Categories > Original > Fantasy > Broad Street Nightengale
There were times when Alex cursed his size. Like now, for instance. A man walking down 82nd St standing nearly seven foot tall with shoulders almost as wide would stand out in anyone’s memory. Therefore, after the usual round of arguments had been made and rebutted...
“You stay here, I’ll go.”
“As what? A bouncer?”
“Why not?”
“Because you stick out like a badly bandaged, bloody, ragged, salt-dusted, sore thumb. You stay here and I’ll go.”
“You don’t drink.”
“Neither do you.”
“It’s against the law.”
“I can watch a crowd in ways you can’t.”
“You’re not going alone into the snake pit. I can hold my own against five guys at once, you can’t.”
“Sure I can.”
“Not without the bootleggers calling the cops on you.”
...both of them dressed up and took the trolley to the Blue Moon. Dan, they soon realized, had been correct in his exaggeration. The distant lilt of a female voice rolled sweetly on the evening air, drawing them inexorably toward its source while they were still blocks away. Others, it seemed, had also fallen under the spell for several men and women were wandering vaguely towards the club as if being reeled in by an invisible fishing line.
“Like the damn Pied Piper,” Charles murmured, eying the stupefied crowd making its way towards the night club.
“Guess Danny Boy was right; Papa Penecelli has some help of his own.”
There was no name for that extra little something that set Charles, Alex, Ray, Dan, and now Millie aside from normal people. Charles could read people’s thoughts; lift objects without using his hands. Alex’s gifts were in his size and strength. Once, just for fun, he’d tried to lift a freight car and found it no more than mildly awkward to hoist above his head. Dan, ever subtle and suspicious, had an uncanny way of quite literally melting into the shadows, and somehow Ray always knew about things long before they happened. Now it seemed that Millie’s powers of persuasion were having a curious affect on the neighborhood.
“If she can do this,” Alex wondered, “why didn’t she spin us a yarn back at the hospital?”
“Maybe she knew one or both of us wouldn’t believe it?” Charles suggested. Alex nodded distractedly, remembering that he, at least, would have been a dead giveaway simply by walking in the door.
“Think Papa will give us any trouble?”
Alex shrugged. “As long as we mind our P’s and Q’s we should be okay. Just a social call, nothing more.”
“I dunno, what if Ray was a message? Papa knows we’ve thrown out every thug a’ his we’ve come across. Somehow I don’t think he’ll be happy to see us.”
“Occupational hazard. Guess we’ll find out.”
*
The Blue Moon was one of several miniature theatres that lined Broad St. Although its proprietor avowed that no liquor was sold there, and the police had yet to prove otherwise despite countless raids, it was general knowledge that the opposite was true. It was therefore unsurprising that a distinct aroma of alcohol and cigar smoke greeted them at the door along with the surly bouncer- a man only half as big as Alex and clearly insulted at being so grossly outclassed- and the smiling coat clerk. Charles flipped her a dime along with his hat and followed his larger partner inside.
The air inside hung heavy, spiced and hazy with the smoke of countless cigars, the harsher stench of cigarettes mingling with the sweeter scents of vanilla and cloves. Elaborate lamps of unpainted wrought iron hung with glass blossoms dangled intermittently from the ceiling, illuminating the fog in a soft blue light. Below, small round tables draped in shiny cloths as dark as sapphire crowded in front of a tiny thrust stage. Off to one side a sumptuous bar of white marble and black African wood ostensibly served tea, coffee, and hors d’oeuvres. Dark-skinned waiters waded back and forth through the jungle of table legs along with the occasional cigarette girl, dispensing drinks and snacks. The entire cabaret seemed to be done in shades of black and blue with traces here and there of silver gilding. The most obvious example stood on stage in the center of the spotlight, singing.
Alex and Charles allowed themselves to be ushered to a table where they sat, dumbstruck, half by the magic of her song and half by what appeared to them a transformation. At the hospital Miss Lewis had seem a drab and bewildered little creature, as tawny and wide-eyed as a fawn. Now, however, clad in a spangled V-necked gown of pale blue silk and silver lame, she seemed another person entirely. The handkerchief layers of her drop-waist skirt swished gently as she swayed, softly reflecting the artificial moonlight of the spotlight. A length of glittering beads hung from her neck- probably glass, but they sparkled like diamonds in the dim light. Close enough to practically see up her skirt from their low vantage point, the audience was afforded a glimpse of elaborate gray silk stockings and dainty silver T-strapped heels. Alex could have sworn that back at the hospital her eyes- swimming with tears and kohl at the time; now bright and glittering as her crystal necklace- had been brown. Now, illuminated by the bright stage lights and accented by her aqua-colored gown, they appeared to be blue.
More breathtaking than her song, however, was her voice. Charles, fighting to stay aware of himself amid the swarm of notes, somehow found what proved to be a coffee cup full of bathtub gin masked by a spoonful of over-brewed arbuckle and a massive fruit cocktail on the table in front of him by the time the song had ended. He blinked, confused as to how they had gotten there, and caught the waiter smiling a brilliantly white grin at him and the two dollar tip he’d just received.
“What the hell?” he asked, turning to face his partner who had somehow acquired a “coffee”, an enormous slice of devil’s food cake, and a pack of cigarettes for himself.
Alex picked up the cigarettes in confusion. “I don’t even smoke…” he stated to no one in particular. Examining the contents of his wallet before the next number began, Charles counted $3.85 out of the $8.50 he’d come in with. Alex seemed to be conducting a damage assessment of his own and hastily stuffed his own billfold back into his pocket as a quartet of black musicians began a lively rag number.
“Well at least they ain’t singin’...” he muttered to himself. “What happened to the doll?” Craning his neck amid the silhouette of heads, he couldn’t pick her out in the smoky gloom. Shrugging and taking a bite of the cake, Alex did some surveying of his own and nearly choked.
“Over there,” he gasped once he had finished coughing, pointing briefly with his fork. “Right next to Papa.”
Perhaps half a dozen large, plush booths lined either wall. In the booth nearest the bar, “Papa” Mike Penecelli sat holding court. Papa had been aptly named. The natural father of about eight children and loving husband to his wife of thirty years, he had all the amiable, roly-poly jolliness of a devoted grandfather. In his plain gray suit, argyle sweater vest and paisley bowtie, he would have looked more at home in an old-fashioned parlor with a grandchild on his knee. However, his benevolence extended only to his immediate family, and sometimes not even them. Thugs and family members (the distinctions often interchangeable) sat on either side of him, applauding politely as Millie skipped down off the stage to slide into a seat next to her uncle. He gave her an affectionate pat on the cheek and beamed as she smiled timidly up at him.
“Holy smokes, Danny wasn’t kiddin’,” Charles hissed, repressing the urge to gape.
“Quite the operation they’ve got,” Alex replied, munching his cake. “She draws ‘em in and gets ‘em to empty their wallets. Talk about a star performer, the little honey’s gotta be worth her weight in gold.”
“All eighty-four pounds,” Charles agreed, popping a maraschino cherry into his mouth. “Who needs a craps table when a fella can lose his shirt just attending the matinee?”
“Sure keeps the cops down. Also might explain why they’re able to bill third rate whiskey as second-rate java.”
“The chief takes one look at her, hears her story, and swallows it hook, line, and sinker.”
“Bingo. No raids, and no risk.”
“Jesus…” Charles whistled to himself. “How the hell we gonna throw a wrench into this?”
“I’ll bet that’s what Ray woulda done- or was doing- when he got himself beat up.”
“Think she really is a damsel in distress?” Charles asked, eyeing Papa’s table skeptically.
“Dunno. She don’t look too happy over there, though.”
“Think maybe we oughtta rescue her?”
Alex frowned thoughtfully for a moment before scooping up a last forkful of cake. “I think at the very least it would be polite to inquire after her health and to ask Papa about any mysterious characters lurking around the theatre door. After all, wouldn’t want anything to happen to his headliner, now would we?”
“No, we most certainly would not.”
“You stay here, I’ll go.”
“As what? A bouncer?”
“Why not?”
“Because you stick out like a badly bandaged, bloody, ragged, salt-dusted, sore thumb. You stay here and I’ll go.”
“You don’t drink.”
“Neither do you.”
“It’s against the law.”
“I can watch a crowd in ways you can’t.”
“You’re not going alone into the snake pit. I can hold my own against five guys at once, you can’t.”
“Sure I can.”
“Not without the bootleggers calling the cops on you.”
...both of them dressed up and took the trolley to the Blue Moon. Dan, they soon realized, had been correct in his exaggeration. The distant lilt of a female voice rolled sweetly on the evening air, drawing them inexorably toward its source while they were still blocks away. Others, it seemed, had also fallen under the spell for several men and women were wandering vaguely towards the club as if being reeled in by an invisible fishing line.
“Like the damn Pied Piper,” Charles murmured, eying the stupefied crowd making its way towards the night club.
“Guess Danny Boy was right; Papa Penecelli has some help of his own.”
There was no name for that extra little something that set Charles, Alex, Ray, Dan, and now Millie aside from normal people. Charles could read people’s thoughts; lift objects without using his hands. Alex’s gifts were in his size and strength. Once, just for fun, he’d tried to lift a freight car and found it no more than mildly awkward to hoist above his head. Dan, ever subtle and suspicious, had an uncanny way of quite literally melting into the shadows, and somehow Ray always knew about things long before they happened. Now it seemed that Millie’s powers of persuasion were having a curious affect on the neighborhood.
“If she can do this,” Alex wondered, “why didn’t she spin us a yarn back at the hospital?”
“Maybe she knew one or both of us wouldn’t believe it?” Charles suggested. Alex nodded distractedly, remembering that he, at least, would have been a dead giveaway simply by walking in the door.
“Think Papa will give us any trouble?”
Alex shrugged. “As long as we mind our P’s and Q’s we should be okay. Just a social call, nothing more.”
“I dunno, what if Ray was a message? Papa knows we’ve thrown out every thug a’ his we’ve come across. Somehow I don’t think he’ll be happy to see us.”
“Occupational hazard. Guess we’ll find out.”
*
The Blue Moon was one of several miniature theatres that lined Broad St. Although its proprietor avowed that no liquor was sold there, and the police had yet to prove otherwise despite countless raids, it was general knowledge that the opposite was true. It was therefore unsurprising that a distinct aroma of alcohol and cigar smoke greeted them at the door along with the surly bouncer- a man only half as big as Alex and clearly insulted at being so grossly outclassed- and the smiling coat clerk. Charles flipped her a dime along with his hat and followed his larger partner inside.
The air inside hung heavy, spiced and hazy with the smoke of countless cigars, the harsher stench of cigarettes mingling with the sweeter scents of vanilla and cloves. Elaborate lamps of unpainted wrought iron hung with glass blossoms dangled intermittently from the ceiling, illuminating the fog in a soft blue light. Below, small round tables draped in shiny cloths as dark as sapphire crowded in front of a tiny thrust stage. Off to one side a sumptuous bar of white marble and black African wood ostensibly served tea, coffee, and hors d’oeuvres. Dark-skinned waiters waded back and forth through the jungle of table legs along with the occasional cigarette girl, dispensing drinks and snacks. The entire cabaret seemed to be done in shades of black and blue with traces here and there of silver gilding. The most obvious example stood on stage in the center of the spotlight, singing.
Alex and Charles allowed themselves to be ushered to a table where they sat, dumbstruck, half by the magic of her song and half by what appeared to them a transformation. At the hospital Miss Lewis had seem a drab and bewildered little creature, as tawny and wide-eyed as a fawn. Now, however, clad in a spangled V-necked gown of pale blue silk and silver lame, she seemed another person entirely. The handkerchief layers of her drop-waist skirt swished gently as she swayed, softly reflecting the artificial moonlight of the spotlight. A length of glittering beads hung from her neck- probably glass, but they sparkled like diamonds in the dim light. Close enough to practically see up her skirt from their low vantage point, the audience was afforded a glimpse of elaborate gray silk stockings and dainty silver T-strapped heels. Alex could have sworn that back at the hospital her eyes- swimming with tears and kohl at the time; now bright and glittering as her crystal necklace- had been brown. Now, illuminated by the bright stage lights and accented by her aqua-colored gown, they appeared to be blue.
More breathtaking than her song, however, was her voice. Charles, fighting to stay aware of himself amid the swarm of notes, somehow found what proved to be a coffee cup full of bathtub gin masked by a spoonful of over-brewed arbuckle and a massive fruit cocktail on the table in front of him by the time the song had ended. He blinked, confused as to how they had gotten there, and caught the waiter smiling a brilliantly white grin at him and the two dollar tip he’d just received.
“What the hell?” he asked, turning to face his partner who had somehow acquired a “coffee”, an enormous slice of devil’s food cake, and a pack of cigarettes for himself.
Alex picked up the cigarettes in confusion. “I don’t even smoke…” he stated to no one in particular. Examining the contents of his wallet before the next number began, Charles counted $3.85 out of the $8.50 he’d come in with. Alex seemed to be conducting a damage assessment of his own and hastily stuffed his own billfold back into his pocket as a quartet of black musicians began a lively rag number.
“Well at least they ain’t singin’...” he muttered to himself. “What happened to the doll?” Craning his neck amid the silhouette of heads, he couldn’t pick her out in the smoky gloom. Shrugging and taking a bite of the cake, Alex did some surveying of his own and nearly choked.
“Over there,” he gasped once he had finished coughing, pointing briefly with his fork. “Right next to Papa.”
Perhaps half a dozen large, plush booths lined either wall. In the booth nearest the bar, “Papa” Mike Penecelli sat holding court. Papa had been aptly named. The natural father of about eight children and loving husband to his wife of thirty years, he had all the amiable, roly-poly jolliness of a devoted grandfather. In his plain gray suit, argyle sweater vest and paisley bowtie, he would have looked more at home in an old-fashioned parlor with a grandchild on his knee. However, his benevolence extended only to his immediate family, and sometimes not even them. Thugs and family members (the distinctions often interchangeable) sat on either side of him, applauding politely as Millie skipped down off the stage to slide into a seat next to her uncle. He gave her an affectionate pat on the cheek and beamed as she smiled timidly up at him.
“Holy smokes, Danny wasn’t kiddin’,” Charles hissed, repressing the urge to gape.
“Quite the operation they’ve got,” Alex replied, munching his cake. “She draws ‘em in and gets ‘em to empty their wallets. Talk about a star performer, the little honey’s gotta be worth her weight in gold.”
“All eighty-four pounds,” Charles agreed, popping a maraschino cherry into his mouth. “Who needs a craps table when a fella can lose his shirt just attending the matinee?”
“Sure keeps the cops down. Also might explain why they’re able to bill third rate whiskey as second-rate java.”
“The chief takes one look at her, hears her story, and swallows it hook, line, and sinker.”
“Bingo. No raids, and no risk.”
“Jesus…” Charles whistled to himself. “How the hell we gonna throw a wrench into this?”
“I’ll bet that’s what Ray woulda done- or was doing- when he got himself beat up.”
“Think she really is a damsel in distress?” Charles asked, eyeing Papa’s table skeptically.
“Dunno. She don’t look too happy over there, though.”
“Think maybe we oughtta rescue her?”
Alex frowned thoughtfully for a moment before scooping up a last forkful of cake. “I think at the very least it would be polite to inquire after her health and to ask Papa about any mysterious characters lurking around the theatre door. After all, wouldn’t want anything to happen to his headliner, now would we?”
“No, we most certainly would not.”
Sign up to rate and review this story