didn’t hurt that he was almost eight feet tall, either. If he was a Para, he wasn’t a sort that the Boggart recognized, and he hadn’t revealed what sort he was. On the other hand, if he wasn’t a Para, the Boggart wasn’t sure how he had managed to keep the Bayou going without incident all these years. A lot of Paras still respected sheer might; he with the biggest fangs and claws and the willingness to use them ruled.
Making his way genially through the crowd was a dusky-skinned, apparently human man; his natural height was exaggerated by the tall and flawless black silk top hat he wore, complete with a silk ribbon rose tacked to the hatband. Beneath the hat, he was bald. The hat was matched with a silk tuxedo, also black, the sort with a cutaway jacket and tails. But under the jacket, instead of the usual white tux shirt, was a vest brocaded with skulls and a blood red shirt with a ruffled jabot. The ruffled cuffs of the shirt peeked out from the end of the jacket’s sleeves. Jeanpaul carried a cane matched to his height that appeared to have a snake carved coiled up its length. That was only an appearance; the snake was real, and alive, and had been known to slither up the cane and down Jeanpaul’s hand to partake of his drink.
And when he turned his head, just right, to just the perfect angle, it looked as if there was nothing but a skull where his face ought to be. The Boggart had never been able to work out if that was a magical illusion, some sort of hologram, or a hint at Jeanpaul’s real nature; it served to creep damn near everyone out, however, which he suspected was its sole purpose.
Currently he had two nymph waitresses with flowers in their hair hanging on either arm; goblet of wine in one hand, his cane in the other. Evidently he wasn’t interested in sharing with his snake tonight. He was flamboyantly entertaining a mixed group of Paras and Norms, all of whom seemed enraptured by his every word. This went on for several minutes, with Jeanpaul bouncing from clique to clique, keeping everyone happy and feeling like they were special guests.
He really does know how to work a room, I’ll give him that much.
Not once during his circuit did Jeanpaul come near or even acknowledge that Humph and Harry were there. Humph went ahead and ordered a couple of drinks for them; he hardly touched his, instead looking around for the singer again. Finally, when Jeanpaul was done schmoozing, he sent the two waitresses scurrying off while he retired to the back room. Less than a minute later a very tired looking satyr, another one of the wait staff, approached them.
“Mr. Beausolei would like it if you two gentlemen would share a drink in his office, if you please.” The Boggart knew that was an order framed as a request, even if Harry was oblivious to the fact. Not for the first time, Humph wondered how Harry had survived as long as he had without losing life, a limb, or at least teeth. Fortuna favet fatuis, I guess. Or maybe it was the insulating cocoon that money wrapped around the rich. They followed the satyr through the crowd toward the back; Harry stepped on a few toes, hooves, and other unidentifiable appendages on the way, much to the displeasure of their owners. They came to the door, where the satyr turned and left them. It opened, this one again doing so without the apparent help of anyone. Jeanpaul was seated at a large polished ebony desk; his frame made it seem like a toy in comparison. He gestured for them to come inside, with the door shutting firmly behind. For a moment, Humph was disturbingly reminded of a certain “interview” with a Wendigo that had taken place in a similar setting.
“Why lookie what have come to me humble establishment, but Mister Boggie himself! Been an age, has it not?”
“You know that you sound like you’re half-Jamaican out there, Paulie. Layin’ it on a bit thick tonight, aren’t you?” Humph softened the criticism with a lopsided smile.
Jeanpaul smiled even wider. “Half of the rubes out there wouldn’t know a New Orleans native if one was crawling up their leg and gnawing on them. How’ve you been, Humph?” The thick accent was gone now; Jeanpaul’s voice was deeper and mellow, with just a tinge of the American South in it.
“Been better.” Jeanpaul reacted to this statement by reaching under his desk, pulling out two glasses full of ice, and placing them across from the Boggart and Harry. Next to come from under the desk was an unlabeled bottle of dark, viscous liquid, which he poured for both of them. Humph’s nose told him it was Paulie’s privately-made rum—made as it had been in the Caribbean centuries ago, from sugar-cane molasses.
“You don’t say? Been a long time since you last made the news. Now you’re all that anyone can talk about. If you were wearing your own face out there, I have no doubt that some nasty so and so’s would be very happy to sell your whereabouts in the time it’d take you to blink.” He held up a hand. “No need to worry about anything from my staff; they know which side their bread is buttered on. No one will go out to cause you any trouble, not here.”
“Good to see that some things never change. Things have become…complicated, for me. I didn’t kidnap this lump. Well, not technically, at least.” Harry looked up from the rum, waving shyly to Jeanpaul. “The news-feed is being doctored. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions about how deep I am in it.”
Jeanpaul appraised both of them. “You’d need a really tall ladder just to climb to the bottom of the shit barrel that the two of you are in right now.” He paused, turning his head. “That’s why you’re here, righ
t?”
Humph nodded. “That’s about the size of it, Paulie. I need some breathing room; I figure getting off-planet will help with that, give me some room to move and try to figure this mess out.” He sipped his rum, jerking a thumb over to Harry. “There’s something bad surrounding ol’ Harold here, and I’m caught in it whether I like it or not. You’re just about the only person I know that can get both of us off this rock without tipping things to the bulls.”
“You’re right about that, Humph. You’ve made more than your fair share of enemies over the years; there are a lot of beings out there who would love to see you crash and burn in the worst way. You don’t think this is that, do you? Someone settling old scores?”
He shook his head, swirling the rum a little in his glass as he thought. “No, it doesn’t fit. There’s a lot easier and messier ways to get that done, and this doesn’t have the fingerprints of any of the usual suspects. Besides, why involve the rich kid in it? That complicates things way too much. On the other hand, if you figure I was set up to be the fall guy for taking the rich kid out of the picture, it all makes way too much sense.” The Boggart finished his rum, setting the empty glass down on the desk. “What do you think, Paulie? All debts are paid if you can help me out of this jam.”
Jeanpaul had brought his snake-cane over, allowing it to drink a little from his glass. “Your ‘client’ there is going along with all of this?”
Harry started to speak up before Humph cut him off. “He doesn’t have any choice in the matter. He’s as good as dead on his own; the lad is really like a babe in the woods. Besides, I have need of him. Only way that I’m going to be able to get to the bottom of things is using him.”
Reboots: Diabolical Streak Page 5