In a Noir-ish kind of mood tonight. Hope you don't mind...
Coming on for quarter past midnight in the Blue Beretta, I call for the bartender to put another Bulletbiter whisky on my tab. I finger my last cigarette out of its battered packet and try to decide whether to walk to the liquor store on the corner that stock my regular brand, or just grab a pack from behind the bar on my rapidly dwindling credit. The rain's still coming down outside like something out of the Old Testament, and my shoes have barely dried from earlier, so I opt for the second choice and the barkeep tosses me a pack of unfiltered Diablos.
Blind Lou's playing his saxophone, and the notes rise into the air, mixing with the smoke that hangs in a shifting shroud a few inches below the ceiling, swirled into interesting patterns by Casablanca-style fans.
The music's downbeat, aching: something to match my mood tonight. I sit and consider the hand that Lady Luck has dealt me -- think about my ex-wife and the hard-hitting, big-shot, big-city attorney who's helping her take me for everything I own. I think about the client who won't pay me my fee, about the rent on the office I still have to find by Friday.
Then she walks into the bar, and everything stops. Lonely power-drinkers, the burnt-out and the heartbroken, the dispossessed - the Beretta's usual class of clientele - all pause, drinks midway to open mouths, and stare at this angel who's just descended into their smoky hell. I think even Blind Lou stops playing his sax for a moment, though I may have imagined that.
She's got the kind of body that inspires men to make rash promises. Her dress [the same blood red as her lips] clings to contours I could get lost just looking at. She's so perfect, it almost hurts to watch her.
I've seen her before once - black satin hotpants and bunny-girl ears - waitressing at the Fleur de Lys Club, up near Chinatown.
She looks like the kind of trouble I just can't seem to keep out of.
I know she'll do me wrong, just like they all do. Somewhere down the line, she'll leave me high and dry. That's how the story always goes.
But for now, there's just enough credit left on my tab to buy the lady a drink, just enough of a beat left in my worn-out heart to think what the hell?, to throw caution to the wind and risk it all this one last time for the sake of those hips, those eyes, that scarlet smile.
"What's a nice girl like you doing in a dive like this?" [damn, I'm smooth]. My Zippo sparks into life on the second strike and I light first her cigarette, then my own. She smiles at me, with the smell of petroleum still hanging in the air between us.
The story has already begun.
More...
S x x x
Coming on for quarter past midnight in the Blue Beretta, I call for the bartender to put another Bulletbiter whisky on my tab. I finger my last cigarette out of its battered packet and try to decide whether to walk to the liquor store on the corner that stock my regular brand, or just grab a pack from behind the bar on my rapidly dwindling credit. The rain's still coming down outside like something out of the Old Testament, and my shoes have barely dried from earlier, so I opt for the second choice and the barkeep tosses me a pack of unfiltered Diablos.
Blind Lou's playing his saxophone, and the notes rise into the air, mixing with the smoke that hangs in a shifting shroud a few inches below the ceiling, swirled into interesting patterns by Casablanca-style fans.
The music's downbeat, aching: something to match my mood tonight. I sit and consider the hand that Lady Luck has dealt me -- think about my ex-wife and the hard-hitting, big-shot, big-city attorney who's helping her take me for everything I own. I think about the client who won't pay me my fee, about the rent on the office I still have to find by Friday.
Then she walks into the bar, and everything stops. Lonely power-drinkers, the burnt-out and the heartbroken, the dispossessed - the Beretta's usual class of clientele - all pause, drinks midway to open mouths, and stare at this angel who's just descended into their smoky hell. I think even Blind Lou stops playing his sax for a moment, though I may have imagined that.
She's got the kind of body that inspires men to make rash promises. Her dress [the same blood red as her lips] clings to contours I could get lost just looking at. She's so perfect, it almost hurts to watch her.
I've seen her before once - black satin hotpants and bunny-girl ears - waitressing at the Fleur de Lys Club, up near Chinatown.
She looks like the kind of trouble I just can't seem to keep out of.
I know she'll do me wrong, just like they all do. Somewhere down the line, she'll leave me high and dry. That's how the story always goes.
But for now, there's just enough credit left on my tab to buy the lady a drink, just enough of a beat left in my worn-out heart to think what the hell?, to throw caution to the wind and risk it all this one last time for the sake of those hips, those eyes, that scarlet smile.
"What's a nice girl like you doing in a dive like this?" [damn, I'm smooth]. My Zippo sparks into life on the second strike and I light first her cigarette, then my own. She smiles at me, with the smell of petroleum still hanging in the air between us.
The story has already begun.
More...
S x x x
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
Left a comment on the set.