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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Mystery
- Subject: Crime
- Published: 07/13/2014
Midnight, Smoke and Nina Simone
Born 1950, M, from Clearwater/FL, United StatesI’d had a gut full of this job. It started out with the promise of a quick buck, tailing some rich guy’s wife and snapping a few pictures. It ended with her being dragged out of the river, him in Acapulco with his secretary and me roughed up by some “business associates” of his and dumped in a back alley. All I wanted now was ice for my jaw, liniment for my ribs and bourbon for my ego.
But in my world, bad is never bad enough. Cabs didn’t run in this part of town because there was no money to be made here. - nobody can afford a taxi and, if they can, they can’t spring for a decent tip. When the moon and stars disappeared and the Jersey sky opened up on me, all I could do was pull the collar of my coat up and the brim of my Borsalino down until I could get out of the weather.
The place didn’t have a name, an OPEN sign, or even windows. The only way you’d know anything was there was by a red neon arrow that was crackling and humming in the rain, pointing down four concrete steps that led to a door below street level. Turning the handle and giving the door a shove I went in. I walked the length of the bar, checking out the clientele, getting the lay of the place and looking for the exits. Force of habit, I guess.
The joint had a comfortable familiarity to it. Scarred up wood tables with chairs that almost matched were scattered around the floor. On the walls were pictures of sports heroes nobody cheered any more and prizefighters nobody remembered. A dead gray Pall Mall and Chesterfield fog hung at the ceiling. Glasses clinked and nobody spoke above a mumble.
Double Fitz, rocks.
Thanks.
Keep the change.
In a room smelling of body odor and stale smoke one scent cut through the rest; ambergris and musk, with a hint of sweet hyacinth. In my line of work you learn to recognize perfume and cologne - it can identify somebody almost as well as a set of prints. The aroma drifted through the bar and attached itself to a woman like no other, a woman who didn’t belong in a place like this, a woman who was escaping from something, but it wasn’t the rain.
This one broke all the rules. She should have been blonde, peroxide and styled, poured into a red dress, shining with diamonds, with too much makeup and a look in her eyes that could make your cigarette light itself. But, no, that wasn’t her story. Her hair was dark, hanging loose and simple on her shoulders. The dress was a deep shade of lavender, verging on gray, with a simple amethyst choker where the diamonds should have been. She wasn’t wearing rouge or eye shadow; from what I could see, she didn’t need it. The skin was smooth, the nails long and perfect, the eyes, deep and smoldering, like Hagen’s nocturne.
You’d think every guy in the bar would be heading her direction and her table would be full of free drinks, but every jamoke in here knew they were outclassed. This wasn’t a dame, a babe or a broad - this was a lady, one way out the league of everybody in the joint, including me.
Movement in a far corner of the room drew my attention; it was the musicians getting ready for their set. They were both Negro; he was older, sixties, with a baritone sax slung around his neck. She looked early twenties, if even that old. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but her looks could get her second glances. She had a no-nonsense air about her, with lethal eyes that could blast holes in you if she was crossed.
She sat down at the piano, played a few notes and the sax followed to get in tune. Then she started playing in earnest. After a few bars, she opened her mouth and this impossible voice came out from a place inside her she wouldn’t be able to find if she was looking for it. It was a voice that was older than she was:
"Birds flyin’ high
You know how I feel
Sun up in the sky
You know how I feel..."
At the end of the first verse the sax kicked in and added an uppercut to her one-two punch. I held the cold glass against my jaw and looked over at the brunette. A trace of a smile was on her lips and a tear was running down her cheek. She closed her eyes, letting the song take her to that other place she wanted to be.
When she opened her eyes again she was looking my direction. The smile was still there, but her eyes gave her away. They were sad, tired, dreading the life they had to return to when the evening was over. She brushed a wisp of hair from her face and took a sip of her drink. Her eyes still locked on mine, she parted her lips and mouthed the lyrics:
"...Butterflies all havin' fun
you know what I mean
Sleep in peace when day is done
That's what I mean..."
I’d never seen her before, but instinctively I wanted to protect her, carry her to wherever it was she left the rest of her smile, hold her until the pain went away. But my good intentions and a dime would get her a cup of joe. What did I have to offer a woman like that? Too much alcohol and too many cigarettes? Coming home some night with busted ribs, a cracked skull, or not coming home at all? She deserved better than some mook like me.
When the song was done the brunette dried her eyes, collected her clutch purse and headed for the door. As she passed my table she brushed against me, glanced over her shoulder and gave me one final aching smile. She opened the door and I could see the rain had gone from a downpour to a cold gray drizzle. I tossed back the rest of my drink and left no more than thirty seconds behind her, but by the time I made it up the steps to the street, she was nowhere in sight.
By the time I got back and hiked up three flights to my room I was too beat a to pull down the Murphy. As late as it was and being busted up, all I could do was kick off my shoes, drop my coat on the floor and flop on the couch. Wasn’t sure how much shut-eye I was going to get; I had too many things in my head trying to get out: murder, double-cross, pain, and the fact that the landlord here was a cheap S.O.B. who wouldn’t turn the heat up. Reaching down to the floor I grabbed my coat and pulled it over me, and that’s when everything was okay.
Not that the coat made me that much warmer, but pulling it close to my face I smelled something familiar. It was the scent of ambergris, musk and sweet hyacinth. It was her parting gift to me, left on my coat after she brushed against me in the bar.
Now. Now I could sleep. Now I could close my eyes, and dream of an unspoken passion born of midnight, smoke, and Nina Simone.
Midnight, Smoke and Nina Simone(Phil Penne)
I’d had a gut full of this job. It started out with the promise of a quick buck, tailing some rich guy’s wife and snapping a few pictures. It ended with her being dragged out of the river, him in Acapulco with his secretary and me roughed up by some “business associates” of his and dumped in a back alley. All I wanted now was ice for my jaw, liniment for my ribs and bourbon for my ego.
But in my world, bad is never bad enough. Cabs didn’t run in this part of town because there was no money to be made here. - nobody can afford a taxi and, if they can, they can’t spring for a decent tip. When the moon and stars disappeared and the Jersey sky opened up on me, all I could do was pull the collar of my coat up and the brim of my Borsalino down until I could get out of the weather.
The place didn’t have a name, an OPEN sign, or even windows. The only way you’d know anything was there was by a red neon arrow that was crackling and humming in the rain, pointing down four concrete steps that led to a door below street level. Turning the handle and giving the door a shove I went in. I walked the length of the bar, checking out the clientele, getting the lay of the place and looking for the exits. Force of habit, I guess.
The joint had a comfortable familiarity to it. Scarred up wood tables with chairs that almost matched were scattered around the floor. On the walls were pictures of sports heroes nobody cheered any more and prizefighters nobody remembered. A dead gray Pall Mall and Chesterfield fog hung at the ceiling. Glasses clinked and nobody spoke above a mumble.
Double Fitz, rocks.
Thanks.
Keep the change.
In a room smelling of body odor and stale smoke one scent cut through the rest; ambergris and musk, with a hint of sweet hyacinth. In my line of work you learn to recognize perfume and cologne - it can identify somebody almost as well as a set of prints. The aroma drifted through the bar and attached itself to a woman like no other, a woman who didn’t belong in a place like this, a woman who was escaping from something, but it wasn’t the rain.
This one broke all the rules. She should have been blonde, peroxide and styled, poured into a red dress, shining with diamonds, with too much makeup and a look in her eyes that could make your cigarette light itself. But, no, that wasn’t her story. Her hair was dark, hanging loose and simple on her shoulders. The dress was a deep shade of lavender, verging on gray, with a simple amethyst choker where the diamonds should have been. She wasn’t wearing rouge or eye shadow; from what I could see, she didn’t need it. The skin was smooth, the nails long and perfect, the eyes, deep and smoldering, like Hagen’s nocturne.
You’d think every guy in the bar would be heading her direction and her table would be full of free drinks, but every jamoke in here knew they were outclassed. This wasn’t a dame, a babe or a broad - this was a lady, one way out the league of everybody in the joint, including me.
Movement in a far corner of the room drew my attention; it was the musicians getting ready for their set. They were both Negro; he was older, sixties, with a baritone sax slung around his neck. She looked early twenties, if even that old. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but her looks could get her second glances. She had a no-nonsense air about her, with lethal eyes that could blast holes in you if she was crossed.
She sat down at the piano, played a few notes and the sax followed to get in tune. Then she started playing in earnest. After a few bars, she opened her mouth and this impossible voice came out from a place inside her she wouldn’t be able to find if she was looking for it. It was a voice that was older than she was:
"Birds flyin’ high
You know how I feel
Sun up in the sky
You know how I feel..."
At the end of the first verse the sax kicked in and added an uppercut to her one-two punch. I held the cold glass against my jaw and looked over at the brunette. A trace of a smile was on her lips and a tear was running down her cheek. She closed her eyes, letting the song take her to that other place she wanted to be.
When she opened her eyes again she was looking my direction. The smile was still there, but her eyes gave her away. They were sad, tired, dreading the life they had to return to when the evening was over. She brushed a wisp of hair from her face and took a sip of her drink. Her eyes still locked on mine, she parted her lips and mouthed the lyrics:
"...Butterflies all havin' fun
you know what I mean
Sleep in peace when day is done
That's what I mean..."
I’d never seen her before, but instinctively I wanted to protect her, carry her to wherever it was she left the rest of her smile, hold her until the pain went away. But my good intentions and a dime would get her a cup of joe. What did I have to offer a woman like that? Too much alcohol and too many cigarettes? Coming home some night with busted ribs, a cracked skull, or not coming home at all? She deserved better than some mook like me.
When the song was done the brunette dried her eyes, collected her clutch purse and headed for the door. As she passed my table she brushed against me, glanced over her shoulder and gave me one final aching smile. She opened the door and I could see the rain had gone from a downpour to a cold gray drizzle. I tossed back the rest of my drink and left no more than thirty seconds behind her, but by the time I made it up the steps to the street, she was nowhere in sight.
By the time I got back and hiked up three flights to my room I was too beat a to pull down the Murphy. As late as it was and being busted up, all I could do was kick off my shoes, drop my coat on the floor and flop on the couch. Wasn’t sure how much shut-eye I was going to get; I had too many things in my head trying to get out: murder, double-cross, pain, and the fact that the landlord here was a cheap S.O.B. who wouldn’t turn the heat up. Reaching down to the floor I grabbed my coat and pulled it over me, and that’s when everything was okay.
Not that the coat made me that much warmer, but pulling it close to my face I smelled something familiar. It was the scent of ambergris, musk and sweet hyacinth. It was her parting gift to me, left on my coat after she brushed against me in the bar.
Now. Now I could sleep. Now I could close my eyes, and dream of an unspoken passion born of midnight, smoke, and Nina Simone.
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Jason James Parker
12/03/2019Damn. You're the kinda' writer that makes me jealous. Your style has a wonderful flow and authenticity to it. Fantastic.
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