Derek stands there in bewilderment for a beat, brow furrowed as he looks around. Stiles' cap is resting near his foot so he picks it up and dusts it off, setting it back on his head just for something to do. There's a newspaper resting on the passenger seat of the Cadillac next to him, and the window is down, so Derek reaches through to grab it. "October 12th, 1924," he reads aloud. "What the fuck is this? Did Darrow do this?"
Derek tosses the paper back in the car and reaches up to rub his cheek, surprised and pissed off to find himself clean shaven. He rolls his eyes and strokes his chin, only to stiffen when he catches the scent of someone approaching.
"Hey, hey you!" Derek whirls around to stand in front of Stiles, feet planted like he's ready to attack as the man approaches. He's tall and stocky, dressed in wool pants and a linen shirt streaked with grease. Two men flank him, and Derek glances over to the goddamn machine gun in Dean's pants. "Yeah, I'm talkin' to you. You guys just gonna fuckin' stand there all day, or are we gonna get this shit unloaded?" Derek blinks in confusion and straightens a little, unsure of how to react. "Come on, you's Capone's boys, right? We've been waitin' for ya. We've gotta get this shit inside, come on. Unlock this."
The man pounds his hand on the back of the Cadillac and looks pointedly at Derek. Eyes narrowed in curiosity, he pats the pockets of his suit pants. He finds a leather wallet and and a billfold, jammed thick with hundred dollar bills. Even today, that'd be a lot of money. He also finds a set of keys and, too struck dumb and confused by the situation to do anything else, walks around to jam one of them into the back hatch of the car. It swings open and the man pats Derek on the back as crates are revealed. He ducks in and opens one, pulling a brown bottle out of the top of one of them. "Yeah, this is the good shit. You came through, big guy. This will do just fine."
The two men behind him come forward to grab the crates, looking around a bit before carrying them down an alley. The main guy shuts the back of the car and jerks his chin over his shoulder. "Come on, you and your friends here come into the club, have a drink, and we'll discuss business."
Derek blinks owlishly and looks over at Stiles and Dean. Apparently they're fucking rumrunners during Prohibition here. Mobsters, if their clothes and the wad of cash in Derek's pocket is anything to go by. Still, it could be useful. Derek shrugs a little and jerks his head, suggesting that they follow. It's not like they can't protect themselves if this goes south.
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Derek tosses the paper back in the car and reaches up to rub his cheek, surprised and pissed off to find himself clean shaven. He rolls his eyes and strokes his chin, only to stiffen when he catches the scent of someone approaching.
"Hey, hey you!" Derek whirls around to stand in front of Stiles, feet planted like he's ready to attack as the man approaches. He's tall and stocky, dressed in wool pants and a linen shirt streaked with grease. Two men flank him, and Derek glances over to the goddamn machine gun in Dean's pants. "Yeah, I'm talkin' to you. You guys just gonna fuckin' stand there all day, or are we gonna get this shit unloaded?" Derek blinks in confusion and straightens a little, unsure of how to react. "Come on, you's Capone's boys, right? We've been waitin' for ya. We've gotta get this shit inside, come on. Unlock this."
The man pounds his hand on the back of the Cadillac and looks pointedly at Derek. Eyes narrowed in curiosity, he pats the pockets of his suit pants. He finds a leather wallet and and a billfold, jammed thick with hundred dollar bills. Even today, that'd be a lot of money. He also finds a set of keys and, too struck dumb and confused by the situation to do anything else, walks around to jam one of them into the back hatch of the car. It swings open and the man pats Derek on the back as crates are revealed. He ducks in and opens one, pulling a brown bottle out of the top of one of them. "Yeah, this is the good shit. You came through, big guy. This will do just fine."
The two men behind him come forward to grab the crates, looking around a bit before carrying them down an alley. The main guy shuts the back of the car and jerks his chin over his shoulder. "Come on, you and your friends here come into the club, have a drink, and we'll discuss business."
Derek blinks owlishly and looks over at Stiles and Dean. Apparently they're fucking rumrunners during Prohibition here. Mobsters, if their clothes and the wad of cash in Derek's pocket is anything to go by. Still, it could be useful. Derek shrugs a little and jerks his head, suggesting that they follow. It's not like they can't protect themselves if this goes south.