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A Speakeasy named Hell excerpt
Jared caught the bartenders' eye and motioned for him to buy the trumpet player a drink. "You're good." From somewhere in the room the bartender received an okay and poured.
"Thanks and for the drink as well." The trumpet player raised it in a toast as it was handed over.
"I haven't heard jazz as good since I was in New Orleans."
"The boss personally put us together for this place stole us from half the bands around. The boss actually gets Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington to come in now and then. All the greats you've heard of too. A player like me getting to play with Louis and the Duke, I've already died and gone to Hell."
Jared laughed at the play on words. "Can I ask a question?"
"No ones' ever been hurt in the asking. The answer maybe."
Jared smiled. "The woman in the corner. Who is she the owners' mistress or something?"
The trumpet player voice was deep and raspy and his laugh was like hearing the devil celebrating another soul come to fry. "That's the missus. Piece of work ain't she? She's no one's mistress though. You might say if this place is Hell then she's the devil."
Jared just about choked on his drink.
The piano player was coming back and beat him on the back several times before rolling up his tobacco for a cigarette. "If you can't handle your liquor mister you shouldn't drink." He muttered.
"She really owns the place?" Jared asked when he could breathe again.
"Everyone's got to make a living now don't we?" The piano player snapped before he walked off again.
"Don't mind him. The missus is a better boss than any of us have worked for combined. Pay's great and regular; we don't get no trouble from the law. We don't get treated like dogs because of the color of our skin. Now tell me who would you rather work for?"
Jared noticed one of the dancers from Paris making eyes at the trumpet player and turned to find himself staring in eyes barely distinguishable from his skin. Jared hadn't really looked at the trumpet player before. He was a handsome, thin, muscular, blue-black skin as dark as night, sharp chiseled features, and a grin as full of sin as the devil. Jared felt homely next to him and in his eyes, he felt that he could see that he would kill for the missus, they all would.
The missus had moved from her perch and walked over cigarette in hand. She let out a long breath putting a veil of smoke between them. "Is something wrong Sam?" Her voice was a throaty growl that wasn't in the least bit masculine.
"Is there something wrong with my talking to them?" Jared asked.
"For the right reason I have no problem with it at all and yet not many talk to my band for the right reason. James doesn't act like he did for no reason at all and I don't let anyone stay who can't show proper respect for anyone in my place."
The trumpet player started to grin. "He was asking if you'd sing for us tonight."
Her eyes flitted to her employee for only a second. "I think he didn't. This one is a bit more interested in the body the voice would come from than he would the voice." She nodded her head in the direction of the woman that had been making eyes at him. "Go on with you Sam have your fun. She's a fine looking catch."
"Yes Missus." He downed the last of his drink and jumped off the stage as another man came walking over.
"Missus Bernard says the scotch is running low."
"If you'll excuse me."
Jared watched her walk off. The piano player bumped into him intentionally bringing him back to the present. "It be wise sir if you leave her be. Your kind of looking she doesn't need." He muttered under his breath.
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