Some Jazz

1920's Harlem.

 

It was late. The time of night when all the drunks had left for home, but the jazz stayed hot. And it would stay hot till dawn. That’s how things work around Harlem at the time of the witching hour. Around here nothing good could happen after midnight; in fact, you could say all you would find are bad things and jazz.

            And that’s where we find him; Mr. Scratch. Wearing a fedora on his head like a crown, a trench coat hanging off his shoulders like it was his armor, and a maroon suit that let everyone know he was richer than they could ever dream. Yes sir, he was someone you could idolize your whole life or hate for every moment he was on this earth. This was Mr. Scratch.

            He walked into the Jumping Jazz Club while the band started their new set; the cello let out its low rhymes, the saxophone blew its own serenade, the drums clapped for the beat.

            The bar had only one resident: a young man. He sat smiling, joyfully following along with the music, nodding his head and conducting with his fingers.

            Mr. Scratch recognized him right away. He went up to the bar and sat next to the young man, not acknowledging him. But regardless the young man reacted to him.

“Mephistopheles, you’re late. Too busy stealing souls of blues guitarists?” the young man asked, still happily following the music.

“Oh please, Gabriel. I’ve always leaned more toward the jazz myself,” Mr. Scratch replied while raising his hand up to get the bartender’s attention, “Whiskey on the Rocks over here!”

            The man behind the bar turned to Mr. Scratch with eyes wide open. “Sir…we haven’t had alcohol for two years now…it’s illegal, we don’t wanna be pinched.”

            Mr. Scratch rolled his eyes and sat down in his seat in discontent. “Leave it to America to be the wet blankets…”

“Come now Satan, temperance is a virtue,” Gabriel said, now finally breaking himself from the music to turn to Mr. Scratch. 

Gabriel inspected Mr. Scratch, looking at him from his leather shoes to the feather marking his fedora. “Oh, Lucifer. You always were one for dramatics.” Gabriel gently grinned as if he was relieved. “Do you have the item?”

Mr. Scratch bent down and pulled a flask from his sock. He smacked it on the bar and looked to Gabriel proudly, “The souls of a thousand wicked men. The Real McCoy. Yes sir. You got your part of our bargain?”

Gabriel placed his hand in his breast pocket and pulled out a white piece of paper. “Here we are. Just as requested.”

Mr. Scratch violently grabbed the paper out of Gabriel’s hand. He looked closely at every fiber of the paper, then placed it up to his nose and took a deep sniff of it.

“Ahhh. Well looks like everything is on the up and up.” Mr. Scratch concluded while placing the paper into his jacket pocket.

The two sat at the bar in an awkward conclusion to their deal. The music surrounded the two and seemed to help ease the tension.

Mr. Scratch stared at the empty shelves behind the bar, saying to anyone who would listen, “Liquor…You know that’s one of ours.”

Gabriel nodded, returning his sights on the band. “Choice; you know that’s one of ours” he responded, starting to conduct with his fingers again.

Mr. Scratch smiled “Well jazz…” he said in a low voice “…is mine.”  

Reviews

[Steffi]

Again. Another wonderful write. Unique and well written.
I love how you tied in that Jazz came from something damned as well as tying in the prohibition connecting us to the time period as well. The descriptive manner you put into place can really paint the picture for the reader to get carried along with.
Only critic. The beginning paragraph seems to be with a different flow than the following paragraphs. It seems sort of awkward once you read the whole thing through.
But despite that, the overall piece was wonderful.