#i've created a monster and his name is pachuco eddie

[festival-of-pudding]

Prompt- tortilla

okay I have NO idea where this came from?? it just fell out of my head. I blame listening to electro-swing all day. warning: contains old-timey ræcism (but no slurs that would be gross)

“What'd you say your name was, kid?”

“Evan Buckley. I go by Buck.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. You can go by General Eisenhower for all I care, long as you show up on time and don't get sauced with my booze.”

Buck paused before answering, partly to choose his reply, partly to suppress the urge to sock this lousy bastard in the gut. If he didn’t need a job so bad he would never put up with a two-bit wannabe tough-guy like this; but the pay was good, his place was in walking distance, and the guy didn't ask too many questions. So instead, he smiled.

“I never drink on duty.”

“Good.” He gave Buck a once-over, then shrugged. “Well, you got the muscles for it, and the guy at Lou’s said you was good. Why'd you leave there anyway?”

“I—uh—y’see, there was—”

“Never mind, I know that look. You fucked too many waitresses. Well I don’t give a shit about that, just don't knock anyone up.”

He walked past without further comment, and Buck shoved clenched fists into his pockets and followed. 

Matter of fact it was the bartender, he thought. 

They left the back office and went into the main room. The club wasn’t open yet, but a few employees were already busy: a cigarette girl was lighting the candles in their red globes, while two busboys took the chairs off the tables and a Negro teenager swept the dance floor. Buck nodded at him, and he nodded back.

“He's the only one,” the owner remarked.

Buck made no effort to conceal the expression on his face. “The only one what?”

“Okay, I guess you're one-a them Roosevelt Fair-Employment types. I hear they’re gonna integrate the army when the war’s over.” He glanced at the tattoo on Buck’s forearm. “You serve?”

“Flew a bomber over Italy for six months. Got shot down, messed up my leg enough for a ticket home.”

His unshaven face grew even pastier, and Buck almost grinned.

Yeah, keep talking, you bum. Only thing you ever been served is divorce papers.

“Well, anyway, this is my club. It ain't much, but business is good these days, I gotta say. But my bouncer got drafted, and I couldn’t find a new one.”

With your charming personality? You don't say.

Buck looked around the room. It was a nice place, actually: the bar took up one end, a bandstand the other, with tables and chairs around the dance space in the middle. More employees were arriving, greeting each other as they put their coats away. No one looked particularly miserable: maybe this guy was all bark and no bite, or maybe he picked his targets.

On the bandstand the red curtain moved, then drew aside; four white guys came out, all in matching suits, and started setting up the instruments.

“You got a band?”

“Hired 'em last fall. Thought it’d class up the joint a little. Not my kinda music, but the singer really brings in the broads.”

The curtain moved again, and a Chicano man about Buck's own age appeared. He wore a tan suit with a white shirt rolled up at the wrists, no tie, collar undone; trousers cuffed around his brown saddle shoes, silver chain swinging on his hip, brown fedora cocked at an angle on his shiny slicked-back dark hair.

I’m with the broads, Buck thought.

“That the singer?”

“Yeah.”

“Who is he?”

“Just some pachuco my bartender found, works in a tortilla factory or something, I dunno. I don't usually hire we—”

Buck speared him with a glare and the word died on his lips.

“—but, uh, I let him do his thing as long as he gets in the regular stuff. Gotta keep all the customers happy.”

On the stage, the singer pulled his microphone stand into place with one hand, swigging from a beer in the other. He glanced over at the drummer, who was adjusting his drum stool.

“Hey, man, gimme a brush. I gotta warm up.”

The drummer nodded and started a slow brush-beat, kinda jazz, kinda blues. The singer swigged his beer again, cleared his throat, shrugged his shoulders to loosen up. He waited for the right tempo, then sang in a clear tenor voice.

bésame, bésame mucho como si fuera ésta noche la última vez bésame, bésame mucho que tengo miedo perderte, perderte después

“The dames go nuts for him, but he won't touch 'em. I told him he oughtta dip his wick a little and he just says ‘they’re not my type’. I thought maybe he was a fruit, but I don't think they dress like that.”

But the words had become background noise, and Buck's eyes never left the singer. He held the microphone with one hand, beer dangling from the other, face tilted up to the light, eyes closed. That face was perfect: high cheekbones, strong brow, straight nose, good mouth, and when he opened his eyes Buck saw they were as dark as his hair.

quiero tenerte muy cerca mirarme en tus ojos verte junto a mi piensa que tal vez mañana yo ya estaré lejos, muy lejos de ti…

He turned from the mic and coughed, hummed a few notes, and the brush-beat stopped. He rolled his head around a couple times, hummed again, then drank his beer dry.

At Buck's elbow the owner asked, “When do ya wanna start?”

“No time like the present,” Buck said.

“Fine. I gotta go sign some invoices, you stick around here. Won’t fill up for an hour or two, gives you time to get to know the place.”

Buck nodded absently. As soon as the greasy little man was gone, he headed for the bandstand. The singer looked up as he approached and came forward to meet him.

“You the new bouncer?”

“Uh—yeah, how'd you know?”

One dark eyebrow quirked. “Call it a hunch.”

Buck put out a hand. “Evan Buckley. Buck, actually.”

The singer gave it a firm shake. “Eddie Diaz. Good to know you, Buck.”

“Hey, you, uh, you really got a set of pipes there.”

“Thanks. I’m more of a jump-blues cat, but jazz tunes get the bread.”

Buck understood about three words of that sentence, but he was smiling like he agreed.

“You starting tonight?” Eddie asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then we better get you a beer.”

“Oh, I, I don't drink on duty.”

Eddie raised both eyebrows. “Really? Most cats in your shoes stay half-sauced all the time so they can't feel the punches.”

Buck made a split-second decision. He gave Eddie the good smile. Not the best one, that was reserved for seduction only; the good one was a bit more open to interpretation. 

“Well, I'm different than most cats,” he said. 

Eddie eyed him for a second, face unreadable. Then a smile spread across his face.

“Yeah, I think you are.” A beat passed, and he added, “Well c’mon, escort me while I get my beer. Do your job, make sure I don't steal outta the cashbox.” 

He said it playfully, still smirking, but Buck saw the hard glint that flashed in his eyes.

When they reached the bar Eddie abruptly hopped over the counter like a cowboy in a matinee — he plucked a beer from underneath, popped off the top, and vaulted back over the bar just as nimbly. The chain on his hip jingled against the polished mahogany when he leaned back for the first sip.

"By the way,” he said, “I don't work in a tortilla factory."

“I–I didn’t—”

“My old man does.” Eddie grinned before taking another sip.

Buck shrugged. “My old man’s a dockhand. Ain’t no shame in any man’s work, long as he ain’t hurting anyone.”

Eddie licked his lips before quirked that eyebrow again, pointing with his beer bottle. “And your work is…?”

Buck laughed before he could stop himself. Eddie did too, then slapped him on the back and smiled.

“Come on, güero, I'll introduce you to everyone.”

june fic prompts

[festival-of-pudding]

six sentence sunday

I was tagged by @thuriweaver/@walking-in-lucis and I actually have something! this is what I've been doing all day (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Buck followed Eddie to the bar, which turned out to be nothing but a tin stand stacked with buckets of bottles in half-melted ice. Eddie fished out two and handed one to Buck; a homebrew bottle with no label, glass too dark to see what was inside. Eddie plucked the stopper from his and took a long swig; Buck did the same, and promptly choked back a coughing fit while Eddie laughed. "What the hell is this?" Buck yelled over the noise. "Diablo — tequila and ginger beer. Good, ain't it?" It was good alright — dangerously good, drunk-off-your-ass-before-you-knew-what-hit-you good.

I tag @rubynye @apparentlynotreallyfinnish @missypup and anyone else who's up for it :)

[festival-of-pudding]

hope you like my bullshit anon cause I'm still on it (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Buck’s first night was going pretty well. Marv spent most of his time counting money in his office, so he didn’t have to talk to the little weasel again after that first introduction; plus his new coworkers seemed friendly, and the customers seemed fairly respectable too. This might just be a cushy gig after all, but he'd reserve his judgment until the night was over.

Being a bouncer was kinda like being a fireman, he figured: be ready to swing into action when you're needed, sit around doing nothing when you're not. He preferred to find a good place to lean against the wall and keep tabs on the room from a distance. He’d found the perfect spot here pretty fast: a support beam near the entrance, out of the way, where he could eyeball the whole joint from the shadows. The cool night drifting in from outside kept his reflexes sharp.

Not that he needed them much so far. The crowd was lively but well-behaved — even the sailors were on their best behavior. One thing Marv was right about, the customer base definitely skewed female — and not dime-a-dance girls either, but dames that looked like their daddies owned a bank. Fellas had to show respect to snag girls like that, and so far Buck hadn’t seen anyone getting rude or handsy. 

Another thing he hadn’t seen was the singer, Eddie. After taking Buck around to meet everyone he’d left to get ready for the night's performance, but after two hours he still hadn't reappeared. The band was out, though: a standard quintet playing standard songs, the same stuff you'd hear in any dance hall or soda shop. They were good, but they didn't seem to match Eddie somehow, Buck thought. But they knew what the customers wanted, and once the crowd filled in they picked up the pace from slow jazz to swing tunes. Couples were dancing, everyone was drinking, and a haze of smoke from various sources drifted in the air between the red candle globes and the fans on the rafters.

"How’s it going, güero?"

Buck’s fists clenched by instinct, but he recognized Eddie’s voice before he drew one back.

"Whoa, easy there, cat. I come in peace. Thought you could use a drink." Eddie held out a bottle of Coca-Cola and smiled.

Buck accepted the bottle and let Eddie clink his beer against it before taking a swig. "Thanks."

“Well, that's better. You looked so sore over here I thought somebody was giving you grief already."

"Nah, this place seems pretty tame. I figure I gotta look the part, y'know? Let folks know I ain’t here to dance. Can't be standing around grinning like a fool."

"But you'd rather be," Eddie said.

“Come again?”

"This—” he gestured with his beer at Buck's ramrod posture, bunched shoulders, stern face— "this ain't who you are, man.”

"How do you figure? You just met me."

Eddie tapped a finger to his temple. “I can tell. I got a good eye for people. My abuela says I have the Sight."

He wasn’t wearing his hat, and in the light from the dance floor his dark hair gleamed like patent leather. All the other guys in this place had standard Ivy Leagues or Navy whitewalls, but Eddie wore his hair slicked back above his ears and swept into a ducktail on his forehead. Just another little thing that made him different. He hopped up onto the service counter beside Buck, legs dangling as he swigged his beer, and his cuffed trousers hiked up to reveal the socks he wore with his brown saddle shoes: a bright tricolor argyle in yellow, green, and purple. Eddie saw him notice them and grinned.

“I keep it mellow for the squares in this joint, but I gotta have some color somewhere.”

Buck had no response for that. Who paid that much attention to their socks? Eddie’s clothes meant a lot to him, that much was clear: his suit was sharply pressed and perfectly tailored, all his accessories matched, and his shoes were polished to a brilliant shine. But it wasn't about flashiness or vanity, Buck thought. It was something else, something that mystified Buck as much as it intrigued him. Why would someone so good-looking bother with slick clothes, when he'd still look like Valentino even if he wore farmer overalls?

On the bandstand, the quintet ended their dance tune with a flourish, and the dancers clapped and whistled as they caught their breath. The trumpet player pulled the microphone stand into place and spoke into it.

“Thank you, thanks a lot folks, glad to see so many smiling faces here tonight. We’re gonna keep the dancing ditties going for you, but first, it’s time to bring up our singer. You know him well - ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for Eddie Diaz."

The applause was drowned out by the distinct sound of female screaming, and Eddie hopped off the counter and slapped Buck on the shoulder with a wink.

"Duty calls."

The crowd parted for him, cheering him all the way. Eddie shook a few hands, allowed a couple of dames to grab him for a kiss as he passed by, before he stepped onto the bandstand and took his place behind the microphone. Without a word he nodded to the saxophonist, who began a swing riff that the drummer immediately picked up, and the others joined in on a song even Buck knew the words to. The dancers cheered and hopped into action, and Eddie tapped his feet to the rhythm as he began to sing.

baby, baby, it looks like it's gonna hail baby, baby, it looks like it's gonna hail you better come inside, let me teach you how to jive and wail

Buck loved watching people dance. He'd never admit it, and he kept his face fixed in its harsh bouncer glare, but inside his boots his toes were secretly tapping. He couldn't dance to save his life, and he’d probably snap a girl in half if he tried to fling her around the floor like these fellas were doing, but he loved the energy of swing — how light they were on their feet, not caring what they looked like or what anyone else thought, just enjoying themselves with giddy abandon. Nothing held back, nothing shoved down and hidden away. Buck envied them. 

And above them all, fueling their energy, was Eddie: swaying with the mic stand, shiny hair bouncing, polished shoes tapping to the beat.

a woman is a woman and a man ain't nothin' but a male a woman is a woman and a man ain't nothin' but a male one good thing about him, he knows how to jive and wail

His face had flushed in the spotlights; it made his tan skin look darker, a striking shade of ruddy bronze against his white shirt and beige jacket and pants. His suit was neutral, almost bland, but Eddie shone more brightly than any of the dancers in their pastel button-downs and polka-dot dresses.

Stow that shit, Buckley, he thought. You just got here. You don't even know if he goes that way. Just because he took The Good Smile and gave it back to you… with interest… doesn't mean he— ohhhh shit.

Eddie had turned his gaze to the corner where Buck stood. Their eyes met, and Eddie grinned around his lyrics. He twirled the mic stand, winked, and shimmied his hips once before continuing the chorus.

oh you gotta jump, jive, and then you wail you gotta jump, jive, and then you wail you gotta jump jive, and then you wail away…

The empty Coke bottle slipped in Buck’s sweaty palm. He set it down and wiped his hands on his dungarees before crossing his arms even more tightly across his chest, trying to ignore the warmth in his cheeks. He forced his eyes away from those hips, but he couldn’t stop them from staring at that flushed, sweat-slick face.

He could have been imagining it, of course. A man like him had to tread extra carefully in this world, be completely certain of things before he even thought of taking action. Buck was smitten, but he was also patient. And he was also now certain of two things — one, he was sticking with this gig, weaselly owner be damned; and two, one day, somehow, before all this was over, he would get his hands on those hips and make Eddie sweat for a different reason entirely.

[festival-of-pudding]

@lindz04 replied to your post “[why think about current events when I could think...”:

👏 You should write more of this story! (if you want to). :D

​I definitely will, but only in disconnected bits and scenes. I can't get stressed out about a WIP if it's not a WIP