RHAPSODY IN BLUE

ACT I: MUSIC SOOTHES A DAMAGED SOUL

The fans spun lazily overhead, doing nothing but stir the thick, smoky, warm air in the place.

Harry sat at a round table in the very back of the room, his table, a half-finished cigarette dangling between his parched lips.

"Yolanda, heya doll."

A willowy sable-skinned brunette with ruby-red lips patted her neat shoulder-length curls as she sashayed to the table.

"Well, hey there, hun! What's doin?" 

She patted his shoulder playfully. 

"The usual, right?"

Harry tipped his hat up to flash a sly smile.

 "That's my girl."

"The Lady Blue will be on in a few." 

She winked like she knew his secret and swivelled off to the bar.

Truthfully, it was no secret. Every night that he was free, after a long day of running "errands" for Seamus "The Mop" Halliday, he reveled in coming to hear his angel. It was his escape to some distant peace, carried on by her smoky voice.  As smooth as silk, it was.

Oh boy, she had the face and body of an ancient feminine diety, skin the color of stained pine, a wide smile that revealed even white teeth, eyes like a child of the Orient, and peaks and valleys, in all the right places.

She dressed in her trademarks, a form-fitting satin gown, one a' those strapless numbers, cascading blossoms in her hair and long satin gloves, all jewel-toned, lovely against her skin.

She was an enigma to him.  As lovely and talented as she was, she always entered the stage with a beguiling modesty...  

Until she began to sing.

Folks all around chatterered while he sipped his scotch. The place immediately went hush when she walked onto the stage.

She took a few seconds, allowing her musicians to settle in behind her, Barry on drums, Michael on piano, and Terrence on the strings. And then she began, slow and easy, her eyes closed.

"You go to my head....And you linger like a haunt-ing re-frain..."

The tempo was slower than the standard, with an improvised rhythm. It felt sexier somehow.

...No, sultry. That was the word.

She caressed the microphone like a lover, her lips so close, it looked like she was whispering a secret. Harry envied that mic. Her voice was smoky, not the high chirpy pitch you might hear in the old soundies.

No, she sounds like a real woman.  He thought.

Harry was no slouch when it came to women.  Absolute lookers were in and out of his bed weekly. Between his rugged good looks and the air of danger he had working for Halliday, women practically begged to sleep with him.  A few actually had begged.

He was tall and wiry, the kind you might under-estimate in a fight, if you were stupid. His knuckles were scarred and he had a small scar on his upper lip. His nose had been broken, but had somehow settled in a way that suited his face.

His wavy black hair was hidden under his pageboy hat and his Irish crystal blues could charm or put ice in your soul, depending on his mood.

...Right now, between the music, smokes, and drink he was in a very good mood. Then she found his eyes and it felt like she was singing just for him.

"Like a summer with a thousand Julys..."

His mouth dried and his head began to spin. He licked his lips and wondered if it were some performer's trick, looking at the audience, but always making it seem like they're looking at you.