Anything Goes

by Cathryn Cooper

  ANYTHING GOES

  by

  CATHRYN COOPER

  Anything Goes first published in 1998 by Headline Book Publishing. Published as an eBook in 2013 by Chimera eBooks.

  ePub ISBN 9781780803418

  mobi ISBN 9781780803425

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Chimera (ki-mir'a, ki-) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy.

  New authors are always welcome, or if you’re already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to hear from you.

  This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright Cathryn Cooper. The right of Cathryn Cooper to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

  Prologue

  The Catnip Club is no more, sad to say. There's a restaurant there now with a pretty courtyard and a band that plays modern jazz to foreign tourists.

  Sophistication, coupled with decadent debauchery, might seem to be modern words invented by the faster, sexually hedonistic people of the late twentieth century. But these people drinking mint julep and ordering deep-fried chicken are fooling themselves. Although their eyes and cameras capture what they can of the old Latin Quarter of New Orleans, they cannot recreate the full flavour of what it used to be.

  Only if you dip deep into your imagination and block out the sound of synthetic jazz do you catch the last echoes of another time.

  Back in the twenties, the Catnip Club was a place of blue smoke, sensuality you could taste, and throbbing music that was so raw you could almost cut it with a saw-edged knife.

  The rule was 'anything goes'. And anything did. These are the stories of those who tasted life and love, both the decadent and the sophisticated.

  Chapter 1

  It was a warm March day in 1925 when Shirley Anne Potter packed her best underwear and two decent outfits in a well-worn carpet bag that might have been brought to Louisiana by some white, Yankee ancestor.

  Family history was the last thing on her mind on that warm day when the cotton buds were sprouting and powder-puff clouds were already skidding across the dawn sky. Her present life was what really mattered. Her mind was made up, but leaving wasn't easy.

  Errol was still sleeping, his curly hair shining blue-black against the pillow.

  I'm sure going to miss him, Shirley Anne thought sadly, her eyes raking the lean brown form slumbering naked on the bed. His skin gleamed with a patina of sweat due partly to the high humidity so prevalent in Louisiana, and partly as a result of what they had done together just a few hours ago.

  'My, but you're one helluva lover,' she whispered. She hugged herself in an effort to recapture the feel of his limbs entwined with hers, the hardness of his chest and his groin as he'd pinned her to the bed.

  Swallowing a heartfelt sigh, she studied him, determined to memorise every glistening muscle, every curve, every indent of his body.

  Black lashes fluttered in response to some secret dream he was having. There was a certain pinkness beneath the dark skin of his cheeks, a moist shininess on his upper lip.

  She breathed in his scent, the smell of his body tempting her own. The urge to go back to bed and curve the front of her body against the back of his was incredibly strong. It was a mighty temptation. Yet if she was to seek fame and fortune in New Orleans, she had to leave him like this, in secret.

  Confrontation had always been something she tried to avoid. Not that angry words would have lasted long. They would soon have been replaced by a kiss, then a caress. In no time at all, her body would have fallen slave to her own sexuality. She knew he would have persuaded her to stay. It would have been so easy.

  No, she insisted. Look at him while you can. Remember him exactly as he is now.

  His flesh was firm and devoid of body hair except for the nest of crinkled blackness between his thighs. From amid the hair, his penis lay; soft now and curled to one side, sleeping like the rest of his body.

  Like a snake, she thought to herself with a smile. Like a dark brown, one-eyed snake, layered in upon itself. Without form. Without life.

  When she was with him, though, it woke up; became a thing of power, of rippling muscle and thumping blood.

  Last night, in the midst of fervent passion, he'd said he loved her. She'd believed him, yet, even as his hands had caressed her breasts and played fast and loose with her nipples, she had only moaned her delight. Not once had she told him about leaving for New Orleans; about seeing a world other than that surrounding the deep, dark bayous of Southern Louisiana.

  Thinking of his hands on her breasts made her shudder. For a moment her resolve left her. She reached out to touch the dark waves that feathered over the nape of his neck. But her other need, the one to be somebody, to taste the excitement of the outside world, was too strong.

  'Hell,' she whispered to herself. 'Do you want to be buried here forever? Your skin's peachy soft right now, but what about when it's as cracked as some old apple left at the bottom of the barrel?'

  The analogy wasn't lost on her. Memories, she thought, would be the only salve to soothe those crinkled lines, and she had a strong yearning for some real hot memories to savour in her old age. New Orleans it had to be.

  She pulled her hand back, bent down and picked up her bag. In the other she carried her best shoes that were black patent and very strappy. She must make no noise. 'Goodbye,' she said softly, turning one more time to gaze on the man she had known and loved all her life.

  She didn't cry until she got to the bus stop, and she didn't realise she was still going barefoot until she tried to pay the driver and her shoes got in the way.

  Chapter 2

  Jungle rhythms screamed and pounded from beneath Shirley Anne's feet as the blues band in the club below belted out their first number. The vibrations shuddered across the floor, crept up her calves and made her thighs and her buttocks tremble. Even the delicate fabric of her underwear shivered against her flesh. She was aware that her breasts were quivering like two jellies just turned out from their moulds, but she was none too concerned about that.

  The man who owned the club was walking around her, circles getting smaller as he got closer, and his scent getting stronger.

  She liked his scent. Liked him too. Couldn't help holding her shoulders back so that her nipples pressed against the thin fabric of her dress. Couldn't help arching her spine so that the seams strained against the opulent voluptuousness of her buttocks.

  Half hidden behind dark lashes, her eyes followed his progress. There was a certain arrogance to the way he held himself. His chin was high. His eyes regarded her from either side of an aquiline nose that ended in flaring nostrils. He moved gracefully, and yet she detected something else beneath the suave, sophisticated surface. Something more vigorous. Something deeply decadent.

  He was a handsome man, this Rene Brabonne who owned the Catnip Club. He was dark and sleek in his well-made clothes. He had the air of someone sure of his position, sure of his roots.

  Because he wore no jacket, she could discern the shape of his arms beneath his cotton shirt. His bright mustard vest wrestled with the muscle
s of his chest. Its silk back gleamed with the effort of containing the understated muscularity of his body. He was lithe rather than broad.

  She trembled with anticipation as he came to a standstill in front of her and a mix of maleness, cologne and other silk seemed to envelope her.

  At first, her heart quaked at his closeness. A kind of fear made her direct her gaze at the floor which still trembled with the music from the club below.

  But why was she doing this? It was as if she was not permitted to look at him. He could only look at her.

  A well of sudden defiance rose within her. I'm his equal, she thought. Holding herself that much more erect, she tilted her chin, turned her head. Boldly, her dark green eyes looked into his.

  He smiled; almost as if he understood why she was looking at him that way. His eyes twinkled, like stars, she thought, stars fashioned from steel.

  'What is your name, cherie?' His voice was deep, warm and tinged with the lilt of Louisiana Cajun that sounded as if it was struggling to be Parisienne French.

  'Shirley Anne Potter, sir.'

  'So what are you doing in New Orleans?'

  The chill grey eyes of Rene Brabonne seemed never once to leave Shirley Anne's face, and yet her body trembled with the sure knowledge he had scrutinised the darkness of her hair, the creaminess of her skin, and the odd green lustre of her eyes.

  Chin held high, she met his gaze.

  'I needed a different life. I decided to come to New Orleans to get it.'

  He nodded slowly. At the same time he blew a puff of smoke, then immediately slipped the cigar he was smoking between his teeth, chewing it as he moved away from her and sat himself down in a big leather chair behind an equally large cedar desk. He narrowed his eyes, and for a moment Shirley Anne was sure she could read his thoughts. There was lust there alongside something else she found difficult to understand.

  He took the cigar from his mouth. 'Your looks could be your fortune, Shirley Anne, but that is not enough for the patrons of the Catnip Club. And it is not enough for me. There are too many delightful young women who rely on their bodies alone to make their fortune for them. I want more than that, so, if your voice matches your looks, I can take you on. Can you sing?'

  A flock of nervous butterflies seemed to take flight in Shirley Anne's stomach. Sing? Of course she could sing. She nodded.

  'Yes. I used to sing in Church. In the choir. Sometimes solo.'

  Rene chuckled. 'We do not indulge in too much church music here, cherie, though some feel their sins are so great they have a need to attend confession now and again. We do have a chorus of singing dancers. But I discern that you might be more than that. Am I right, Shirley Anne?'

  A look of panic crossed Shirley Anne's face. Would the smooth voice that had charmed a church congregation charm the more sophisticated clientele of the Catnip Club? What would she do if he didn't like it?

  Rene, seeing her anguished expression, got up from his chair and came to stand beside her. Without him touching her, she could feel the warmth of his body. Yet at the same time she wanted to feel him more closely.

  'Do not be nervous, cherie. What else can you sing?' Days roaming through swamp grass and drifting on water passed through Shirley Anne's mind. At the same time, so did a song, a deep, resonant song that Errol had written himself and taught only to her. Her voice rang out, full of emotion, full of soul, and strangely suiting the tempo of the band that played in the club downstairs.

  'My, my, my green-eyed womannnn,

  Where, where, where have you been.

  You left me sittin' lonely here,

  Cheatin' girl, you bin seen...'

  Barely a verse had escaped from her throat before Rene's hand was resting on her ribcage. She started, her voice breaking a little. But she saw Rene was smiling at her, his eyes twinkling, his darkly oiled moustache seeming to smile along with his mouth. She understood his intentions. He was feeling for the source of her song, assessing the way she breathed as it burst from her throat.

  When the song came to an end, he hooked a thumb in the fob pocket of the pale mustard vest he was wearing. It was old but made of good stuff. Shirley Anne knew decent quality when she saw it.

  'Your voice is as astonishing as your looks. It comes from deep inside. I can feel its strength - here.' He patted then pressed the concave area beneath her ribs.

  Shirley Anne willed her empty stomach not to rumble.

  She breathed more easily when Rene's free hand caressed her cheek. 'Creole. Mulatto,' he said, his voice suddenly dreamy. 'A mix of classical European and a hint of darkest, wildest Africa. Intoxicating.'

  She looked into his eyes. What was it she could see there? Was she really as gifted with the second sight as her mother had said she was? Perhaps, but only when someone looked at her in a certain way could she really see what was in a man's thoughts. Like now. With Rene Brabonne. The image she saw in his mind frightened her. She could see her naked body stretched out, arms high above her head, chained to a wall, a whip reddening her flesh. She could almost feel his teeth upon her breasts and the thrust of his pelvis grinding against hers. She flushed at the thought of it.

  Rene laughed, misinterpreting the reason for her sudden show of bashfulness.

  'Please, don't be embarrassed. I am merely expressing my admiration for such a uniquely beautiful young woman. You're not frightened of me are you?' he asked.

  Shirley Anne hesitated before answering. I need him, she thought. But at the same time she warned herself to be careful.

  'No,' she whispered.

  Again he placed his hand upon her ribcage. She did not protest. Her stomach muscles merely tensed as she waited for him to say the right words, the ones she wanted to hear.

  'You will do me very well. I can even offer you accommodation. I own a house on St Pierre Boulevard. There is an upstairs apartment available there. I am sure you will be very comfortable.'

  'I've got the job?'

  She almost screeched the words. At the same time the music from the club below reached a startling crescendo. Horn, sax and trombone collided in ear-splitting harmony. They sounded as if they were celebrating - like her.

  Shirley Anne Potter was very pleased with herself. Two weeks had passed since arriving in New Orleans. One look at her and the mistresses of great houses had declined her services - especially once their husbands had seen her and expressed their enthusiasm that she be immediately employed.

  Desperation had made her seek work in the French Quarter where the first job was offered by an angular black man wearing a white suit and gold teeth. He'd wanted a naked woman to suspend in a cage over the bar of a club he owned. 'A very special club,' he had told her. Two girls had wandered in dressed in black stockings, rubber corsets, and some kind of strap-like affair around their youthful breasts. Their nipples were painted gold. Shirley Anne had declined his offer.

  'Come back if you're desperate,' he'd called out.

  The entrance to the Catnip Club had looked the most inviting.

  'There is just one problem,' Rene went on as he cupped her face in his hands.

  Wide-eyed, she looked fearfully up into a face that seemed perpetually to be smiling, lashes like falls of soot around the brightness of his eyes.

  'Your name,' he said softly.

  He kissed her lips. A shiver went through her. It was as if the touch of his mouth had frozen out the memory of the man she had left behind.

  'My name?' Her voice quivered as she breathed in the smell of him.

  'The name Shirley. It is not a suitable name for a singer at the Catnip Club, ma cherie.'

  He cocked his head to one side, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

  'That is it, of course. Sheree. A mixture of Shirley and cherie. My dear. My dear one. How does that suit you?'

  The butterflies in her belly were going crazy now. She could only nod, her eyes bright with excitement as she gazed at the man who had offered her a future.

  'And I sing with the band?'

&nbs
p; At the exact moment he answered, the sound of a slow-playing blues trombone came up from the club below and was joined by the higher notes of an equally sad trumpet.

  Rene swayed, eyes half closed as the music drifted up into the room.

  'They're real good,' she said. She meant it. She only hoped with all her heart that her voice would do them justice.

  Rene opened his eyes. There was a look of reverence in them. His voice was low; sincere. 'Max and his band are good. Max is the best horn player there is. It's because there's a sadness in him.'

  Chapter 3

  Everyone had gone home and Max was alone and pretending he was somewhere else when Stacey, Rene's wife found him.

  Hell, he thought to himself, and pretended he hadn't seen her. Instead, he sat himself down on the stage where the darkness was deepest, closed his eyes and lost his soul in his music.

  The wail of his trumpet seemed to weave around the legs of the upturned chairs and dance a little with what remained of the cigarette smoke. It also clung to the Art-Deco mirrors along with the chips of blood-red glass that were fashioned into wild fruit decorating the frames. In turn the fruit clung to the figures of naked naiads that represented the seasons and the passions of men. Rome and Athens had given birth to such manifestations, and yet, like everything else, world over, they didn't seem out of place in the rich, thick pudding that was New Orleans.

  'Feeling that sad, huh?'

  Like a tall, sleek lily, she leaned against a pillar and sucked on her cigarette holder. With sultry eyes that looked as if they had seen everything, yet wanted to see more, she studied the big black man whose eyes were as sad as his music.