Ava wrote:
(Roaring '20s plot...coming soon!)
Oooooh *scrawls ~ Big Momma!~ on the "To-Do" list*
Can't wait!!!!! We gonna go all gangsta baby!!
The sharp, staccato "click-click, click-click" of kitten heels signaled the arrival of something special -- of someone rather unmistakable. Already the night was saturated with the slithery sounds of entertainment-seekers (the undulating volume of voices almost relaxing in its familiarity), but into that glittery mix swept Ava's shoes, their patent oxford finish flashing against the drab, unbroken stretch of pavement. Just ahead was her destination -- her den, her roost, her juice joint -- but she wanted to breathe in, for just a minute, the city's burgeoning nightlife, so she slowed her pace.
Adjusting her cloche a teensy bit, Ava smiled. Yesterday she'd told Big Mama about the block's newest rumor -- the one about the new bull sniffing around their speakeasy -- and tonight...well, tonight she'd have to update Big Mama on the story. She just so happened to have met that new policeman -- that nice, young, handsome man -- last night on her way home from the Noir. And, being the polite public servant that he was, the new policeman had escorted her home. And not just to her home...but into her home. And into her bedroom. And, she noted with another smile, into something a little more comfortable.
At any rate, that new bull wouldn't be sniffin' around the Noir anymore. He'd probably be sniffin' around her place from now on...an incovenience for a little while, sure, but one she could handle. One she could handle no problem. Ava's smile dissolved into an undeniably girlish giggle, and she paused outside the Noir; "oh, oh, oh," she thought wryly, "The things we do to keep this place goin'"
One hand grasping the wrought-iron gate and one hand fanning her face, she paused a moment more before gathering back up her composure. Despite the fact she'd all but lived here for the last four years, Ava still marveled -- every once in a while, when the night's light hit it right -- at the Noir's beauty. Its stone and iron facade, part-New Orleans and part-New York in its understated opulence, whispered of refined tastes. Once inside, the rich wood and polished brass spoke it aloud. Of course, there was more...much, much more...to the Noir than what its appearance suggested, but only a select few were privy to the details.
Ava was one of those select few. And so was Big Mama. And it was Big Mama, her confidante and partner-in-crime, who waited for her inside the Noir tonight. With a parting glance at the slinky, stylized sign (painted black and red, at Big Mama's suggestion), she slipped through the parted gate and down the neat brick stairs; a few feet more and the faint strains of something jazzy drifted through the door. Delicate fingers curling around its curved handle, Ava pulled open the Noir's door and stepped across its threshold..."into the American demi-monde," as her artist friends would say.
Adjusting her cloche a teensy bit, Ava smiled. Yesterday she'd told Big Mama about the block's newest rumor -- the one about the new bull sniffing around their speakeasy -- and tonight...well, tonight she'd have to update Big Mama on the story. She just so happened to have met that new policeman -- that nice, young, handsome man -- last night on her way home from the Noir. And, being the polite public servant that he was, the new policeman had escorted her home. And not just to her home...but into her home. And into her bedroom. And, she noted with another smile, into something a little more comfortable.
At any rate, that new bull wouldn't be sniffin' around the Noir anymore. He'd probably be sniffin' around her place from now on...an incovenience for a little while, sure, but one she could handle. One she could handle no problem. Ava's smile dissolved into an undeniably girlish giggle, and she paused outside the Noir; "oh, oh, oh," she thought wryly, "The things we do to keep this place goin'"
One hand grasping the wrought-iron gate and one hand fanning her face, she paused a moment more before gathering back up her composure. Despite the fact she'd all but lived here for the last four years, Ava still marveled -- every once in a while, when the night's light hit it right -- at the Noir's beauty. Its stone and iron facade, part-New Orleans and part-New York in its understated opulence, whispered of refined tastes. Once inside, the rich wood and polished brass spoke it aloud. Of course, there was more...much, much more...to the Noir than what its appearance suggested, but only a select few were privy to the details.
Ava was one of those select few. And so was Big Mama. And it was Big Mama, her confidante and partner-in-crime, who waited for her inside the Noir tonight. With a parting glance at the slinky, stylized sign (painted black and red, at Big Mama's suggestion), she slipped through the parted gate and down the neat brick stairs; a few feet more and the faint strains of something jazzy drifted through the door. Delicate fingers curling around its curved handle, Ava pulled open the Noir's door and stepped across its threshold..."into the American demi-monde," as her artist friends would say.
The metal tin popped open, and in dipped the spoon. That beautiful white perfect powder went in, and up.. it was wonderful. The government had been trying to shut down the opiate trade, but there was always a fresh supply running through the mob through his bar. The new century was only a couple decades in and it felt like there were only good times ahead. The market was flying and the trade underground? Doing just as well. Every cop was an employee, every official could be bought. The rush came on, and in went the tin back into the small vest pocket. He ran the comb through his perfectly slicked back hair as he waited on the connection. Sitting back in the lacquered wooden chair, dragging slow from his cigarette. Gitanes. He only smoked Gitanes. They were from France, when he was stationed overseas during the Great War he got hooked and there was no going back from there. He dragged slow, enjoying the perfect flow of smoke into his lungs and back up his throat and through his nostrils. He opened Horsefeathers just a year before, but the bar was jumping most nights. It was known for its mix of wine and cocaine, he called it Laudanum, that brought all the big musicians and performers that stopped in town.
His employees went about their business, getting everything ready for the on rush of high to do customers wanting the only mix that was uncut. He didn’t like to wait, and by the time his connection showed up he was already in a bad mood. The cigarette was always hanging from the right side of his mouth, dangling and bouncing as he spoke, only taking it out to make a point or tapping the ash and it came out almost as soon as he started speaking, pulling out his pocket watch as the man came walking in. He didn’t need to say a thing, and the connection knew it, he apologized and slid the envelope of cash onto the table, trying to dodge the menacing eyes of Antonin. He waved him away.
Picking up the envelope, he opened it and sniffed the smell of dirty money. There was nothing better than this, there was nothing better. He slid it into his jacket and got up. It was time to go out, the night was young and he had no time to spend hanging out in his own bar, kissing celebrities and acting like a nice guy. He wasn’t a nice guy.
Out the backdoor he went, there was still a few hours before the place would be pumping and he had business to take care of. Entertainment of himself was the only business he ever cared about. His Chrysler was waiting; all covered in chrome and painted his favorite color, maroon. He was off.
His employees went about their business, getting everything ready for the on rush of high to do customers wanting the only mix that was uncut. He didn’t like to wait, and by the time his connection showed up he was already in a bad mood. The cigarette was always hanging from the right side of his mouth, dangling and bouncing as he spoke, only taking it out to make a point or tapping the ash and it came out almost as soon as he started speaking, pulling out his pocket watch as the man came walking in. He didn’t need to say a thing, and the connection knew it, he apologized and slid the envelope of cash onto the table, trying to dodge the menacing eyes of Antonin. He waved him away.
Picking up the envelope, he opened it and sniffed the smell of dirty money. There was nothing better than this, there was nothing better. He slid it into his jacket and got up. It was time to go out, the night was young and he had no time to spend hanging out in his own bar, kissing celebrities and acting like a nice guy. He wasn’t a nice guy.
Out the backdoor he went, there was still a few hours before the place would be pumping and he had business to take care of. Entertainment of himself was the only business he ever cared about. His Chrysler was waiting; all covered in chrome and painted his favorite color, maroon. He was off.
She swept into the room like a gust of warm wind, the spangles on her drop-waist dress reflecting the Noir’s muted, smoky light. Grey eyes half-mast (...a predator unconcerned, for the moment, with prey), Ava mapped the place with a glance; there were people here she knew, people who depended upon her and people she, herself, depended upon. It was to these well-known darlings that she threw her first kisses, slipping across the threshold and winding her way through small knots of night-goers. She hadn’t seen Big Mama yet, but the night was young; she’d have plenty of company until her partner-in-crime arrived.
The Noir was a tight mesh of symbiotic relationships, after all...and to the shrewd, calculating Ava, this meant plenty of fun. This meant plenty of other comrades, co-thrill-seekers, like-minded individuals with which to share the Noir's treats. Lately, she thought, it was as if everyone--all the pretty sheiks and shebas of the Noir--was intertwined (and smiling) with everyone else. The rich interior of the Noir was never empty, and in recent weeks it somehow seemed fuller, smokier, heavier with the smell of fancy perfumes and (faintly) sweat. It buzzed and hummed, lately, louder and more tangibly; it was a glowing hive of activity in a city that never slept. All this Ava loved, and all this she took in as she wound her way among the throngs of people. Smoothing her dress as she bumped against the bar, she decided to snag a drink.
Flashing the Noir’s bartender a knowing smile, she extended a hand; he grinned in return (as all the wait staff unabashedly adored Big Mama and Ava) and produced from under the counter--after a few seconds--Ava’s regular: a simple dry martini. Wrapping small, white fingers around the vessel’s stem, she purred a deep, “Hey, thanks Jimmy!” before dissolving back into the crowd. Never spending too long at the Noir’s polished counter, Ava slipped silkily away (an act made infinitely easier by the understanding that she’d never have to pay for a drink). She felt too exposed at the bar, too much like an island against which the Noir’s waves brushed. She preferred the crowd’s fringes, and it was to the fringes she now gravitated, drink in hand.
She had a feeling tonight was going to be special...something was going to happen. The electric buzz that seemed to wreath the Noir was intensifying, and Ava had to juice herself up a little if she was to enjoy the festivities.
The Noir was a tight mesh of symbiotic relationships, after all...and to the shrewd, calculating Ava, this meant plenty of fun. This meant plenty of other comrades, co-thrill-seekers, like-minded individuals with which to share the Noir's treats. Lately, she thought, it was as if everyone--all the pretty sheiks and shebas of the Noir--was intertwined (and smiling) with everyone else. The rich interior of the Noir was never empty, and in recent weeks it somehow seemed fuller, smokier, heavier with the smell of fancy perfumes and (faintly) sweat. It buzzed and hummed, lately, louder and more tangibly; it was a glowing hive of activity in a city that never slept. All this Ava loved, and all this she took in as she wound her way among the throngs of people. Smoothing her dress as she bumped against the bar, she decided to snag a drink.
Flashing the Noir’s bartender a knowing smile, she extended a hand; he grinned in return (as all the wait staff unabashedly adored Big Mama and Ava) and produced from under the counter--after a few seconds--Ava’s regular: a simple dry martini. Wrapping small, white fingers around the vessel’s stem, she purred a deep, “Hey, thanks Jimmy!” before dissolving back into the crowd. Never spending too long at the Noir’s polished counter, Ava slipped silkily away (an act made infinitely easier by the understanding that she’d never have to pay for a drink). She felt too exposed at the bar, too much like an island against which the Noir’s waves brushed. She preferred the crowd’s fringes, and it was to the fringes she now gravitated, drink in hand.
She had a feeling tonight was going to be special...something was going to happen. The electric buzz that seemed to wreath the Noir was intensifying, and Ava had to juice herself up a little if she was to enjoy the festivities.
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