A Friendly Conversation
Monday, 29 Jun 1925
On the streets of New Orleans
3:00 am
The streets were dark and shiny from the rain, now quickly tapering off, and steam wafted gently off the asphalt in the warm summer night. Zephrine walked alone, ostensibly on the prowl as bidden by the Sabbat. In actuality she was only trying to find a haven to hole up in during the daylight hours that was disreputable enough for her Sabbat persona but decent enough for her to feel safe. She'd lied about finding a boarding house and decided to try it out. For variety it couldn't be beat but it wasn't secure enough. She debated going back to the bungalow and somehow sleeping out the day underneath it, but she hadn't yet managed to convince herself to do it. So she walked the streets, keeping a lid on the hunger in her gut, and tried not to think of how much blood the mortals around her held. She would have to feed soon, but the speakeasies were going full swing and she didn't want to end up drunk from the liquor the mortals imbibed.
A car rolled up beside her, a black Model A Ford sedan. The driver side window rolled down. "Young lady." Zephrine heard the distinct tones of a New York accent. "Do you care for a lift? You look like someone who could use a drink."
Zephrine recognized the voice.
"Thank you, Mr. Rosatti. I would." She stepped to the curb and paused, not entirely sure if she should get in the back or cross over to the passenger's side up front.
"Well, by all means get in," Orlando said. "You'll have to pardon the smell. I was helping Mr. Ellsworth with some of his … business."
"All right." Zephrine got in front. He wasn't her chauffer, after all. Just a friend. Maybe. Possibly. Certainly friendly. And Zephrine remembered that he'd asked a moment to talk to her at Court, but the moment hadn't presented itself until now. "Don't worry. Business won't bother me much."
Orlando smiled sharkishly, the humor not quite reaching his eyes. "Not being bothered by other people's business makes good business sense. Let's go get that drink." He put the car in gear and drove.
Speakeasy, Hôtel d'If
3:27 am
Orlando got them seated at a corner table. A newfangled audiophone machine pumped out music as fast at the patrons could pump their coins into it. The dance floor was jumping, the booze flowing, and everywhere people were having a good time. There was a pause in the music as the selection changed out and a moment later, the music resumed:
Little painted lady
with your lovely clothes
Where are you bound for may I ask?
What your diamonds cost you
everybody knows
All the world can see behind your mask
Orlando pulled out his flask and filled two glasses, putting one in front of Zeprhine. "I have to say," he said, taking a sip. "That one of the advantages of Prohibition, no one thinks twice about someone pulling out a flask and filling two glasses at a restaurant."
Zephrine picked up the glass and raised it, making it look like a toast. In truth, she was checking its color. Red, mortal red. Nothing Vampire dark. Safe enough, she thought. Given the ordeal of the other night, she would rather go hungry than get drained by Royal again. Nothing against the man himself, mind. Zephrine just wasn't fond of the method. "Thank you," she said politely and took a sip. "And thanks to whoever this is." She waggled her glass delicately.
"Oh, no one who will notice. So … it strikes me … that you and I need to have a talk."
"Yes," Zephrine said. She eyed the other patrons and knocked back her drink. Sipping it like a lady would make her stick out like a sore thumb. Her hunger curled around the blood and subsided, a welcome respite. She planted her elbows on the table, laced her fingers under her chin, and smiled at Orlando. A flirty pose calculated to blend in with the frivolous crowd surrounding them. "I remember your request at Court. I'm sorry that we didn't get to speak then. What do you want to talk about?"
"Just this. I am cultivating a certain … non-aligned status. Which is to say that my allegiance is to my family and my business … and the peculiar situations of the other organizations within the city are of a lesser concern to me so long as they do not impact on my business." He refilled his glass and took another sip. He raised the flask. "Would you like some more?"
"Yes, thank you." Zephrine slid her glass right over. The hunger stirred, unsatisfied with the dribs and drabs a mere glassful allowed.
"Better take care. Or they'll think you're a woman of easy virtue." He smiled again.
"All the easier to feed. Or so goes the popular theory." Zephrine wasn't entirely sure she was comfortable with it, but she wouldn't deny the necessity.
"It strikes me that your position and mine aren't so terribly different. And I think we could be of assistance to each other."
"In what way?" Zephrine sipped her drink and eyed him over the rim of her glass.
"Well … We're both trying to find out as much as possible about what's going on in the city and in particular I want to find out more about how you came to be … in this city … and others who have ended up in similar straits."
"True enough." Go on, Zephrine's expression said.
"Well, yeah," Orlando went on, his accent deepening. "Too many orphans in a city causes problems."
"If you were trying to make trouble for your enemy," Zeprhine said slowly." Wouldn't that be a valid tactic to pursue?" She remembered the refugees from the Great War and the difficulties that came with them. "Overrun him with orphans, problems, that would take his attention away from what you're doing behind his back?"
"Well, frankly, no. Depending on who's in charge, ordinarily orphans are generally taken care of. Put care in italics. It's nothing personal, it's just business. But …" he paused and gestured with his hands. "It's an unfortunate situation. Frankly, in my family, unlike the rest of those groups of mooks out there, we do things … better.
All dolled up
In glad rags
Tomorrow, they turn to sad rags
They call you Glad Rag Doll
Admired
Desired
By lovers who soon grown tired
Poor little glad rag doll
"What I mean by that is with most clans, they don't really have much control over who decides to make a vampire, which person gets turned or that sort of thing. I mean they sort of have preferences and guidelines, but it really is catch-as-catch-can and any rules they have are measured more in breach than custom, if you get my drift.
"As a result, you have Vamps like yourself created willy nilly without so much as a inkling of what you could and should do, and without even the consent of the neonate. So you wander about not knowin' right from wrong and likely to fall into bad situations without even really knowin' the score. And because you don’t know the score, you’re likely to do things that you shouldn't and that risks everybody.”
He took another sip from his cup and the smile finally reaches his eyes. "Now with my family things are much better. Everyone knows the score from childhood and no one gets turned back accident. Rather, it's a privilege, an honor given only to those who deserve it and know best how to use it."
"Where do I fit in that scenario of yours?" Zephrine kept her smile in place, despite being stung. If the choice had been hers, she wouldn't be here, willy-nilly or otherwise. "What do you want out of me?"
You’re just a pretty toy
They like
to play with
You’re not the kind they choose
To grow old and gray with
"Whoa." Orlando raised a hand. "I just think we can be of mutual benefit to one another. I was just pointing out that there were other ways to run this whole business. Better ways."
"I don't disagree, but I don't think that your secret club would take me as a member."
"Heh. My secret club? No." Orlando slipped a cigarette case from his person, opened it, and offered it to Zephrine, following it with his lighter. "It's very exclusive. You gotta be born into it."
"So why mention it to me? I can't take advantage of it." Zephrine took up one of the slim cigarettes and leaned into Orlando's lighter flame. Odd, but she had to remember to breathe to make it draw, she who had spent most of her adult waking hours as a mortal with a cigarette in one hand and her typewriter keys under the other. The first inhalation did little more than tickle on the way down. There was no rush from the nicotine. Disappointed, she nevertheless continued to smoke, using it as protective coloring in the crowd. "Unless you've got some idea of importing the concept to the Camarilla, good luck in getting them to adopt it."
"Ah," he waved it off. "Perhaps it was a statement of personal opinion, but … Business. It strikes me that you've got a foot in just about every camp. You're friends with the Camarilla … for now. You're friends with the Sabbat … for now. And later on? Well, the Anarchs are inclined to take just about anybody. Which strikes me as an admirable position to be in at the moment. Because most folks are … well, shall we say, lines are being drawn, positions hardened. But you have to ask yourself, where is your loyalty?"
Zephrine said nothing at first, instead dragging on her cigarette deeply enough to make it glow bright red. She regarded him through the smoke, wondering just what he was recruiting her for. God knew, just about everyone else had. In the insane merry-go-round that had become her life since she'd been rudely woken by a kick in her side, she'd been drafted into one society only to be turned around to infiltrate another … only to find herself confronted with yet another organization that found her … interesting enough to approach. What did she want? She wanted to find, if not a way out of the mess she was in, at least a way to live without dangerous entanglements. Her old life, forged by inclination and will, still tugged at her. Zephrine couldn't pursue it as yet, not until she took care of what was in front of her first: the coming war between the vampire sects and the matter of finding the person who killed her. Were she still mortal, Zephrine would have had no trouble answering the question. But now?
They call you Glad Rag Doll
Admired
Desired
By lovers who soon grown tired
Poor little glad rag doll
"I don't know about loyalty, since it seems dangerously weighted depending on who you are talking to," she finally said. "I can tell you what I believe. I believe that we are dependent on mortals for our living. I believe we are outnumbered such that we could be overrun by them very easily if they knew we existed. I believe that we must walk the fine line between hunting them and protecting them from the worst sides of both our natures. Coexistence is in the best interest of both our species. There is no point to being alive or undead, otherwise. The Camarilla, the Sabbat, the Anarchs are like religious sectarians squabbling over doctrine, when the underlying principle is pretty much the same: Survive. How would you define loyalty under those conditions, Mr. Rosatti?"
Orlando paused and pondered for a second. "It's a good question." He pondered a moment more. "Loyalty means knowing and doing the right things for people because you know that they will do the same for you. Loyalty cannot be coerced. It can only be granted."
"Hmm." Zephrine dragged on her cigarette and delicately blew the smoke aside. "That sounds like the definition of trust to me."
Orlando looked at her directly. "One requires the other."
"And you're asking me which one you have?"
"No." His brows twitched into a faint frown, then smoothed. "I'm asking which one do you have? I grant loyalty as loyalty deserves. I think we can trust each other." Orlando sipped his drink. "And we can build from that."
"Trust, then." Zephrine straightened and looked him in the eye. "Loyalty is, as you say, granted. Which means it must be earned. We don't know each other well enough to grant it right off the bat. I don't like stabbing good people in the back, Mr. Rosatti. It isn't decent or smart. So I'll promise you this: I won't stick it to you unless I have no other choice. The Sabbat play dirty and they play for keeps. I'm supposed to be one of them and they're going to order me to do things that you and I define as … disloyal. If I warn you in advance, we can try to pull a fast one and make it look like I succeeded or we can mitigate the damage. Fair enough?"
"Fair enough. And for my part, such assistance as I can provide, so long as it does not injure me or mine, I will provide."
"Mr. Rosatti," Zephrine said, raising her drink. "We have a deal."
"Salut." He raised his drink in turn. Sips taken, he continued. "In furtherance of this, is there some place I can drop you off?"
"Ninth Ward," Zephrine said with a smile. "But first, I wouldn't mind another drink."
Don’t make this
The end dear
It’s never too late
To Mend Dear
Poor little
Glad
Rag
Doll
Return to Vampire: The Big Easy
