At the Strand of Nightmares

For the Love of Candy

Another of my shitty original stories.
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1963, Sometime Around Winter, Perhaps Around Two In the Morning

Thomas had just one last table to clear off for the night. It had taken him perhaps a little under twenty minutes to wash off every last table in the nightclub he proudly owned. He'd do this again tomorrow, for sure, just as he's done every single night for the past twenty five years. It was the pride of ownership, he told himself, that directed him to keeping everything always in this perfect, pristine state, just as it always must be, just as it's always been.

1943, Sometime Around Winter, Around Eleven at Night

He could remember her so clearly, the way she walked into Berry's Place. The way her long, blonde hair was tied back into a pony tail with a red velvet tie, highlighting her flawless facial features. She was like some perfect combination of Katherine Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe, he mused. The way she walked seemed to make the entire floor stare at her, as no one could miss her long, gently toned legs moving within her knee length, tight red satin gown. She smiled to her gray partner as he went to sit down to order drinks for them both. She stayed on the floor, of course, waiting for Thomas to cue up the music again.

He was about ready to play his big number for the night, so he stood up on the stage, horn in hand, approached the microphone, and introduced himself, "Goodnight, everyone. As you all know, I'm Thomas Berry, and these are my boys, Randall, Kristof, Nicky, and Sal," each one of his musicians waved to the audience, the pianist, drummer, trombonist, and bassist, respectively. Yes, this seemed to be one nice little jazz band Mr. Berry had assembled for himself. "Anyways, folks, grab a partner, come out on the floor, and let's have some fun, shall we?" Thomas wasted not so much as a second to begin blasting away at his trumpet.

****
"Thomas?" a man said, calling into the closed nightclub, "Do you have time for just one last drink before you close everything down for the night?"

Thomas sighed and tossed the washcloth down on the table, somehow recognizing the face of this now much older man, "Randall, how long has it been?"

"That doesn't matter, my friend," Randall replied, that wonderful cheekiness still not haven lost its edge. "Just have one drink with me."

Thomas muttered something under his breath and walked over to the bar, "You should have been here three hours ago."

"You would have been far too busy, Tommy."

"Then perhaps you shouldn't have come at all," Thomas said curtly, grabbing for two shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey. "And you know I never liked being called Tommy."

"I always did it anyways, now, didn't I?" Randall's cheekiness was peeping through yet again.

"No, I suppose there was no way of stopping you," Thomas said, trying to conceal the amused smile forming at his lips. "Anyways, here's the drink," and with that, Thomas pushed one voluminous shot glass full of whiskey to Randall. "Drink up quickly, I would like to be asleep before five tonight."

******

The number swung right in, and Thomas's virtuoso trumpet playing screamed right over the whole nightclub.

Except for one part of it. There was one little thing that simply could not be ignored, and that was the effervescent girl in the middle of the room, dancing her heart away to the music. Her little feet, how they carried her across the wooden floorboards! Her perfect, pearly white smile was enough to light up the room. She was like a shimmering being of light, so sensual, yet so pure.