An Evening at Pierre Noir's...

"I keep telling Jorge to fix that latch, and now see what blows through the door." Marlene smiled that incendiary smile that Faust remembered, and slid a lowball glass across the counter to him.

"Thanks," he said, emptying the glass in a smooth motion. "And more of the same."

"I vas hoping to see you again, soon, John," Marlene says, her throaty Prussian accent making his name sound like a growl.

"Oh, did I fail to cover my tab last time?"

Faust slid onto his old stool, and glanced around Pierre Noir's. A pretty good crowd for a weeknight, which explained why Marlene was behind the bar with the bartender rather than back in the office or out here socializing with the clientele. The green leather of the booths and stools had been reupholstered, but the brass trim was the same. Not much had changed, much like Marlene herself.

Faust gave her a long look up and down, "I love what you've done with the place."

Faust met Marlene a long time ago, when he was new to Camaret-sur-Mer. She suspected her husband of cheating, and wanted to know for certain. Magic kind of certain. She was right, of course; most spouses who suspect have good reasons for it, or they would be able to look the other way a little longer and maintain their denial. The hex pushing business is not one where you keep your illusions about human nature very long. In Faust's experience, most married couples had at least one of the pair cheating. Sometimes both.

The problem was, Marlene was not the sort of woman who would tolerate that. She didn't ask much of Pierre, but fidelity was definitely on the list. The story that came to Faust was that she had confronted him with the photographs and demanded that he stop. You had to give her that: she was actually going to give the guy a second chance. He should have made better use of it. The next time he pulled out his little soldier in front of his belle du jour, she noticed a black spot on it. A week later he was dead, eaten up from nose to toes with cancer. The local constables wrote it off as "natural causes". Marlene mourned for one month to the day, then never mentioned Pierre again. And when she opened "Pierre Noir's" with the insurance money, if anyone thought the name was in poor taste, no one said anything.

At least, that's the story the way Faust heard it. He stopped doing that kind of work not long after.

"I was hoping you'd come by soon," she purred. "You know, word gets around fast. I heard yesterday morning that you were coming back, and by last night there was already someone in here looking for you. Two people, as a matter of fact. Some things don't change, hmm?" Her eyes twinkled through thick black lashes.

"Anyone you know? Official inquiry?"

"The first man I don't know, but I would know if I saw him again. Indian, expensive suit. Pretty voice. He didn't say why he was looking for you, but he didn't beat around the bush. He came right out and asked if you'd been in. I told him I hadn't seen you in years, but he could leave a message." Marlene smiled wryly. "He left a card." She handed the card to Faust, her fingers brushing his.

BAILEY, DYKSTRA, ERLICH, & VEGA. That's all the card read: no phone number, no address, no mention of their business.

"Lots of help, isn't it? The other fellow was a regular, named Troy Donacce. He's a bravo, hired muscle. Sometimes he takes skip-tracing cases, but for the most part I don't think he likes doing that much leg-work. He prefers to take cases where he doesn't have to work so hard, collections: you know what I mean. He isn't very discriminating in his choice of employers, in my opinion. He didn't say why he was looking for you, either, but he did say that he needed your help with a case. He looked... nervous. You know the look? The look of a man who has been hired to babysit a cat, and then he discovers it is a tiger."

"His problem, I guess," Faust shrugged, pocketing the card... after a quick tap to make sure it wasn't a magical trace. Clear: no hex tags.

Marlene stopped and looked sideways toward the door, remembering the man who had staggered out through it just the night before. "He looked sick, too. His eyes were red, puffy. I felt sorry for him, and offered him some coffee, but he was in a hurry." She shrugged, and slid a gin & tonic to the man on Faust's left. On the way back to her side of the bar, her hand passed across silver coins on the bar, and they vanished without so much as a "clink".

"Well," Faust smiled, lifting his glass in mock salute. "I'll keep him on my dance card."

What is this?

Rough Magic is a role-playing game of magic, mystery, and guns in 1960s Europe. Europe is united under the polished boot of the Franco-Prussian Empire, and hex use is ruthlessly regulated and (as a result) enormously profitable.

Think of a cross between Casablanca and Angel Heart.

Play is very loose, and players are encouraged to take initiative rather than simply hanging around and waiting for someone to kick in the door, guns a-blazing. Players are also encouraged to flesh out the setting and be creative, rather than passively accepting what has already been described.

Copyright © 1999-2001 Brandon Blackmoor
Site design by Black Gate Publishing