#jitterbug

Saturday afternoon in a Negro beer and juke joint.  Clarksdale, Mississippi Delta, November 1939. 

Summary: Vincent Whittman visits a gay club in New Orleans and meets a dashing young man. Dancing, getting to know yous, and a police raid liven up their evening.

The band wasn't terrible. It wasn't Cab Calloway, but Vincent wasn't counting on finding the likes of him playing a cabaret geared towards homosexuals.

Vincent leaned back against the bar, the glass in his hand providing liquid courage. Now that Prohibition had been repealed, drinks were a helluva lot easier to get, and plentiful to boot. He ordered a whiskey. Then another.

The band kicked into a fast number, and folks flocked to the dance floor. Vincent sipped his whiskey and surveyed the night's pickings. The majority were young men, but some older gentlemen, old enough to be his father, were in attendance as well. Vincent was somewhere in the middle. He held onto his drink, looking for the best dancers that would pair well with him. He was not a short man, topping at just an inch shy of six feet with a decent, sturdy build.

One dancer, enthusiastically swinging another man, caught his eye. He was a bit on the lithe side, but his brown skin, which glistened like finest oiled mahogany, and his chocolate hair appealed to Vincent very much. He waited until the dance for that number came to an end and made his way over to the young man.

"Can I buy you a drink after such a flawless exertion?" he asked, his words rolling smoothly off his tongue like butter on an oven-warm biscuit. Vincent was nothing if not a charmer with his words.

The young man turned to him in surprise, and then his handsome features melted into a smile. "You may," he demurred. "Dancing certainly builds up one’s appetite for a cold drink.”

"Perhaps you and I could give it a try? I'm not bad myself," Vincent boasted. "You'll have to play the jitterbug, as I'm a bit much for you to throw around," he said, gesturing for the young man to head to the bar.

Once drinks were in hand, the young man held out his slender hand for a shake. "Alastor, happy to be the jitterbug."

"Vincent Whittman, happy to share a dance with you." Vincent shook Alastor's hand.

"What do you do for a living, Vincent? If I may be so bold to ask.” Inquired Alastor before sipping his sazerac.

"I'm in the entertainment industry. A film producer."

Alastor's lips pulled into a grand smile. "How riveting! Have you ever met the likes of George Cuckor? Now there's a fellow who gets my 25 cents!"

Vincent chuckled at his enthusiasm, but his gaze fell, “Ah, well, I'm not quite on par with a name like his. His shoes are mighty big to fill."

Alastor knew a thing or two about trying to make it in the entertainment industry.

“Rome wasn't built in a day, Vincent.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved a quarter. “Keep at it, and we shall see.” He said, tossing the coin into the air.

Vincent caught the silver coin. He looked back at Alastor, confused.

"Think of it as an investment," Alastor explained, "I wish you luck on your road to becoming a fellow worth my 25 cents. Go make the stars align, Vincent!”

Vincent looked at the coin in his palm and smiled. “I'll be sure to get George's autograph for you once I get up there,” he exchanged.

"Lovely! I'm holding you to those words, Whittman." Alastor said, wagging a finger as if giving an important lecture to a child.

Vincent raised his glass. “I’m an honest man.”

“And I, a man of my word.” Alastor tipped and clanked his glass against his.

A quick-paced tune replaced Cole Porter's 'Let's Misbehave', and Alastor shot back his drink. "Shall we see if you can keep up?" he asked, holding his hand out and giving Vincent a feral grin. "Let's see what you’re made of, Vincent Whittman!”

Vincent downed his third whiskey, feeling the buzz of excitement rushing through his veins as he was pulled along by Alastor.

Vincent was no slouch. He loved the give and take between him and a partner. He picked Alastor up and tossed him, catching him easily without much of a strain. A rotate around the shoulders, and soon they were fast dancing. Hands clasped, they pressed and propelled their bodies. They swung to the sound of the live band, their feet tapping and their heartbeats beating as they spun round and round and got lost in the rhythm, the lights, and the crowd. The frenzied dance ended with flourishing finale.

"Wow, Alastor!” Vincent exclaimed. "You sure know how to jitterbug!"

Alastor shoved his hair off his forehead and flashed a big grin. "You're no dead hoofer yourself, Vincent." He approved.

They danced to more songs, both slow and fast, chatting between numbers and getting to know one another. Alastor revealed that he was in the entertainment industry as well, a radio show host. The pay was good, and the work was steady. He also performed in clubs such on occasion. That was more of a hobby.

Vincent observed Alastor as an exhale of smoke seeped past his parted lips, a thin wisp trailing from the burning end of the cigarette between his fingers. Alastor talked with animated confidence, hands sketching invisible lines in the air as he spoke about his love for radio. He was quite adorable as he rambled on about his occupation.

"You should be in moving pictures, Al."

Alastor paused his story, a smile curving his lips. "That's a kind thing to say, dear, but no. This face was made for the radio."

Vincent rested his chin in his palm and smiled even wider. "I wager my 25 cents that you would be a hit. Your face would be adored by every man and woman. They'd worship you, Alastor!"

Alastor laughed softly, his shoulders shaking. "I'm alright, dear. I'm content with thrilling an audience with just my voice. They don’t need to know my face.”

Vincent perked up and leaned in closer. This close Alastor could smell the same whiskey that he'd been drinking on Vincent’s breath. This close, he could see that Vincent was not looking at him at all, but at his mouth.

"Sing. Please?”

Alastor raised a brow. "What, you mean this very instant?"

"I'll be your audience," Vincent encouraged, meeting his gaze. His tipsy gaze still managed to hold sincerity.

Alastor stared at him curiously.

Vincent couldn't wipe the stupid smile off his face. He'd never paired off so well and quickly with anyone before.

"Gee, Al, I don't want this night to end. How does coffee sound after? I know of a 24-hour automat that's open. My treat."

Alastor's candied laughter followed his request as Vincent moved from one subject to the next.

"You sound love-sick, Vincent." His voice didn’t hint that he was upset about that, merely entertained. Something soft flashed behind his oval glasses. "You're quite a muse, darling. My jitterbug lover." He dubbed him.

Before their conversation could proceed, an uproar broke out at the club's front entrance. There was shouting, punctuated by loud whistles.

Vincent rose to his feet, panic swelling and rising within him.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, it's a raid," he stammered.

"Come on!" Alastor took him by the hand and headed toward the band, which was faltering at the noise. The realization that this was a raid spread through the club, and chaos engulfed the illicit establishment as the people began to panic and mill about in an attempt to get out before there was a chance of being cuffed for being in a bar of this nature. There was pushing and shoving among one another, and tables being overturned.

In the blur of the madness, Alastor jumped onto the stage, with Vincent right behind him. They darted behind the curtain and into the back area.

"Here!" he instructed Vincent, shoving open a door and cramming them both into it.

"It's a broom closet," noted Vincent, panting from exertion.

"This place was a former speakeasy. This broom closet," Alastor pushed some mops and brooms out of the way and pressed on a brick, forcing a door to swing open in the false brick wall. "Is also an escape route from the police."

"How... how do you know about this?" Vincent asked as he followed Alastor into the dark tunnel.

"I'm friends with the man who used to own it when it was still a speakeasy," Alastor laughed with exhilaration. "Husker was his name. Not much of a conversationist, but a capital bartender! I'm not positively certain about his current whereabouts. Last I heard, he was bound for Nevada. Have you ever been to Las Vegas? They call it 'Sin City,' you know."

"Yeah, that's nice, Al. Where does this tunnel lead?" He would feel much better knowing they were going as far away from the raid as possible.

"A basement two businesses down. The old girl never changed her locks, and I still have the key to get us in and out."

Vincent quirked a brow. That sounded just as illegal as the trouble had almost been in back.

“Al… your escape route sounds like it could lead us to possibly getting shot.”

"Heavens no! Rosie is a friend. Besides, dear, you're white," Alastor observed. "No one is going to shoot you."

Vincent laughed in disbelief. The pounding in his chest reminded him that there was a beating heart within him. The adrenaline, the rush of electricity in his veins, it was all Alastor.

"You're a catch, Alastor. This is the most fun I’ve had in millennia!”

"I'm not a fish, dear… Say, are you still on for that coffee?" Alastor threw over his shoulder, hand on the wall to help guide him.

Vincent mimicked him, hand brushing against the dirt of the old brick tunnel. "My treat," he replied.

They snuck out through a cafe's back entrance, careful not to wake the sleeping occupant upstairs. They watched from the corner as the authorities piled men into the wagons.

"Those poor men," Alastor shook his head.

"Not our problem tonight," Vincent said, dusting cobwebs and dirt off himself. "Thanks for the ticket out, by the way," he said, nudging Alastor in the shoulder.

"My pleasure," Alastor responded, turning away from the scene. "We should go. We're not safe yet."

Vincent led the way to the automat restaurant and, true to his word, bought them each a ham sandwich and the promised cup of hot joe. The buzz of excitement hadn't worn off quite yet, and both men talked a mile a minute about whatever popped into their heads. They told jokes, laughing uproariously, and used humor to reminisce on their recent close call.

"You know, Vincent," Alastor said after his second cup of black coffee, "I do believe I find myself in accordance with your earlier statement. I don't wish for this night to end either."

"Oh?" Vincent's heart beat a little faster.

"Let's continue this at my place, shall we? I draw the line at clothing removal, but perhaps some kissing is in order to celebrate our daring escape."

Vincent grinned. "Sure, we can save the heavy stuff for our later dates.”

"What, go steady?" Alastor laughed, with a slight note of disbelief in his voice. "You are love-sick."

Vincent's smile didn't falter. "Why not? I like you, and you seem to like me too; we get on well. Why not see where this takes us?"

Alastor's lips curved into a soft grin. "As long as tonight takes us back to my place. You can decide who's better, Cab Calloway or me." He winked.

Vincent stuck his hand out in front of him, his soft heterochromic gaze lost in Alastor's dazzling brown eyes.