Harlem's Nest

A neon glow lights up the dark streets of Harlem, giving it a kind of sophistication it has not seen in a long time. The neon glow flickers �Harlem�s Nest� illuminating an old brick building with an arched entry. Many automobiles come and go, out-flowing sophistication dressed in elegant suits and dresses.

Inside the bar she sits in the darkness engulfed in the cool, mellow mood and expression of Blues. Her cigarette ignites a smoke that wraps around her like a lover.
The dim candle on her table lights enough of her up for a smooth, handsome, well dressed Spanish man to remember why he loved her with the intensity he did. He thought to himself, such a beauty. She sits legs crossed wearing a tight red sparkling dress. Her legs are so slender, so smooth, just like dark cream undulating along pillars of beauty. Her wet moist lips sparkle red and dance with her dress. Looking at her hazel green eyes is much depth, which resonates with her jade necklace draped across her slender neck. He remembers kissing that neck, so gently, so careful not to disturb the beautiful musical rhythm of her body. But most of all it was her hair that had him in, her short brown perfectly circular afro. He constantly dreamed of gliding his fingers through it forever ane ever. She was so beautiful he continued to think as he watched her. A goddess in the flesh, sitting at a bar table. And he belonged to her, and she belonged to him.
But there is a weight over his love, like a storm over a picnic, like something dark over something beautiful. He had to tell her important matters, but he did not know how she would respond to such news. He had it in his mind, she would either leave him forever, or she would not care at the severity of the matter because her love for him would compensate. Either way, he would have to tell her. It was not a matter of how for him, it was a matter of when.

Her look, so peaceful sitting and listening to the Blues being played right in front of her. But amidst the cool, there is a deep churning going on inside, a question raging in her mind, what to do.
She watches her fathers best friend play what he plays best, it reminds her too much of her father, when the two used to jam together, she would watch, back in the old days of the Depression, calming and soothing people with their music. They were heroes of there time, the greats of no-where. Tears of the past start to stream down her face without any expression.
The song finishes and the man comes down to see her. Late sixties, the pressures of life had given him a hunch and black spots on his face which looked like patches on a dark quilt.
�What�s the matter?� he empathises in a sharp windy voice, while he wipes her tear drop with his thumb.
�Bill�I miss him, he was so much more than a father, he was a good friend to me, the kind that never lets you down, the kind you never forget�
The old man ails her pain with a long, big, warm hug.
�You remind me of him� she whispers.
�He would be proud of you girl, for all you have done here, for making our dreams come true�. Bill then looks at her sternly
�Is there anything I can help you with Patricia?�
Many things race through her mind, especially one need, if she had that she would have no worries, no cares, just peace, peace at it�s finest, but she knew he did not have it.
�There is one thing that you could do for me Bill�Can you play it for me?�, �I don�t know Patricia� I haven�t played it since he was with us and� Patricia cuts him off
�I need it Bill� she says in pure downcast expression.
Patricia sits back down, while Bill gets up on the stage again. He whispers to the rest of the band the song, and in unison they look at Patricia and nod. They begin to play her song, the rhythm and the mood is perfect. All she wants to do is sink into the arms of her father once again, that�s what the song provokes, it emanates her fathers love for her.
She thinks of her father, and how this was his dream, a restaurant of Blues in the core of Harlem, touching Harlem, moving Harlem with the music. And then she begins to think of the man waiting for her in the VIP section, and the question what to do? She thinks long and hard. She knows there is only one option. The answer concretes itself.
She whispers �Sorry Father� as she gets up and walks into the VIP curtained off section.

A sleaze in a pink pin-stripped suit sits across the room in a circular recliner in the VIP section. His greasy face sweats as he lights up his cigar and sees the beauty of Patricia walk in.
She can hear the sound of her father�s song, it gives her strength. The man in the suit is the Spanish Mob Boss. And they have an appointment. He looks forward to every moment, where she regrets being in his presence every second.
He looks at her, waiting for her to start the conversation. She holds an emotionally deceased look on her face. They have the conversation with no words. Then the sleaze speaks
�So I guess you don�t have the money then sinereta�
He tries to act cool, and Spanish.
�I think I am going to turn this bar into a �Crustosa� sinereta, and we could have you as the main dancer. What do you think?�
Her emotion creeps up on her, but she deals with it quickly, only letting one tear slide down her dead face. She didn�t hate the Spanish, after all most of the people in her bar were, but she loathed this kind of Spanish. He could tell that she hated everything he had said about his plans for the bar, and that his words had totally de-sacralised the character of the bar. He responds to the cry of her tear.
�Unless�� he lustfully studies her body up and down and slowly looks down at his crutch as he continues �you give me a little down payment�.
She looks down at the ground in disgust of what she is going to do. She would do anything to save this bar, the bar is the embodiment of her father�s soul, he still touches people with music through this place, nothing meant more to Patricia.
The Spanish Mob Boss un-zips, widens his legs, and rests his arms on the top of the recliner and closes his eyes awaiting. He knew she was desperate, and this was her only hope. She kneels down in-between his legs like a servant in submission. There is an ear-piercing scrape on the side table as she grabs a steal object, he didn�t flinch or look, he didn�t care. She places a hand on each leg and slowly runs them down his thighs. His face is wide in a smile. Her hands get closer and closer, inches off now. He embraces himself for the excitement, just as she slips his cigar-cutter on the end of his penis.
!Clamp!
It cuts down hard, giving him an instant circumcision. His eyes are open round and full of white horror. She steps up from her disgraceful position as he is writhing in the sting of the red-fiery ring just cut off his reproductive organ. She slips her hand up her left thigh, and for a split instant again he thinks he might be in for pleasure even in his intense pain. However she pulls out a 3x3 inch silver pistol out of a holster strapped to her thigh and pin-points it right on his forehead.
�This is my fathers gun, and they are filled with his bullets�enjoy the taste of his revenge�
!Bang!
His body bucks as the bullet explodes into his forehead. He still sits, reclined with a fresh circumcision, a bullet lodged into his forehead, and the amazement of both events in the space of 10 seconds. She leaves him there and walks out. Her father�s song still plays.

She sees her lover as she walks out of the room. And he sees her. Everybody in-between meshes into the bars scenery. The song still plays. She remembered that he said that he wanted to catch up with her tonight, and that it was important.
All that Patricia wanted to do was confide in him, but she knew something else, and it plagued at her like churning poison in her bowel. The bar means so much to her, more than herself, even more than him. He is leaning on the wall near the doors entry, under the neon glow. She begins to walk to him. He is the only man separate from her father that she put her trust in, that she put her love in. She thought it was a foolish thing to do; to fully trust someone and put your weight of dependence on them. But she had it in him, till now. She embraces him tightly. And they kiss. There love roars like fire. Her heart screams of a thousand words of love. But her mind screams constantly one word, over and over. It continues to until she unleashes her pistol to the side of his head, breaks the kiss, and screams out her mouth
�BETRAYAL!� as she pulls the trigger on her lover in psychotic hatred, blowing him to the ground. A splatter of blood marks the wall, and a little on her cheek, she doesn�t notice. The music still continues to play to her. �This is all your fault!� she screams. And her face returns to the deadness.
She is fully desensitized, numb. All she can think is that she needs a cigarette, so she lights one up and starts on it.
Everything becomes blurry. She cant see clearly. Although one thing stands out; an envelope in his jacket pocket. She picks it up. And opens it. It�s a letter to her. Her dead face begins to come to life as she reads �I�m sorry I have put you in all this pain, I have left the mob, I really do love you, check it it�s all there, I hope you can forgive me�, she looks in and sees the debt in full, cash.

The magnitude of the current circumstance smashes her like a sledgehammer, there is complete turmoil inside of her now. The cigarette doesn�t take it away, the money doesn�t take it away, her father�s song doesn�t take it away.
She realises that no-one is playing anything in the bar, and every single person has jaws dropped and eyes wide looking at her.
She sits continuing to smoke and trying to hum her fathers song and have it�s peace permeate her again, but all she can hear is the sound of others screaming, the faint sound of police sirens, and the sound of gun�s loaded. She has successfully lost everything that meant anything in her life.

THE END

Reviews

[Damien Dsoul]

The story's got a dark, throbbing, enchanted feeling. You certainly nailed it down; The lady is such a delicately drwan femme-fatale type of character.

[Blackbirdsong]

You have a really interesting story here and I wasn't able to predict anything that happened, so well done. Just some minor things that I saw that stuck out to me here. :)

Since you're trying to evoke Harlem, why not use a metaphor which helps to convey that image?

"But there is a weight over his love, like a storm over a picnic,"

Lots of repetitions of the woman's name here, why not insert a "she" here or there to break it up a bit?

"Patricia� I haven't played it since he was with us and" Patricia cuts him off
"I need it Bill" she says in pure downcast expression.
Patricia sits back down, while Bill gets up on the stage again. He whispers to the rest of the band the song, and in unison they look at Patricia and nod."

This doesn't seem strong enough for her say here, ""This is all your fault!" she screams."