Harmony
Harmony by Sienna Mynx
Brown sugar lassie,
Caramel treat,
Honey-gold baby
Sweet enough to eat
– Langston Hughes
Harmony
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Harmony © Copyright 2012 Sienna Mynx
Cover art by Reese Dante
Electronic book publication May 2012
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~ Forward ~
Harmony is a fictional tale based on a time in history where the arts, talents, and identities of people of color were shifting toward a renaissance of change. I chose the early 1920’s in Harlem New York as the setting for my book, because I discovered a small window of opportunity to turn fact and spin fiction. Why? As always my stories aim at creating an unlikely love affair that resonates with dramatic flare and sexual heat. However, I’m a lover of this time period. I’m a lover of Duke Ellington and Bessie Smith. I’m a lover of Langston Hughes and even Marcus Garvey. Though my story barely references these great talents, the feelings of empowerment, and creative expression was indeed an excellent muse to begin my tale from. I wanted to explore a story with characters that fictionally would be the catalyst for the changing times in Harlem during prohibition.
A wonderful book I used as reference for Harmony is The Harlem Renaissance (Hub of African American Culture 1920-1930) by Steven Watson. I suggest lovers of African American history give this book a read through. I found maps of Harlem, timelines of important events, even pictures of the Negro elite to submerge myself in the story of Harmony Jones.
I’d like to share a couple of facts versus fiction for you before you read. Harmony picks up in 1923. Prohibition was indeed a reality for the country. Sicilian mobsters, Irish and Jewish mobsters ran the underworld of bootlegging. Vincenzio Romano is fictional, but the gang wars and associations he has in this book were borrowed from events during that time.
The Cotton Club musical direction wasn’t under Duke Ellington in 1923. A man by the name of Fletch Henderson led the orchestra. Furthermore, Dutch Schultz had not moved in to claim Harlem’s dark underworld and is not referenced in this tale. After the sale of Club Deluxe by Jack Johnson to Owney Madden (while Madden was serving time in prison) Club Deluxe underwent a transformation that catered to white only clientele and perpetuated the stereotypes of black artist by even labeling jazz as ‘jungle music’. Before Dutch Schultz moved in on Harlem a black woman from Martinique named Queenie Stephanie St. Clair was twenty-six and had aligned herself with one of New York’s most notorious street gangs known as The Forty Thieves.
Think about it for a minute, because I certainly did. We’re talking about a gang, of white men who were both murderers and thieves, that has been in existence since the 1850s fell under the control of a French speaking black woman in 1920? If that doesn’t inspire the imagination what could?
Harmony touches on these events, and exaggerates the facts around the Forty Thieves and how Madame Stephanie St. Clair made ten thousand dollars to open the first numbers bank in Harlem.
Also, I want to note that the story does make references to Lucky Luciano and The Five Points Gang, along with the Sicilian mobsters of that time. Everything borrowed was done so for the fictional purpose of strengthening this tale and any similarities are solely coincidence. It’s my hope you will read this and enjoy my version of fact versus fiction. Hopefully at the end of my tale you will fall in love with Harmony and Vinnie as I did.
Sienna Mynx
One
The Blues
1923 Harlem, New York -
Milo's horn blew sultry and seductive through the swing beat. This was their music, their time, and no instrument other than the smoky wail of his saxophone could say it better. Harmony closed her eyes and let the rhythm flow through her. The melody calmed, and emboldened her in sinful ways she refused to put a name to.
“One, two, three, four,” she mumbled without parting her lips, swaying a bit behind the cover of the stage curtain—slipping into her zone. Milo’s horn demanded patience, selective timing—now she was ready.
Harmony emerged from stage left. Her stride became grace in motion. Each step set the sequined strands that dangled from her curvy hips to dazzle under the hot chorus spotlights. Milo blew sweet melodies from his sax that trailed her as she crossed in front of the all-Negro orchestra to the microphone. The lights of the club dimmed in every corner and pale faces lifted from their dinners or turned from their jovial conversations transfixed.
Ladies and gentlemen The Cotton Club presents to you, Miss Harmony Jones.
Harmony’s lips, plump as fresh plucked strawberries, drew near the magnified chrome bulb. She offered her audience a taste by joining the brass section through their warm up, her bee-bop-skat-shubbie-dee-bop riding along effortlessly. Fletcher Henderson, the bandleader, gave her the cue. Harmony extended her arms, parted her lips and her voice sailed to unattainable heights. So did her hopes. Tonight she'd send both soaring. For Harmony, fate left her little choice when it came to her chosen profession and the personal demands in her life. And thanks to The Cotton, life had improved considerably. She now lived well in the northern part of Hamilton Heights, a neighborhood referred to as Sugar Hill. Nonetheless, it never escaped her that this stage, with Milo on his horn and Stickman thrumming a bass, was where her stardom exceeded a colored girl’s dream. That's why tonight she intended to use what she’s got to get all that she needs, namely an alliance with notorious mob boss, Vincenzio Romano.
Harmony’s delivery got the band rocking before Fletch ended the jam session with Milo blowing through her intro. Her song eased in on a sexy escape of breath, sweet and low. She watched the audience through a thin veil of her lowered lashes. Inch by inch her hand eased down the microphone’s stem, her nails glistening like rubies. She was often told her beauty, whether real or perceived, under the glamour of the stage lights, was nothing compared to her voice. Even the racist gangster who'd bought Club Deluxe and renamed it The Cotton Club said the same. The man known as Owney ‘The Killer’ Madden, gave her top billing to sing what he, and those now staring at her in anticipation, called ‘jungle music’. Harmony knew different. The music of her people, jazz and all its tangled roots, came straight from the soul. Absolute, commanding, and enchanting, her voice often inspired white men to send her gifts of chocolates, perfume and dozens of her favorite roses after a single performance.
Harmony’s gaze focused past the burn of the lights. Through the pearly wave of smoke and shifting shadows, ladies all dolled up with long-stem cigarettes between gloved fingers, glared. Often this was the case. Harmony had grown used to it. The men however, were a different story. In dark crisp tuxedos, tailored, with perfectly groomed mustaches and hair neatly oiled back from their faces, she held them captive through her song.
Willie's out there. Willie needs me to see thi
s through. He’s all I’ve got. And Vinnie Romano is gonna help me dammit.
With surreptitious glances, she searched the crowd for her guy. It happened. A current of excitement rippled through the atmosphere sparking hurried movement from the doorman to the waiters, each of them looking pointedly at the other. Killer Madden dashed past the stage, breaking for the club’s entrance. Someone of importance had entered.
He’s here. It's him. Has to be.
Harmony believed tonight of all nights he’d show. Not because he was expected, but because she needed him. See Romano and she shared something. It was unspoken but each time she sang and he sat in his favorite booth and watch, she felt it. She wasn’t one to normally hang her hopes on a white man, in fact she wanted nothing to do with the lustful glares often shot her way by these mobsters. But this man was no ordinary fellow. Willie's life depended on his affinity for her songs. Harmony's gaze followed Romano as she eased into the whimsical allure of the lyrics with her voice. Dropping a little sway to her hips she ran both hands, palms flat and fingers spread, down her curves, stirring up a couple of wolf whistles from the crowd. Romano hadn’t noticed. Not yet.
Tonight would be like all others. Always the same booth, the coal-black velvet drapes parted just enough to reveal his omniscient-like presence. Romano would sit, watch, and she’d sing. Under the glare of the stage lights she'd see little. The shadows covered his face, yet she felt his eyes—a woman always does. Often from the distance his hand appeared as he gestured to someone at the table.
At The Cotton, Harmony soon became familiar with the faces of the notorious as they came and went, each vying for a moment of this most powerful gangster’s time. Mickey Collins and Madden were close. Collins imported the bootlegged liquor filling the club patron's glasses. She even believed he had something to do with how Owen Madden managed to purchase and muscle Jack Johnson out of the Deluxe. But if Collins, a reported ex-member of the Five Points Gang, was to be feared and respected for his connections to the mob, Romano’s ruthless reputation made him the god they all bowed in respect to.
Her friend, a cigarette girl by the name of Paulette, told her just days ago he had asked for her schedule one night when she was absent. It was the first time she knew her suspicions were true. Romano had eyes for her. She was sure of it. Tonight, Harmony hoped that attention would pay off.
For Willie’s sake.
Vincenzio ‘Vinnie’ Romano eased back into the soft leather of his booth seat. This club had become a habit. She was becoming his habit. Otherwise he’d stick to his own territory.
Romano wasn’t unfamiliar with the nightlife along Lenox Avenue. He grew up cracking skulls and breaking the law with his best friend Lucky around the gambling dens and brothels in Five Points. Lucky went on to become a part of the Five Points Gang. Vinnie had no intention of trying to belong. In fact he created the Black Hand, a gang that helped him earn his respect, elbows to fist all the way. His reputation was rumored to have reached his powerful father in Sicily. No one questioned his authority, at least not to his face. His Sicilian blood and being the son of Don Giuseppe Romano had sealed his destiny.
Signaling for another whiskey, Romano ignored the prattle of his kid brother and focused on the vision of beauty before him. Lately he couldn’t get Antonio to shut the fuck up about the money flowing in and out of Harlem. It was Antonio who originally brought him to the club after he had refused several invitations from Madden. The Cotton was a whites only establishment, no race mixing in or near its doors. Still Romano thought the club beneath him. That was until he saw her. He wouldn’t have paid her any mind if it weren’t for her voice, it took him by surprise when he first heard her. He wasn’t a man often surprised. After witnessing the songbird’s talents he ordered one of his men to go out and buy the best jazz records in the city.
Romano licked the bitter taste of his half smoked cigar from his lips and she drew him in. They called her Harmony. He chuckled when he first heard her stage name and discovered it was indeed her Christian name. The doll had class. He had to give her that.
Harmony’s hips swayed, her hands eased up and down her curvaceous sides as her voice went from smoky to wickedly sexy and low. Romano leaned forward, Harmony was in rare form tonight—and something was different. Sweetheart was singing to him. He was sure of it. Songbird was looking him directly in the eye. He liked that.
What a dame.
Medium in height with skin sepia brown as if brushed with ginger, Harmony Jones had full succulent red lips that made him lick his own. Her cheekbones were high on her heart shaped face. A distinct feature that made her almond shaped eyes slant and disappear under dark lashes when she flashed a coy smile through her performance. And her trademark was always present in her dark wavy hair. A white rose, pinned behind her right ear. She sang of desire. How she burned for more. And she dressed the part. Demure from the front but unashamedly provocative when she turned to the orchestra and revealed the low cut back. Tonight her clingy garment was the deepest shade of purple and seemed to sparkle with violet lights as if the most precious stones were woven into the thin fabric. A sweetheart-shaped bodice separated and lifted her ample breasts upward. What a rack! Romano was a breast man; she was full in the hips and chest, as he liked his women.
Harmony’s shifting loose sequined hem flattered her legs. When Harmony moved, and her hips often did in time with the melody, it provoked every man in the place to wonder about the softness between those thighs. Romano held back. Taboo barriers between coloreds and whites didn’t mean shit to him. If he wanted anything or any woman, the rules never applied. No. Romano held back for his own reasons. Boredom would set in when a conquest became too easy, especially after a dame's submission made her think his prominence meant something profitable for her. He'd rather worship this beauty, untouched, from afar. Still he wasn’t a man to be teased, and his songbird was tempting the beast in him tonight.
“So as I was saying,” Antonio’s nasal drone mowed down his wandering thoughts.
Romano dropped his gaze over to his second in command. “What? What were you saying?”
Antonio Romano was short, and thin, with a scar that ran from his left brow down to the middle of his cheek thanks to a nasty childhood knife fight. Antonio wasn’t a thinker. He was a doer, and without the strong hand of his older brother he would have wound up on the same path as any stick-up man with a trigger-happy temper.
“Out with it.” Romano said.
Antonio cleared his throat. “Collins’s on the level. He’s square. This I know for sure. Take a look around Vinnie. This joint is tops. Cops don’t bother Madden, and the booze is constantly flowing. Give me the okay and we can own this scene. All of it Vinnie, the numbers banks, I’m talking top to bottom… it’s prime for picking, Harlem and all.”
“You feeding me a line?” asked Romano.
“No. I’m just weighing in is all. I got the right to speak my mind. This isn’t Sicily. Papa has no say in the men we become or the way you do things. Still we’re blood, and we’re in this together. Hey, forget about it. What do we need with Harlem? Bronx’s doing alright.” Antonio took a quick sip of his drink, his gaze bounced from his brother’s ashtray to his watchful stare. Romano could smell a setup. His brother stunk of it.
“You’re restless little brother. I see it. Doesn’t mean I have to act on it. You got rights? You have the rights and privileges I say. Capice?” Romano asked.
Antonio’s jaw tensed. Romano eyed him, waiting. His brother didn’t respond. He threw back the last of his whiskey then slammed the glass on the table. “Hey toots!” he barked at the cigarette girl. “Get a wiggle on over here. Will ya?”
The leggy toffee brown skinned brunette walked over in fishnet stockings and a corset with her tits packed tight in the front like cantaloupes. Around her neck hung a cigarette case. Romano’s eyes cut past them both to Mickey Collins off at the bar. Mickey lifted his glass to him. So now Collins had Antonio making his case? Romano smirked. There wa
s something to it.
The foxy brunette flicked her lighter, sparking a flame that burned down the tip of Antonio’s ciggy. She cut her hazel brown oval eyes over to the mob boss. “Mr. Romano, what can I do you for—cigar, cigarette?” She dipped so he could get a full view of her wares accentuated by her breasts.
Antonio leaned out of the booth. His eyes did a slow climb up her legs and under the ruffled hem of her chorus-girl skirt. He exhaled a wave of smoke from his nostrils and smiled in approval. Paulette ignored Antonio. She flicked her golden lighter open and leaned in to ignite Romano’s cigar. Standing upright, the brunette struggled to hide her disappointment.
“You new?” asked Antonio.
She blinked her reply, turned her boobs to his line of view. “No sir. They call me Paulette, I’m tall, tan and terrific!” she said. It was a canned response that the girls must all say in greeting.
“Yea well beat it, Paulie. Can’t ya see we discussing business here?”
Paulette made a quick exit. Antonio chuckled. “Check out the gams on that dame,” he said with a sly grin. “Always been a leg man. Not into dark meat though.”