The room smells of fried fish. An elegant black man in a charcoal and white stripped three piece leans languidly against the wall. The room is lit by the neon sign flashing over the drug store across the street.
Red, white, green, on off, on off. The window is open and the torrents of rain hitting the asphalt drum with a regular finger beat. Occasionally the figures in the room are lit starkly white with deep black shadows as the lightning pre-cedes the thunder. A comatose blond in a black evening dress and black elbow length gloves is sprawled on the couch a needle hanging loose from her fingers. One high heeled pump is on the floor the other precariously clinging to her foot. Her scarlet lipstick is smeared across her lips and a little dribble of saliva glistens on her chin. In the doorway stands a big Bull, his jacket pulled back to reveal a polished shoulder holster with a colt’s business end poking through the bottom. On his head is a wide brimmed hat that drips water onto the shoulders of his calf length trench coat. By the window is a piano at which sits a large black man in a silk striped waistcoat. On his head is a brown Derby hat. His eyes are a deep black that smile as he sings. On a table by the kitchen door is a platter of fried catfish. Above it is a hand written sign that reads,
FRIDAY NIGHT FISH FRY $1
BRING YOUR OWN BOOZE
Across the hallway is a factory where faces are cutting cadillacs of coke. The Bull in the doorway may or may not be aware of this industry but he has bigger fish to fry tonight. A group of sailors on a 24 hour pass fall up the stairs and head for the factory. They have only 5 hours left to get high get laid and get back. Time ticks on.
The floor is taken by 3 couples dancing the Lindy Hop One couple is white the other two black. One of the girl dancers is a honey coloured beauty with almond eyes aquiline nose and broad smile. Her partner is also light skinned and could be taken for a southern Italian, but he is from Plantation stock whoes maternal grand parent was raped by renegade red legs. He is also a cop. He throws his partner over his shoulder her long legs in bobby socks and white pumps describing a perfect arc in the air, lit by the flashing neon, is a stroboscopic illusion. Beads of sweat flick of them into the humid atmosphere.
The white couple are less athletic and jitter bug in circles with the occasional hip throw. The mans white shirt has dark circles under the armpits and black suspenders hold up his trousers. The suspenders are obviously a fashion item as his fawn trousers are tight fitting and show off his muscular ass and thighs. He is also a cop and the precinct boxing champion. His partner’s baggy white slacks cling to her legs as she shimmies and her white silk blouse moulds her breasts in unfettered perfection. She is the dead spit of Veronica Lake. Down to the lopsided hairdo and the sexy aura. The piano player changes the tempo and they fall into each other with grateful relief. The Veronica look-a-like goes over to the window and fans herself with her hand. The rain is Noah like in its intensity. A black Cadillac pulls up and two men dash for cover into the drug store. The Cadillac keeps it’s motor running and it’s wipers wave inadequately at the rain. The Veronica look-a-like takes a cigarette from a gold cigarette case on the piano lid. She carefully places it into a gold holder and puts the holder to her lips.
‘Got a light Fats’,
Fats obliges with the end of his cigar. From outside through the roar of the rain is the sound of gunfire. The Veronica look-a-like turns to see what’s what. The two men come running out of the store and jump onto the running boards of the Cadillac, as the car picks up speed a hand comes out of the back window and throws an object at the store. As the car turns the corner the drug store erupts in a ball of flame. The glass front explodes and the Veronica look-a-like drops to the floor with a shard stuck in her chest. She gives a low moan and sinks down in a pool of blood.
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