Jezebel
KOKO BROWN
Jezebel
Koko Brown
Copyright © 2013 Koko Brown
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 1483987671
ISBN-13: 978-1483987675
JEZEBEL
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Copyright © 2013 Koko Brown
Cover art by Reese Dante
Electronic book publication April 2013
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means without permission from the author, KOKO BROWN.
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means electronic or print, without the author’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in Federal Prison and a fine of $250,000. For more information regarding the government’s stance on copyright infringement visit :http://www.fbi.gov/ipr.
TRADEMARK ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author acknowledges the registered trademarks for the following products and goods:
Coco Cola: Coca Cola Bottling Company
Macy’s: Federation Stores
Radio Corporation of America
Welch’s: National Grape Association
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my mother who always believed in me and supported all of my crazy dreams.
CHAPTER one
Cleveland, Ohio Fall 1938
Engelmann Theatre’s resident MC tweaked his bow tie. For added dramatic effect, he brushed imaginary dust from both shoulders, then pulled the microphone toward him with a practiced flair.
“Ladies and gentlemen. May I introduce to some and reacquaint others with the most delectable, the sweetest dance troupe you’ve ever laid eyes on. Ladies hold onto your beaus. Gents hide your wallets. Everyone put your hands together for…BROWN SUGAR!”
On cue, center stage exploded into a kaleidoscope of light, feathers and sepia–toned skin. Costumed in Salmon pink, perfectly coiffed and powdered, Brown Sugar moved as one.
The feathers on their abbreviated bolero jackets quivered as they twirled, spun and pulsed to the house band. Their matching pink silk shorts, barely covering bee-stung buttocks, rode high on their rounded hips and firm thighs.
Great genetics aside, grueling rehearsal hours contributed to a dozen pairs of well-toned, café-au-lait colored legs slicing through the air with military precision.
Tallulah “Tookie” Whitfield mentally counted each step. If anyone messed up, she’d make sure she’d drill them on it at ttomorrow’s rehearsal.
Perfectionist?
Slave Driver?
Masochist?
All of the above, Tookie acquiesced. She hadn’t become the sole proprietor of one of the Chitlin Circuit’s most successful vaudeville shows because she was soft. If she had, then she would’ve folded years ago. And Whitfield’s follies were still going strong after being on the road for more than fifteen years.
“Has she shown up yet?”
Tookie kept her eyes on her dancers. The most valuable lesson she’d ever learned in show business was never let them see you sweat. Especially theatre owners like Rufus Engelmann, who held the keys to the safe and her reputation in his hands.
“The show’s almost over, Whitfield,” Engelmann threatened, “and she hasn’t stepped foot on stage yet. She was top billed and you aren’t delivering.”
Tookie dredged up one of the half-a-dozen excuses she’d used during the past year, but she choked.
Silently fuming and wishing it was Celeste’s scrawny neck, Tookie clenched the Cuban cigar in her hand so tightly it crumbled into several pieces. She let the tobacco slip through her slack fingers just like the money she would lose by not honoring the terms of Engelmann’s agreement.
“You can ignore me all you want,” Engelmann barked, continuing his temper tantrum. “But I’ll see you in my office after the show. And you better bring your contract.”
Abandoning her for now, Engelmann turned on his heel and disappeared in the throng of backstage hands and miscellaneous performers watching the show.
Not only was her star act missing, but so were two other girls who danced in this particular number. Her troupe was falling down around her ears!
While a tremor rocked her pint-sized frame, Tookie scanned the backstage crowd. Spotting Hershel Broomfield, one-half of the Broomfield brothers’ comedy act, she reached out, grabbed his suspenders and pulled him into the corner.
“Where are Delilah and Molly?”
Hershel’s eyes widened until the white practically engulfed his brown irises. He’d better be fearful. She had a can of whoop ass up her sleeve. And at this point it didn’t matter who was on the receiving end.
“S–someone one from the sheriff’s office dropped by before the start of the show,” he stuttered. “Instead of telling you, both of them bailed Celeste out of the slammer.”
“Are they back yet?” Tookie asked, shaking him. She was only five feet, but she could shake a pecan tree dry with her bare hands.
Hershel nodded. “About twenty minutes ago, but it doesn’t look go—”
Before he could finish, Tookie released him so fast he stumbled backward and became entangled in the velvet stage curtains. While he righted himself, Tookie marched a mean streak to the girls’ dressing room. Celeste Newsome and jail were so synonymous, she digested the information without missing a beat.
“I should’ve let that pickled broad go years ago,” she muttered under her breath. “Nothing but trouble from the jump.”
Despite her woes with dealing with the Follies’ resident drunk, Tookie knew very well why she hadn’t canned Celeste.
Good enough for any Hollywood Studio, the twenty-something charlatan was a tap dancing dynamo and one of the Whitfield Follies’ star attractions.
So much so, Tookie made sure she featured Celeste on all of their promotional posters along with songbird Effie Bingham and Dickey Cooper’s twelve-piece band. Together, the acts guaranteed a sold-out circuit.
That didn’t mean Tookie would let the heifer get away with ruining what she’d built with her own blood, sweat and tears. With a good portion of the country unemployed, every Tom, Dick and Harry was vying for a spot on the Chitlin’ Circuit. If another theatre learned the Whitfield Follies couldn’t deliver, the entire troupe would wind up on the soup line by the end of the week.
And it would be all her fault.
For years, she’d turned a blind eye to Celeste’s insatiable thirst for hooch and male companionship. Heck, she would turn a blind eye to cold-blooded murder as long as Celeste filled theater seats. And she did, sometimes twice in one evening.
Instead of taking comfort in standing ovations and accolades, the talented young dancer lived like a demon was riding her back. As soon as the curtains closed, she high tailed it to the nearest juke joint.
Remembering the dirty little Indianola shack and the even dirtier bum whose arms she’d personally fished Celeste from last fall, a shudder racked Tookie’s solid frame.
Fed up, she’d given Celeste an ultimatum. Get clean or pack her bags and go back to Brooklyn. Her threat seemed to do the trick. Celeste pulled herself up by the bootstraps. No more showing up late for the troupe’s daily practices or not at all and no more juke joints.
But seemingly overnight, something snapped. Ever since they left St. Louis, she’d done a complete three sixty. She barely made it through last night’s performance, missed this morning’s practice and tonight’s double performances altogether.
Grown folks could do what they wanted, but when it affected Tookie’s profit margin something
had to give. She’d turned a blind eye long enough! With each circuit, Celeste’s antics had become all too common and tonight she’d become a liability.
Molly, one of Celeste’s many enablers, waited for her outside the girls’ dressing room. Tookie snorted, as if a lookout would soften her friend’s impending coup de grace. Upon spotting her, the girl shoved away from the door with the grace of a dancer.
Tall, lithe and light-skinned, the New York native could have easily found herself a spot within the higher end clubs in Manhattan like the Plantation Inn or even the Cotton Club.
But one couldn’t remain static and outrun an abusive husband. So she’d chosen the circuit three years ago. All her girls were running from something or someone, Tookie mused. Still, her past didn’t dissuade her from punishing her right along with her friend.
“Hey, Ms. Tookie,” Molly gushed. The pink staining her high cheeks made her look much younger than her twenty-nine years, which was way over the hill by show business standards. “I was looking for you.”
Tookie ignored the girl’s effusive greeting and bold-faced lie. “I’m docking you for missing tonight’s show. Now scram.”
Sputtering over the pay cut, the girl stepped aside.
Unmindful of the costumes on the floor and dressing tables dusty from too much powder, Tookie picked her way to the rear of the dressing room. Out of habit, Celeste usually took a space in the back.
“That pay cut isn’t fair, Ms. Tookie,” Molly protested, finally catching up with her. “We were just trying to help. You see—”
“Save it! I’m fed up to here,” Tookie waved her hand above her head for emphasis, “with excuses for that gal’s behavior.”
“Who would replace her? She’s the star of the show.”
Tookie hadn’t become a successful business woman without some cunning or at least a plan B or C. “She was one of the stars, but I planned on replacing her.” With the well-guarded secret lifted from her shoulders, Tookie exhaled.
On the other hand, Molly looked like she was about to suffer an epileptic seizure. “W-w-who are you replacing her with?”
“I’ve had Wilma secretly learning all of Celeste’s moves.” Yes, she was an ass, but business was business and her backup plan would save hers.
While Molly digested the news, Tookie returned to her mission. The sooner she got this over with, the sooner they could all move on.
Tookie rounded the last dressing table. And her bravado immediately fell by the waist side at the sight of her star. Garbed in a white silk dressing gown, she lay prostrate over a dressing table. Figures. She was stone cold drunk.
Tookie reached out, but she stopped, arrested by the sound of muffled sobs. In her haste, she’d missed the entire picture.
Celeste’s jet black hair partially covered her sweetheart-shaped face and her slim shoulders shook. Delilah, another enabler, sat beside her, rubbing her back and cooing words of comfort.
Tookie took a deep calming breath. She could not and would not break. Not even for a few crocodile tears and her genuine fondness for the girl. When not drinking, Celeste could be an absolute angel. Hardworking and compassionate, she never spoke an unkind word and was generous to a fault.
Once, when they came across a Negro family stranded on the highway, Celeste didn’t hesitate in giving them money for food and repairs on their car.
Remembering the girl’s charity and how it galvanized everyone in the troupe, Tookie softened her approach. Her approach altered, she pulled up a chair and sat down.
For good measure, Tookie reached inside her dress pocket and pulled out a handkerchief embroidered with yellow daisies. Her sister Ethel mailed it and several others to her for her birthday last March. Not wanting to stain the fine linen with boogers and what not, Tookie shove it back into her pocket.
Unfortunately, Delilah had witnessed Tookie’s gesture of momentary kindness because she swiped the handkerchief and thrust it into Celeste’s hand.
Met by more muffled sobs, Tookie looked to Delilah for answers. Celeste never mixed tears with booze. Loud and boisterous under the influence of alcohol, she remained the life of any party. There had to be something more to this than simply falling off the wagon.
“Celeste, honey, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong? What’s got you so down?”
Sniffing, Celeste sat up and cupped her chin in her hand. Despite the dried up tears staining her high cheek bones and the bags underscoring her dark almond shaped eyes, she remained traffic-stopping gorgeous.
When Celeste blew her nose, Tookie noticed the yellow paper balled in her fist. Stepping out on a limb, she asked, “This doesn’t have anything to do with that telegram you received the other day in Columbus?”
“Everything,” Celeste sniffled. “My daddy’s dead.”
Tookie reached out and placed her hand over one of hers. “My condolences, Sugar Foot. It hurt me something awful when my daddy pass—”
“That’s the thing,” Celeste pulled her hand free and jumped up. She executed a step heel turn to the center of the room. For someone whose pores reeked of King Kong liquor, she was pretty light on her feet. “I’m not sad.”
Tasting lemons of the sourest kind, Tookie pursed her lips. She should’ve heeded her ex-lover and mentor Beau River’s advice and taken on an all male revue. The return on a mostly female revue was huge, but when she figured in all the drama and tears, she barely broke even.
“Then why were you all over town singing the blues at the bottom of a mason jar? And why did you miss tonight’s performances?” Tookie reminded her, shelving the compassionate act.
Celeste rocked back and forth to a private melody. “Am I blue?” she asked in a sing-song tone.
“I don’t know that’s what I asked you.” Before she even finished her sentence, Tookie knew she’d been set up.
Celeste confirmed it by performing a soft shoe combination consisting of a scuff dig ball change. “Am I blueam I blue,” she sang in perfect pitch rivaling Ethel Waters herself, “maybe, but so would you, if your daddy hated you.”
Her star’s smile lost its bravado and turned watery. She opened her mouth and her words ended in a ragged sigh. Despite her shenanigans, Tookie’s heart went out to the girl. “Don’t you think hate is a little harsh, Sugar Foot?”
Celeste’s slippers slowed to a soft scrape back and forth. “From the day I screamed my way into the world and stole my mama’s last breath, my Daddy made it his business to make my life a living hell. Nothing I did was ever good enough, which meant I wasn’t good enough.”
“What about your career?” Delilah asked. “You’re one of the best on the circuit, a headliner.”
Celeste snorted. “He especially didn’t like my dancing. According to Cecil “Reverend” Newsome, I was a harlota jezebel for dancing in public. When I scored my first professional gig at the Plantation Inn, he threw me out of the house.” Celeste stopped dancing altogether. In the ensuing silence, Tookie could hear the sound of her heartbeat. “I was only fifteen,” Celeste whispered.
Both Delilah and Molly gasped. Tookie took the dancer’s confession in stride. In this line of business, tales of woe came with the territory.
Celeste started up another combination, her feet scuffing out a solemn rhythm which rivaled her sob story. “In all honesty,” she continued. “I’m mad at myself for running away all these years. And I’m mad I never told that Holier than thou son of a bitch to go to hell.”
“Everything happens for a reason,” Molly countered.
“And there’s always a rainbow at the end of a storm,” Delilah chimed in.
Tookie rolled her eyes. She’d fallen into a sappy melodrama.
Celeste paused in the middle of a riff, landing on the ball of her foot. “I do have a reason to be happy,” she acquiesced. “I’m finally going home.”
The way she worded ‘going home’ lifted the hairs on the back of Tookie’s neck. On one hand, she welcomed the news. On the other, the dancer’s departure wou
ld leave Tookie with only one star attraction for the rest of the season. And they’d only completed the first leg of a twenty-two city tour!
Tookie groaned. No amount of coaching would turn Wilma into a headliner overnight. Feeling the noose tightening around her throat Tookie asked, “So, you’re leaving the Follies?”
Not knowing she held the show’s future in her hands, Celeste shrugged. “I don’t know what tomorrow brings.” She held her hands out to Mollie and Delilah. Tweedledum and Tweedledee fell in line like sycophants. “One thing I am certain of is the bottle of Jack in my hotel room and how it should be savored with good friends.”
Tookie let them go.
With her leverage now deceased, she could no more stop Celeste intent on a bender than she could stop a runaway locomotive.
CHAPTER TWO
Two days later and shortly after midnight, Celeste Newsome arrived at Penn Station via B&O’s Capital Limited. No longer having roots in New York, she settled in with her cousin Trudy who maintained a flat in the same Brooklyn neighborhood they’d grown up in as kids.
If left up to her, Celeste would’ve dug a hole in an empty lot, thrown her father in an ole pine box and be done with it. But as a respected pillar of the community, she guessed her father deserved better than that. Thankfully, her father’s attorney had taken care of all the arrangements. All that was required of her was paying her respects.
Considering she had little respect for Cecil “The Reverend” Newsome, Celeste arrived at Friday’s wake a couple of hours late and thirty minutes shy of closing. Despite having a liver of steel, a testament to the pint of gin she guzzled down beforehand, Celeste couldn’t stomach a throng of well-wishers, heralding her with stories of her father’s generosity and compassion.
She already knew every winter he bought shoes for the homeless. That he helped open a community soup kitchen shortly after the stock market crashed. And every Christmas Eve he allowed the neighborhood children to take as much candy as they could carry.