Lucienne Picou

“I’m not quite sure whether to congratulate you or pity you,” she said with a laugh. “You come into these things thinking it’ll be all glamour and courtesy and …pheasants. But really, the two keys are just knowing your way around a backhanded compliment, and knowing  the exact right angle at which you have to fix a bright, butter-wouldn’t-melt smile while you do it.” Just as filled with drama and pettiness and twists as the theatre, when you think about it. “I never could get into Jane Austen. Perhaps that would’ve helped.”

She shrugged. “Fair enough, really.” And it wasn’t as if they didn’t do exactly that, many of these society wives. Distant, semi-shared existence was practically an art in these circles. She’d done quite well at it, if she did say so herself.  After a year or two, whenever the intoxication of what had lured you into matrimony - money, status, hormones, flattery, whatever – had faded, the next thing you did, the next thing she’d done, was look. Study all the beautiful, diamond-encrusted, smiling wives, and note how they skillfully stayed almost a whole ballroom away from their supposed beloveds for as much of the evening as possible, always surrounded by others – whether they be friends, occasional flirtations, lovers. Often, all three, depending on the day.

No matter how unhappy you were when you got there, or knew you would be when you got home, there would always be people around to help you pretend that you weren’t, she’d learned. 

Vivienne smiled slightly as soon as she’d heard of the other woman’s success. “Oh, I’m so glad.” Gatherings like this needed all the help they could get, certainly where cuisine was concerned. A touch of something so fantastically new from other shores would do a fair bit to jazz things up, so to speak. “If you ever need a good word,” she said, dropping her voice slightly, “I will endeavour to do my bit. If only to save my own tastebuds from more turtle soup, or whatever our esteemed hosts will want to inflict on us next.

Some day, she thought, she’d dearly love to see the sight of them in the smoky, dark confines of L’Ortolan itself. Just to give them a jolt of life outside of all this stifling control and prettiness.

“You don’t happen to have a foldable blackjack set-up, do you? Next time, offer to host this group at your place, and they’d go wild, so much money and such, such minimal sense. I’d pay for that, absolutely.”

"Some kind of bird, certainly.” Lucienne remarked, perhaps a little too darkly. The title dish for her restaurant was perhaps the most emblematic culinary delicacy of the Parisian upper set. A lot of fuss for an arguably cruel practice they claimed to be ashamed of. The irony was not lost on a member of the Sicilian mafia. 

She laughed knowingly at the assessment of both of their situation then looked sidelong at the actress. “I’ll admit my experience with Miss Austen is limited but her work is satire, is it not? One tempts a sardonic smile there, I imagine. Which has its own dangers.” ‘Limited’ was a vast understatement. Lucienne had been working rather than reading for as long as she could remember. But Nico read, and Lucienne would always listen to any story he told her. 

Lucienne should have anticipated that Madame Moreau would have more in common with the unfortunate wife she’d prodded. She knew she should chastise herself, but the Madame was already conceding. That was a nice change from these sorts of events, and Moreau had earned considerable goodwill from her as a result. 

But then she needed her guard again. Lucienne was still getting used to how terrible the Europeans were at double speak (or how they dismissed it entirely). So many of the rich playboys she bled found the password system so quaint. So American. As American as apple pie and Josephine Baker. L’Ortolan, like those, was apparently free for their consumption. They hadn’t had to go through Prohibition, and unless they were something more than straight, they likely didn’t fear the police at all. She would be livid to be raided, but she hoped that some of her clients would meet the law enforcement that actually took itself seriously at some point. Maybe then they would behave better. 

“I will always accept a good word, or several.” Lucienne let out a small laugh, her eyes flashing as she let the blackjack reference go by. There was no real risk to gambling at private parties in Paris, even if it wasn’t technically legal. But it was Lucienne’s policy to make clients come to her, not the other way around. Yes, it involved taking on more risk, but it was also a much needed show of power in a world that needed shaping. “It would be an absolute pleasure, Madame. Our clientele is a bit heavy on the homme, as it were. Variety and parity are very important to me.” Equal opportunity fleecing. Perhaps she should have helped a pang of guilt for expanding the exploitation to an already more exploited class but wealth was wealth. It was rarely earned and deserved to be taken as such. 

Cora made a face, mocking disgust, “Well now you have to drink it quickly, so we don’t have to hold to that most solemn of oaths. I’d like to act unladylike in peace and not make you an oathbreaker.” She purposefully tried to make herself sound a little more posh, a bit of a British accent just for the fun of it. No one more ladylike than women from there, so far as Cora could tell - far more likely to be a British accent telling her off for being in the way in shops, anyway. She let it drop as she continued, “Really though, what is lady-like behavior? A lot of things you’re not supposed to do, but I’ve never quite understood what you are actually supposed to do?” Probably the most obvious thing beyond her accent to reveal her as an American, that. 

“See, I remember being taught how to be a good housewife, which was mostly boring. I wonder what the difference between being a good housewife and a good lady is.” She took another drink and snorted, the bubbles almost hurting as the realization hit her. “Right, of course, it’s money. Ignore me, I’m not drunk enough yet to be thinking about this.” That said, Cora motioned to the bartender again, pointing at their drinks in hopes of coaxing him into giving them a second quickly. Before he managed to ignore them. Again.

Italian? That made sense, there were plenty of Italian families around in New York as well. Definitely part of what made New York more like Paris, really - the amount of people all coming from different places was the most familiar part of the city, in that sense. “Medici, oh that’s a fascinating family. Such good art from their patronage. I hope your family is less entrenched in the whole religion and power dramas - though I can’t really talk. I’ve got Irish blood to blame for mine, however. Different blood, different flavors of drama and hills to die on.” 

Cora was surprised at her hand being grabbed, smiling and not pulling away from the contact before it ended. She resisted the urge to blurt that it was fine, nice, even - felt like having a friend, again. She just smiled, trying to convey the feeling that way, that it was fine, welcome even. They’d barely met, but Cora was already enjoying the other woman’s company and hoped to be able to go to an actually fun event with her again. “Oh that sounds lovely. I’d love that, if you wouldn’t mind taking me.” 

“I’d ask what you do for work, but if you need excuses to stop, I won’t tempt you into thinking about it now.” Her grin widened again, “And it means I’ll have something to ask you about in the future.” Not that trying to find conversation seemed at all difficult with Lucienne, which was really wonderful. Perhaps dangerous in that she might say too much, but Cora was more used to not talking about the forgeries, at least. Spent too long meeting Tom’s fellow detectives to have it be a really regular topic of conversation. 

Now there was a truth. “Powerful things almost always come in pretty packages, that’s how they manage to get the power in the first place. Plus, the pretty seems to make it easier to swallow - at least when the package is female. If it’s male, well, no one really needs them to be pretty to be powerful. Politicians prove that, I think.” 

She laughed again, pleased with how much that seemed to be happening. A far better companion for the evening, for certain. The laugh froze briefly at Lucienne’s compliments, waiting for the joke to hit. When it didn’t, Cora’s surprise was evident. “When - are you serious? I’m happy to share, of course, but it certainly doesn’t have to be displayed anywhere. I would show you as a friend, no need to sacrifice wall space on something like that.” Her work, on the walls of someone’s restaurant? On display? No, that would be a waste. Wouldn’t want to cast a poor light on a new friend for the sake of someone trying to be kind. Didn’t need to go to those lengths for her. 

Cora moved on quickly, mentally backing away from the thought - “I can, at least, lend a good eye for other work to display - I know most of the other amateur artists, can tell you who shows some promise.” And could keep an eye out for forgeries, ensure that Lucienne didn’t waste her money on any. Took a forger to know one, anyway.

“Yes, my lady.” Lucienne nodded dutifully and downed the whole drink. The bubbles stung her nostrils as they went, but it was a skill she’d learned at the Silver Dollar’s Tavern so she was able to continue on smoothly. 

“I think you’ve spotted it.” She agreed. “A lady must do very little and a housewife must do everything if they do not want to offend. This is the usual gap between the rich and the poor. Effort among the wealthy is thoroughly uncouth. Frivolity is encouraged if not demanded.” As a newly minted purveyor of it she ought to know. 

She seconded Cora’s look with the bartender, now back in her wordlessly commanding wheelhouse. When he’d nodded to them, Lucienne directed her attention back to her new friend. “Further intoxication will always cure class relations. That is what New Orleans is built on, and why the Temperance movement hates it so.”

“Good art, good murder.” She laughed. “Which breeds the other, I wonder?” Certainly the latter bred the former, if her observations held true. The Matrangas were frequently surrounded by artists. “But no, the revenge instinct is partially mitigated by the Black Baptists on the other side, whose love is so very loud it drowns out all pasta fueled resentment. I’ve had many dealings with the Irish.” Most of them not very nice, though never caused by her, cross her heart. It was a professional issue more than a personal one, and every family she’d met outside the mob was lovely. “They are very green hills to die on at least. And handled with such wit too.” Well, usually. She couldn’t help but think of the grumpy Captain. Wasted potential. She was working on it. 

Lucienne returned Cora’s smile in welcome relief at the prospect of both social mercy and more conversation. “It’s a plan, then.” A friend. A real friend. Perhaps “real” was a slippery notion here but familiarity was novel in this strange new environment. She’d brought home with her in many ways, but she had set herself up as an employer, even with people who had known her when she was wandering around the pool hall in diapers. She needed to be careful here to avoid turning into a benefactor rather than an equal, but this had been the whole point of her little trip to Paris. Making the world better. And having fun doing it, of course. 

“I frequently find myself wondering how politicians get where they are.” She said, finger to her chin in thought. “But then you look closely enough to see them extending hands down to little twins of themselves and unto us is delivered more of the same. Imagine if we insisted that every politician be a woman, let alone a beautiful one. There would be absolute rebellion, even if we would need thousands of years on our turn to match even a quarter of theirs.”

Lucienne winced. There she went, benefacting again. She hadn’t meant to make Cora uncomfortable. Still, it felt wrong to apologize to someone who already seemed to be doing it for her very existence. She needed to halt both of them at the gate. “I never sacrifice anything, Miss Brannon. There is much friendliness but very little pity in me, and certainly not in an arena such as this.” That was an understatement, but Lucienne did specialize in that lately. “I will take all your recommendations under advisement but will you allow me permission to purchase your work should I wish to? I will even settle for the right of first refusal when you do feel confident to sell.”

Fleur hesitated for just a moment and realized as soon as she did so – watching her interrogator watch her – that by doing so she had absolutely forfeited the opportunity for any deception. “Fleur Bisset,” she admitted, almost finishing the sentence with “ma’am” but decided at the last moment that it might be laying it on a bit thick, really. Still, she fervently hoped that Lucienne might provide her name or preferred address soon – she had a strange instinct against admitting any foreknowledge of her or her relationship to Conor.

“As for where I usually operate – here and there, really. Most frequently the nightclubs on the Mountparnasse side and around the Basilique Du Sacre-Coer, sometimes the Louvre, but I roam a lot.”

“Really,” she admitted, “it’s more a matter of where I don’t operate – I don’t steal from people with less wealth than myself and I never work in Le Monocle, or Le Bal – I don’t mix business with pleasure.” She risked an upward glance through her lashes, assessing Lucienne’s reaction to that.

“To be honest – as,” Fleur hastily assured her, “I have been in everything I’ve said – this isn’t the kind of place I usually operate in…there’s not nearly enough of the drunk and foolish indolent wealthy here.”

Infuriatingly, she could feel her cheeks blush brightly at the suggestion of praise. “Thank you,” she said, hoping to imbue her voice with a light and nonchalant tone but miserably uncertain of her success. “No, I can’t claim it was out of desperation. I’d had a bad morning and it was just a whim, really..” She laughed wryly, “A very foolish one, obviously. One that won’t be repeated. And,” she mentally seized on the possibility of a concrete gesture of contrition, “if you’ll inform me of anywhere else that is off-limits, I shall ensure that myself and everyone else I know honours your territory.”

“Lucienne Picou.” She nodded in answer. It was easy enough information to discover. She was as close to a public figure as a member of the Cosa Nostra were supposed to get. (Al Capone didn’t count. Al Capone was crazy. Surprisingly supportive of people who looked like her, but still crazy.) Plus a little quid pro quo would be a good precedent to set considering the request she was about to make.  A thief with principles was valuable. That was what her organization was - illicit order against the chaos of the usual criminality. 

“A distinction I respect and support.” Lucienne nodded again, sipping her coffee before putting it down again softly on the table. She let the remark to the queer gatherings slide by without a blink. Lucienne didn’t attend any sort of nightlife outside of Le Grand Duc and Nico’s shows when she wasn’t “working,” and she’d never been one to cruise. The Angel kept things compartmentalized and private, which was the only way Lucienne felt she could have such “attachments” at all, outside the expected gender spectrum or no. 

“The matter at the Basilica will have to stop. My men are too Catholic to support the fleecing of the faithful. Steer clear of the Arène de Atlas too.” She didn’t offer an explanation. Let her think there was match fixing or that Lucienne was simply a particular fan of pugilism. It was small potatoes to her broader plans. 

“But I have a proposal for you that will hopefully prevent such whims in the future. How’re you with long games? Can you control your tendencies for one night or several?” She hoped that she was being clear about all of little Miss Fleur’s tendencies. Where they were going, they didn’t need flashiness. Not of that sort.  “If so, we can discuss a position. And...” She purred it slightly, leaning forward just a little, knowing intimately what she had. “A retainer.” 

Skeletons

“Sorry. No need to meddle. I get carried away.” Vivienne gave a tiny shrug. “I’ve been cornered by enough of them to know a trick or two is all. You can mention a date with their worst rival, but that one only works with good spies hanging about. So, the wife is always a nice one, generally.” She flicked her eyes over to the pair and grimaced. “Except for inflicting him on the poor dear, of course. I’d be looking for greener pastures, too.”

“Yes, that’s it exactly, isn’t it?” she said, letting out a chuckle. “One can only imagine how much more exciting gatherings like these would be if we all had that level of confidence.” Or even more mind-numbingly dull, depending on how tight of a conversational hold the civil servants exerted on a person. Alas, fewer of them were spies than Vivienne personally continued to be ideal. “He’s in finance, in case you were wondering. So, what he lacks in social skill, he makes up in …capitalist cunning, I suppose.”

The second Lucienne hesitated, Vivienne couldn’t help letting slip a relieved grin. Thank god. She’d thought she was just out of touch, feeling so crushed by the drabness of it all. “Oh, you do!” she said with a laugh.“One hour at this place and you’ll be up all night, bouncing off the walls, relishing your own superiority at the art of hospitality. I’d much rather be at one of your tables, any day.”

“How’re things, by the way? Business, I mean. I do hope the people of Paris know a good thing when they see it.“

“I am not ungrateful.” Lucienne said, bowing her head a little in deference. “I appreciate the diversion and the note. I have been getting significant practice with these types of late, and a different technique is always good to study.” Much good it would do her knowing so little about the strange web of marriages and infidelities that spread out before her, but she would learn. She always did. 

Her eyes narrowed as she studied the man’s partner with more focus. A beautiful bird in a cage, but a cage of her own making. “She got herself into it, she can get herself out.” she said dismissively. “I have faith.” It was a little flip, but Lucienne’s patience with that dynamic had never been good. A society marriage seemed like far more work than any replacement for its benefits would be, whether it was sex work, business, or being an old maid. Any of them would mean far better company.

“Ah, a catch for a mistress then.” She said with a wry smile. “I’ll admit I know very little about the subject...” She knew a lot about the subject actually, as numbers were her passion and her life. “... but my understanding was those ships were so very large that nearly sailed themselves.” My, she was mean tonight, wasn’t she? Best glitter like your dress, girl, if you wish to get what you want.

And there was the opportunity to do so. She couldn’t help but beam like a proud mother. “I’m honored, madam. We do endeavor to provide something your other noble establishments do not.” Well that had a double meaning. “And the clientele does respond so kindly. Word of mouth is worth its weight in gold, and the increase in inquiries for direct purchase of imports from would be rivals suggests we’re finding some sort of gap in the market.” She paused, deadpan. “Oh dear. Perhaps that is how I unwittingly attracted my new friend. All that markets pillow talk.”

It wasn’t like Nico never cooked for himself. He did, especially around breakfast, or lunch, which sometimes coincided depending on his sleep schedule… but he didn’t cook like this. Or, at least, he hadn’t since moving to Paris. When he was home in New Orleans, he would help out in the kitchen sometimes, but it wasn’t usually anything complicated. Stir this, flip that, get the biscuits out of the oven. A sidekick when there was no one else to turn to.

“I’ll burn it, Lou.” He said, immediately after his cousin’s request. “Besides, I’m kneading dough. I can’t do both at once.” He would have taken a turn at stirring the roux, though, if she hadn’t teased about his work. “And I do not stand still. My fingers move, pianos don’t play themselves.” 

After pushing at the dough a couple more times, he was happy with the lump of dough in front of him. He grabbed the rolling pin and started rolling it out, groaning a bit as the dough stuck to it. “Flour, flour, flour…” He muttered, eyes darting around before he spotted it and reached in so he could actually dust the rolling pin with it. “A story?” He repeated, wrinkling his nose as he contemplated. “Did I tell you that Marcos forgot his trombone a few weeks ago? It was in the backstage room, locked up, it was safe. So in rehearsal, he tried to use a friend’s instrument, but it was beat up and wasn’t working for him, so he was singing his parts and miming the slide positions.” Nico chuckled, remembering the rehearsal. None of them were able to keep a straight face the entire time. “It’s not easy to pay attention when you hear him in the background, doo-ing his part.”

“You won’t burn it if you pay attention.” Lucienne grumbled. But she conceded never the less. Excellent baking was worth good behavior. Her mother had taught her that. 

“And some pianos do.” She countered. “God do you remember that player piano they got on Canal? Dad was so worried.” She laughed. “As if a machine could actually swing. Plus one spilled Grasshopper and..” she let out a stuttering hum 

“Doo-ing.” Lucienne laughed. “That’s terrible and he is terrible and you are terrible, but he might be onto something. Are we talking Jelly Roll or dying duck here?”

Her face lit up at the mention of Nico Picou. 

Once upon a time, after the sirens had ceased and the dusty, shaken, remainder of the population tried to clean up the rubble and get on with their lives- that was when she’d had the great fortune of meeting the man with a voice (and if you asked her, a heart) of pure gold. He was only in Paris for a few months before being shipped back home, far across the sea, but in that time the two of them had become fast friends. The Crooner and the Ballerina. They’d stayed in contact over the years, though letters had been their only means of communication. “You’re Nico’s cousin?” Nadja’s voice poured over with warm affection and admiration. “I haven’t seen him in ages… since just after the war. If you see him, tell him Nadja Babineaux says he still owes her a night of dancing.” 

The eyes of the world were so narrow. It frustrated and infuriated her more every time she witnessed it. Her face contorted into a frown, her eyebrows knitting together the more she thought on Lucienne’s words. She was right- things should change. But there had been enough waiting. She’d seen talented dancers and musicians be turned away for nothing else but appearance. And it infuriated her. “It’s not something I ever dreamed of… but if I ever become rich, by any stroke of luck, I think we should open a theatre. Make the change.”

Lucienne was well practiced in hiding her puzzlement, so she availed herself of the skill now. It has been strange to see her cousin’s transformation from charismatic introvert to Nicolas Picou, the star of Paris. The success didn’t surprise her so much as the fallout. The women who flocked as he stepped off stage were a particular sort, but they never felt like the ones Nico would actually like. The degree of Nadja’s clear affection wasn’t that. There was a closeness that made her want to probe if only to report back to her aunt and mother. 

Nico hadn’t been even close to serious about anyone since Catarina, and that had been a frustrating and unfair business on her end. Lucienne had never understood the rush to get married (or the interest of being in a relationship, in fact), especially when you chose it over a man who went to war. “I certainly will tell him. How do you know each other?” Her voice was light, well light for Lucienne. 

“I am rich, after a fashion.” she said, more matter-of-fact than proud. “And I might take you up on that, Mademoiselle. Though arguing for its profit potential may be a tricky thing. But sometimes it’s worth losing money.” Even more so when it allows one to clean funds coming through from Sicily to the US and vice versa. Yes, this could work very well indeed. “You’d really consider leaving the ballet?”

Bearing, he’d always been told. You had to cultivate the proper bearing, of a gentleman, an officer, and so on. The term changed, governess to grandfather, schoolmate to superior officer. But it all meant the same thing, in the end. Power. And by cultivate, well. What they were really getting at was that you ought to be born to such presence, that all the posture and poise you were meant to possess was, in fact, simply natural. Or, that you were a fine enough faker to convince everyone it was. Even yourself. Telling the difference, now, there was a trick. A good one to learn. Cam wouldn’t call himself a master; but, he could see the ease in someone, or the lack thereof, even if just around the eyes, in the fingers, the shoulders. He’d always been a quick study when it came to the lines of a thing, picking out rhythm and tension. A stag in the trees, the dogs at play, a horse on the end of a lead. The same sense could be applied to people. 

(Somebody had taught him that, years ago, sitting across a canvas. Seeing his ease, and lack thereof.) 

Which was all to say that the woman who strode up to his table next was, quite clearly, not the maitre d’. It was in the bearing. Very American, yes - the mis-tailored suit was something of a giveaway, all in itself. (He’d never understood that particular predilection. Verging on sackish.) Very American and very self-assured and very young. Perhaps, though, everyone simply looked younger, as you grew ever older. Good God, but time did run, run away. 

“Thoroughly, yes, thank you. And I was.” Cam had sat back with his wine, and summoned up a polite, proper smile. “On behalf of the British embassy. We’ve a few guests to entertain, and they’re most intrigued. By the birds, specifically. I understand such a meal is quite the… experience.” A painful one, he could only assume. Why, Ali? Really. “Anyway. The reservation would be for thirteen - seven o’clock or later, this Friday. The same for Saturday, or Sunday, would be manageable.” Not preferable - the Bays would doubtlessly plan to make the most of other amusements on their last few nights loose in town, and meals were such a drawn-out occasion, in these sorts of places. The French had made an art of food, supposedly; anticipation was, it appeared, a crucial feature of the performance. Whether or not L’Ortolan had adopted all that alongside their feature remained to be seen. 

Ah so either he was bad at dropping hints or really did want to eat the birds. 

Lucienne had always understood the appeal of the concept rather than the experience itself. She’d enjoyed game meat at home, from nutria to gator, but the wildfowl of France had been a whole other experience, and the little Ortolans most of all. They were tiny things, even shorter than her admittedly long thumb. 

Once cooked, they looked remarkably human, their small rib cages puffed and little legs extended cartoonishly upward the way a dog might play dead. The wings folded in like tiny arms, leaving only the long neck and tiny head to indicate the little creature’s avian nature. It was the humanity that made the preparation process so jarring. The birds were kept in darkness by her supplier, gorged on grains and grapes until they were adorably fat little balls. They were delivered to their eponymous kitchen alive, so Ray could drown them in a vat of brandy. This and a quick bit of roasting resulted in a crunchy yet buttery mouthful with small notes of hazelnut. But one didn’t consume an ortolan for the taste. It was the delicate savagery that appealed, the sensation of eating a small living thing whole, brittle bones and all. It was no surprise that the elite flocked (ah, they did deserve the pun, didn’t they?) to obtain the canapé.

It was fascinating to her, as the bird was also technically a peasant dish in Landes. But there was no hope of reminding the usual set of that. Exclusive was the name of the game. She knew that with certainty. 

“Thirteen is a much larger party than we usually host for the ortolans. It takes a month to prepare the animals, and I will have to take great pains to acquire them in so short a time. I presume you and your guests are familiar with the measures taken both in the kitchen and the dining room?” The “putting your napkin over your head to hide from God” thing was utterly ridiculous to Lucienne, but she also had to stifle a chortle when people smelled wine before they drank it. Good food and good drink filled the whole place with pleasant aromas. You didn’t have to force it and look foolish as well. “It can be done but at a very high price.” She liked to collect favors rather than owe them, but this was an important part of keeping up appearances. Not to mention finding people who liked the practice helped her feel better about their misfortunes in the back rooms. 

Soldiers. She’d seen those British soldiers at the clubs around town. Were they connected beyond this clear veteran? If so, this was another potential to move the significant product she’d demanded of her newest ally/employee. Offering foreign diplomats access to a highly illegal casino seemed like a bit of a risk even for her but other forms of contraband could work. 

She was cool as ever, wasn’t she; not that Conor had expected any different, in her own house. Gambling house, that was. The sort Paris was decidedly against, far as he knew. Be a grand day for your average flic, catching wind of this not-so-little undertaking. No, not so little at all. He circled round, taking in the well-stocked bar, the roulette wheels, the rest, shaking a cigarette from his case. Wondering, again, how much velvet glove there was between him and the iron fist that must’ve punched out the room for something like this, here. In the heart of a city not short of its own kind of crime. 

Conor had heard things, of course, about those American operations. How they were running New York, Boston, Atlantic City, Chicago. He’d even met a few, professionally. Representatives, that sort of shite. Never negotiating from a position of strength, and clearly none too fucking pleased about it. (Still, they wanted their champagne and cognac, so. That was that. Flash tastes, they’d get you in all sorts of trouble.) But Miss Picou, her setup - it spoke to strength. A load of the stuff, hauled all across the ocean and dug in, fortified. The Lucienne Line. 

His smirk, there, had a wiriness. The barbed kind. But, Lucienne talked, and Conor had come to listen, so he walked, lighting up with a pop, the comforting stink of a struck match. He waved that out to the sound of all. All the dope? In perpetuity. How long had she even been in town, anyway? To talk about perpetuity. His head had cocked off towards a frown; Conor took a deep drag, trying to gauge how much she really knew. More than she’d let on, for certain. That the opium was his wouldn’t have been hard to come by, as facts went. The competitors? Natural enough. The booze, the hash, that had gone unmentioned, entirely. So they’d stay that way. “Legal and material protections,“ he echoed. Dubious, plainly. “I should fucking hope so. Double’s no good to the dead, and regular, bulk trade - that makes for opportunity. Makes for problems, the sort I don’t have, at present.” Not for the moment, anyway. But he’d be running into more than his usual amount of trouble to keep her supplied, no doubt. L’Ortolan was a ways out of his run, far from his quays. From his boltholes. The bistro was a push through a new no man’s land, a prettier one, maybe, but not his ground, all the same. Nowhere he could hold, or wanted to. 

Conor watched Lucienne not watch him, a moment. Then hooked his boot under the nearest chair, and took it, elbows propped against the roulette table, keeping his cigarette well away from the felt. You had yourself a seat to stay awhile, do business. Double wasn’t enough to buy his confidence, no questions asked. But it was enough to sit for. Double could mean a great deal, to those crews of his - to people with families to look after. And those forgeries, they wouldn’t be cheap. Shouldn’t be, with all Brannon would wind up being in on. Christ. Conor sighed smoke, and, sure, pushed on. “So. What’s it to be? You’ll be providing security, will you? Alongside my people, in my places?” Wasn’t too fond of the idea, but she’d had him into hers, now. Counted for something. Not much, but something. “Or, would you want to kit us out, and we see to the rest ourselves?” Didn’t much like that, either. None of his boys wanted another war. Which was why he tended to make the messes, when they needed making. This - this would be messy. If he said yes. He hadn’t. Not yet. 

Mary, mother of God. He shouldn’t have sat. 

God, he was fussy. She had probably been around Italian and Black men too long but admitting this much vulnerability was certainly not something she was used to finding in her representations of masculinity. It took all kinds, she supposed. There was a value in being careful. She was careful too, just not cautious to the point of exhaustion. 

“My mistake, I failed to mention the sewer entrance, didn’t I?” She rounded the bar and removed a rug to expose a near seamless trap in the floor. “Had it installed just last week. I’m told it goes straight to the river but figured you know best.” She grinned like the Cheshire Cat and let the door fall again. 

“I would put security wherever you wish and however you wish. It’s your operation. I am only a very interested buyer.” Very was an understatement. She was a ruthless buyer and a hungry one. Lucienne’s specialty ever since she’d been small was numbers. Finances. Opportunities and patterns. She saw them everywhere and she practically itched to fix them at their most efficient point. The longer she stayed in Paris, the more missed opportunities she saw. She laughed at the protests of the Chicago Outfit that they “ran this town.” Cities were not run by Cosa Nostra. They were protected by them. They provided order to chaos, made everything flow smoothly. There was so much to smooth here. So much to fix. There were soldiers in need of opium and sex workers in need of condoms and rich people in need of a little humility. She enjoyed watching the privileged bleed, whether it was pride, blood, or money. And Lucienne would provide. 

But that returned her to the unfortunately named Irishman, who looked like the wind had been knocked out of him at the very prospect. “Really, Captain, if you find it too daunting, I can offer to buy you out entirely. But I don’t think that’s what you want.” Was it a threat? Was it benevolence? Did it matter?

“Ah, that I am more than happy to help with,” Cora raised her glass towards her companion in a toast, “I can watch and am more than happy to intervene. So, what’s the point where I intervene? I mean, besides punching anyone lecherous in the nose.” Not that Cora really knew how to throw a punch particularly well, but it seemed simple enough. 

Though didn’t Tom mention something about potentially breaking fingers once? Hm. Well, it was probably simple enough. 

“I might need you to keep an eye on me in return. Make a pact of it, on the alcohol running through our veins or some such nonsense.” She shrugged, taking another drink, “I’ve never really understood that kind of thing, those blood pacts people talk about. Seems a bit overdramatic. But still, sentiment is there.” 

Cora laughed at the fact of keeping tally, liking the woman more and more with every minute. It was so rare that she was the right one, it was rather nice to be acknowledged. “Oh ragtime,” she sighed a little at that, a touch wistful and homesick in one. “I’ve missed hearing really good ragtime. Not quite the same in French accents, that’s for sure. There were some excellent bands in New York for ragtime though.” Which were very easy to slip out and see when no one really bothered to keep track of her. There were advantageous to being invisible in your own home, really. 

Well, until there stopped being anyone there to not see you at all. Too maudlin a thought for how little alcohol was in her system, that, as Cora took a longer drink than she probably should’ve. Another thought to tuck away, safe and sound, to mull on the next time she became a startlingly sad drunk. Luckily, that was a rather rare occurrence, so should be far off. 

“Your cousin? That must be nice, having music in the family. Do you get to hear him play often?” She wondered, sometimes, what it might be like to have a large family that you were close to. It was nice though, having one with her and Tom - likely was a large part of why they were so close. And she wouldn’t trade that for anything - even news about their still missing brother. Cold, perhaps, and most assuredly selfish. But, well, she never claimed to be otherwise. 

She was funny, Cora delighted in it, grin lighting up as she laughed again. “Probably a little of both - really, we shouldn’t encourage the flames. Some are already so soused that they’d just catch on fire immediately, which would ruin the party. Or, at least, cause them to stop serving drinks - when they bother to take the orders in the first place.” 

“An escape I would happily provide. That’s the whole point of art, isn’t it? Escape. Or a rather cruel sort of reflection to cast back on people, but that’s not really my specialty.” Not directly, anyway - though there’d likely be a good amount of irony in creating forged paintings from a lowly, unknown artist which could then be displayed with actual masterpieces. Real talent. But that was a more private joke, just for her. 

“Cora Brannon - a genuine pleasure to meet you, Lucienne.” Perhaps taking too much of a liberty to go straight to a first name basis, but well - camaraderie formed over alcohol seemed to allow for such ease. God, she really had been in France for a long while, such hoops to jump through. 

“I paint just a little bit of anything and everything, if I can.” Too accurate, that, probably needed to be more specific, “I like painting nature and landscapes the most, though. Cityscapes as well, but less so - I like places, especially capturing a moment of a place. If I can make someone feel like they had been there too, I consider it an accomplishment. But, as I said - more of attempts at it than anything. Haven’t been placed in any famous galleries or anything.” Though she also hadn’t really attempted to submit any. She knew where she stood on the totem pole, where she’d always stood. And that was fine - she got to see the top of it, in the museums. Go through L'Académie and see real talent, right as it was put to canvas. 

Lucienne considered as she clinked her glass off her companion’s. “Embarrassment, I think. We can certainly punch anyone lecherous together.” Or drag them outside to meet Elio. She took no small pleasure in the thought before remembering that it would absolutely blow her cover. 

She let out a laugh pointing to her drink. “I solemnly swear on this fizzy little monster that I will not allow either of us to conduct ourselves below the highest standard of ladylike behavior.” She stuck her tongue out. “Ugh. Lady-like behavior.”

“My mother is Italian so I do know about those things but they are overly dramatic. Very Medici.” There she went dropping information she shouldn’t have. Or maybe not. Vanderbilts or Bourbons could marry Italians, couldn’t they? Continental maybe. Yes. Well, Bourbons maybe. 

“Oh but there’s ragtime here! He’s here. Playing it!” Lucienne found herself grabbing the woman’s hand without asking before releasing it quickly in apology. “My cousin, I mean. But both of us should take you to Bricktop’s. It would force us to stop working.” Was this stuff quick or was she just... Comfortable? Dangerous notion. 

But the stranger was still laughing, still comfortable too, improvising on Lucienne’s suggestion and finishing it beautifully, tearing her away from the caverns of her mind. “What is the difference then? It would certainly give them something more interesting to talk about.” She managed to stammer out, still giggling.

The artist had provided a very interesting question. She wasn’t sure she was qualified to judge it, but the men who’d bothered her tonight didn’t seem very well equipped either. “Escape or truth, I’d say. Truth doesn’t have to be cruel. Powerful things come in pretty packages.”

“My pleasure, Cora, truly.” she grinned. “I have found my companion for the evening, we can send all the gentlemen painters back to their fainting couches alone.” She mimed swatting at flies. “Your work sounds divine. We must fix this gallery situation, but first, my restaurant’s walls are very bare and my father always said you haven’t made a home until you hang the pictures. When can I see something?” 

Fleur got only a few paces away before she heard the door reopening behind her – and she knew. Her hands dipped into her pockets instinctively clutching around her recent acquisitions, as she eyed the flower beds. But no. She remembered her own assessment of Conor’s companion that day at the races – someone she would absolutely never risk swiping from. And Conor, he’d warned her too. And here she’s gone and done just that. Wandered into a new place blithe as a baby without even thinking to check whose domain it was. Oh, she’s made a mistake and she’s going to pay for it. But attempting to ditch the goods and brazen her way out of it wasn’t going to work, she felt that instinctively. Fleur turned and gave the men purposefully walking towards her a wan smile.

When they sat her down in front of the lady of the place, she sat up straight and squared her shoulders but kept her eyes downcast in respect. Which was good, because it would definitely not have done for the tiny spark of resentment at being described as “new” or the suggestion that she wasn’t “good at this” to have shown. Instead, she kept her gaze locked on elegant ankles and tried to ignore inconsequential thoughts about dancing skills.

“Yes, ma’am,” Fleur said, as she swallowed down any wounded pride and letting every ounce of genuine chastisement and regret flow directly into her voice, “it was an honest mistake and I’m sincerely sorry.” She took her hands out of her pockets, slowly, to make it clear there was no threat, and deposited the stolen sundries on the table. “How may I atone for my mistake, ma’am?”

Did she just m’am her? A slight flutter of both annoyance and vanity flushed Lucienne’s cheeks. She usually traded on appearing to be older than she was, but something about being addressed like the bawds at her father’s workplace hit a nerve she hadn’t realized existed. 

Still, the bird had folded quickly enough. This left Lucienne wondering what exactly to do with her. She had a deft hand, for sure, if not a great sense of situational awareness. “Tell me your name and where you usually operate. And place your haul on the table, of course.” 

She’d place the items in the lost and found, do her best to space out the claims or get the pocket books and watches back to their owners without being asked. She had regulars now, which was a lovely thing. She would protect them like her family. That was hospitality, after all. 

“You are good at the actual purloining. I’ll give you that credit. Am I right to presume you didn’t case my place out of desperation?” She softened a little. “I don’t intend to be indelicate. I’m genuinely concerned.” She was, really. It seemed an awful waste for talent to go hungry when she could be so... useful. 

It was not a space fit for business meetings, true, but it would be rather foolish to take her to the staff room. With nosy doctors and gossiping nurses. She tried to keep her activities under wraps, though not necessarily secret - by now, word had surely gotten around. If nothing else, numerous patients asking for her, specifically, were sure to cause suspicions. So the examination room would have to do. 

Though it made the situation no less awkward. The woman sitting on the examination table, Noor standing before her, as if they were here for an ordinary checkup. They may as well have been, considering the nervous breath that betrayed the woman’s demeanor. Noor’s gaze shifted from her to the box she was carrying - the warm aroma of the pastries filling the sterile air. How long has it been since she’d indulged, or better yet, baked some of her own? She remembers now, she used to adore it.

The offer stirred her from the memories, a very interesting offer indeed. Artists, performers, and nurses - they all welcomed an extra penny. Especially when funds were running dry. “And what kind of favor do you have in mind?” she was careful as ever. Even when it came to the beignets, no matter how good they smelled. “Ah, thank you, but I’ll save them for later I think. Share them with some of the staff.”

“Fair enough.” Well this was awkward, but Lucienne had dealt with awkward before. 

She placed the box on the exam table. There was nothing but the direct approach. Usually she preferred it, and there was no potential threat from the nurse aside from the word “no.” But that would mean more scrambling and more worry for her men, especially with bringing the smuggler aboard.

She told herself to relax. Inconvenience was inconvenience. She’d never met a problem she couldn’t solve, whether it was numbers or circumstances. Sure she was out of her element, but who needed chemistry when you were Lucienne fucking Picou? Besides, this was for her boys. She had to take care of them the same way they took care of her. “Just as you have some vulnerable people in your care, I have several in mine. I won’t mince words. They’re violent men, but never without cause. I take their safety very seriously, as they do mine. They can get themselves into trouble that way, and I’d prefer that trouble be dealt with by someone with the utmost discretion. I have been told you are the best in terms of both privacy and care. If that is the case, I would hope we can come to some arrangement.”

Maelie nodded a bit as she explained where she was from. She’d read books about the United States, but had never been. Even from the books, though, she was afraid she knew very little about the whole country. New Orleans, Louisiana. Of course she’d heard of it, but that didn’t mean she really knew anything about it. “I didn’t know that about New Orleans.” She admitted, slightly intrigued by what she said. Did the country simply reject the city?

As she mentioned the idea of Americans understanding her, the blonde nodded slightly. “That’s true. Although, my English isn’t terrible. A bit rusty nowadays, maybe, but not terrible. I’m sure I could get by.” She was pretty sure she could get by in England, anyway. Would the states be much different, in terms of understanding her? She had obviously heard things about Americans, but she hadn’t met enough of them to form a decent opinion. 

It wasn’t often that the first meeting with a client would involve getting into their car, but as she approached it with the younger woman, she managed not to visibly hesitate. She got into the car, eyes landing on the driver for a moment, before she shifted her attention back to Lucienne. 

Nodding along as Lucienne spoke, Maelie’s eyes drifted to the window for a moment, before returning to the other again. “Oh, I find the neighbourhood to be alright. And I don’t blame you, a walk around here is quite lovely, especially when there aren’t many people around. I get that almost every morning, though. Florists have to wake up rather early.” 

Lucienne nodded. “We tend to keep to ourselves until you show up and then everyone’s welcome.” Sometimes it was the tourists who made things worse and not better. It was the US sailors, after all, who had gotten Storyville shut down because they couldn’t wait until leave to visit.

“That’s useful. In fact, I bet my family would understand French accented English more than the average English speaker. You’d fit right in.” Despite her misgivings, sometimes Lucienne ended up being the most stringent evangelist for her city. She’d defend its honor to the death, of course, but she would also argue for its value at every turn. It was the one place she’d felt safe, the one place that belonged to her. She’d welcome plenty a visitor but she had to interview them first. Miss Brindamour’s reputation preceded her, and it only took one step into her shop to realize how much she valued beautiful things. She would be a good fit.

“Flowers and pastries do tend to bloom early. My pastry chef keeps advocating for us to do a breakfast shift but you French take your meals so seriously. I don’t want us stretching too thin to start.” The car trundled to a stop outside L’Ortolan. “And as you’ll see, it’s not very big so the front doesn’t need much.”

Lucienne unlocked the door and stepped in. The sun glinted through the windows, leaving speckles of light on the finished wood floor. The front really wasn’t large at all. “We can serve twenty at a time max, not including potential seating outside. We have to keep the counter clear for import sale. Salt meats, sausages, filé powder, Calabrian peppers, etc. But this is my deepest concern.”

“You have me read like tomorrow’s headline, Mademoiselle Picou,” Ozan allowed, content to fold his hand again. There were few simple people in this world. The majority were complex, inscrutable, hypocritical, and incredibly interesting, all at once. Extremes existed in many forms, much like Lucienne said. Ozan could be humble about his work and righteously indignant about his assignments simultaneously. It was only a matter of where he found himself on the spectrum. “Still, it’s against my nature to brag. Arrogance poisons lives.”

Ozan’s dietary observances didn’t include wine thanks to the men of his regiment, but oysters fell among the likes of haram. He supposed he must take Lucienne’s word for it.

A scoop was rarely found so easily, so Ozan proceeded with caution. He wasn’t writing about Picou, after all—he was solving a mystery. If this mystery let him unravel of a few of Paris’s secrets, well…it was all for the better. “Then I will try. What brought you all the way to Paris? Americans are a dime a dozen these days.” He wondered if she felt the pull to stay here, too.

The man would not take the bait, which she liked, if she was being honest. There was no defensiveness. She didn’t tend to play with her food in any case (unless she was in a very bad mood), but it was nice to see someone respond to potential conflict with... humility, really. Tricky, tricky. He was earning respect bit by bit, despite his profession. "Arrogance poisons lives.” Lucienne repeated back, thinking. “I like that. May I steal it?” 

She’d come up with a few lies for his question, but her conversation with the ballerina re: Mr. Porter had left her feeling a little more punchy when it came to the attractiveness of the French city in comparison with her beloved home, now under attack by forces who had no right to be there, forces who had decided that being Black in America should be even harder than it was. Sure, many of the white French she met seemed to believe she’d arrived with a trumpet in her hand, but at the moment, she would take it over the pain of home, even if every day she was apart from it tore her a little more in two.

“If I’m frank, Monsieur, my city is in a terrible state, eroding the  community I have so long enjoyed. So I, like many of my people, endeavor to build a slice of home here. If the French would like to be guests, more’s the better.” She squinted at him, leaning back with ease all the while. “But why are you here? What is the appeal of a French scandal over an attack on Mr. Rockefeller?” 

@nicolaspicou

"Brown, you.” Lucienne growled at the pot as she stirred. She was used to making gumbo with her father, but somehow she always forgot how long it took for the stupid butter and flour mixture to darken to the beautiful caramel chocolate color that meant it would be perfect for the feast she and her cousin were about to make. 

She turned around to eye him. “Nico, can you please take a turn? You get to stand still all night. It’s only fair.” It was a slight mischaracterization. She respected what he did profoundly, just as she did her father and her uncle and all aunties and uncles she had outside conventional blood. They were a music family. Always had been. But Nico was Nico. She got to make demands on him. That was how being the younger one worked. 

Half of her wanted to march downstairs into L’Ortolan’s kitchen and ask if she was doing something wrong. She’d never made gumbo by herself before. Or by herself with Nico, for that matter. It felt like a strange rite of passage. Here they were, on the other side of the world, doing something they always did at home. Well, they usually didn’t cook at home because they weren’t the best at it. But the point stood. “So tell me a story.” She groaned. “I think you can fit a whole novel in before this gets to where it needs to be.”