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From: Desdmona22@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} A Canary Sings (MF, mast, viol) by Desdmona
Lines: 542
Date: Wed, 28 Jun 2006 13:10:01 -0400
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This story first appeared at Ruthie's Club (_www.ruthiesclub.com_ 
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com) ) and
then was accepted at _http://www.pulperotica.com_ 
(http://www.pulperotica.com) 
 
**********************************************
It's 1950. Most men got nothing to do but go to work, go
home, go to bed  and wake up to start it all over again. But
what if he can find a diversion?  Something, or someone to
fill his fantasies.
 
**********************************************
A Canary Sings
by  Desdmona Dodd
 
 
I'm drawn inside this particular night club by libido. The
chanteuse is  the prettiest caged canary in town. She sings
her lungs out but never gets  anywhere. I come here for her.
I come alone. I've got a wife at home, but  Mitsy's idea of a
night out is a PTA meeting or dinner with a couple as  boring
as me and her. Mitsy's never in black lace, and her singing
voice  could break an ear drum.
 
Charlene Wells wears black lace like it was tatted on her
frame. She  spills out of it in all the right places, and
when she opens her mouth, she  makes a man forget he's
nothing but a two-bit factory worker in a sad sack  town.
She's older than me by a few years, but not so many that  it
shows.
 
I keep my seat at the bar, near the piano and stage. It's
ten o'clock. I  should have been home at nine, but Charlene
has promised a second set tonight  in honor of a special
occasion. The occasion I don't know about. It's just  a
regular Tuesday in a regular week in January for me. But a
second set of  songs and a chance to stare at her body is
enough to make it an occasion for  me too.
 
I order another drink: bourbon, neat. With the first gulp,
the fire to  my gut simmers to a steady burn. The chill of
winter can't touch me and guilt  goes quietly to sleep,
resting up for later when I'm at home in bed next to  Mitsy.
 
The bartender is new. He glances my way but only to check
the level of  hooch in my glass. He figures I'm money in the
bank. He wants to keep me  happy. But it's not in him. I'm
not here for the booze-I could take it or  leave it. I'm here
for the dame.
 
As if on cue, Charlene steps out from behind the curtain.
She has  replaced her regular black lace with red velvet, but
the curves are all the  same, just softer and sleeker. Her
blond hair is pinned up, exposing a neck  that teases a man
about kissing it.
 
"I want to thank you all for sticking around tonight," she
coos.
 
I don't have to look around to know that "you all" is me, a
couple of  other regulars concentrating on the pool table, a
meatball here and there,  and the bartender. I like an
unpacked house. It lets me imagine Charlene's  words of love
and torment are meant for only me, and when she makes  love
to her microphone, cradling the old Western Electric like
it's a  prized possession, she's thinking exactly what I'm
thinking.
 
The piano man tinkles out the opening bars of the first
song, and  Charlene Wells licks her lips, leaving them parted
and ready. A stir in the  glory pole says I'm ready too.
 
She gives a wink of recognition but appears to forget me as
she closes  her eyes and slides into the song. She's an angel
in every respect, and I've  been lucky enough to watch her
sing for over six months.
 
The words don't explode from her mouth. They seep out like
they're  hesitant to leave the warmth of her lungs. Her tits
swell with the intake of  breath and threaten the seams of
the red velvet. I'm so engrossed, I don't  notice the man who
nabs the barstool closest to mine. Not until he  interrupts
my fantasy.
 
"She's something, ain't she?" He's at my back and anger
rumbles inside  of me.
 
*Shut the fuck up,* I want to say, but I just grunt and refuse
to look  at him.
 
He's determined. "I've seen you in here a few times catching
her act."  He's been drinking. The smell of rancid breath
lingers in the air long after  he's spoken.
 
"And I don't want to miss it this time, buster," I snarl.
 
"You ain't missing nothing. You can still see her fine."
 
"Yeah, but all I hear is the annoying little shit behind
me." I turn  around to let the joker know I mean business. I
get a surprise. The kid is  younger than me, maybe twenty. A
good dose of alcohol has probably aged him.  He's blond, hair
light enough to look almost white. The room is dark  and
shadows dart around his eyes, but the green of them is
unmistakable.  The only other person with eyes that color is
easing into the chorus of  "Tangerine."
 
"Can't miss the resemblance, can you?"
 
"Not easily."
 
"She's my sister."
 
The brother is almost as pretty. Except for a missing tooth
when he  smirks, he would be. I turn back to face the stage
and Charlene. Brother or  not, it's Charlene I want to hear,
not him. But being rude would indirectly  offend the sister.
I compromise.
 
"Your sister can sure sing," I toss over my shoulder.
 
"She's got lots of talents." His tone is seedy, and I
suddenly wonder  why I've never seen Charlene's brother in
here before. But I don't pursue it.  Charlene has looked our
way. There isn't fear in her eyes, but  there's
something-disappointment, resignation-something. She keeps
singing  and tries to look around the joint, but her gaze
keeps slipping back to me  and her brother.
 
"She's sort of keen on you," he says. "I can tell."
 
I'm starting to boil now. I want him to shut up. "Maybe it's
you that's  making her nervous."
 
"Maybe."
 
And then he's quiet, as if he senses I'm about to blow. I
listen  uninterrupted through the next song and mostly
through the one after that.  Then Brother is tapping on my
shoulder again.
 
"I can arrange something, you know, after the show."
 
This gets my attention. "You're a real piece of work, bub.
She's your  sister. Don't you have any respect?" But inside
my head I'm remembering the  last six months-slipping out of
the house, telling Mitsy I'm with the boys,  letting her know
I'm the man of the house and I'll go out if I want  to-all
just to sit and listen to Charlene Wells sing. Brother's
offer  takes a seat in my brain.
 
"You got a couple of songs to think about it. It doesn't
come  cheap."
 
I try to ignore him, but my hand, almost on its own, slips
in my pocket,  fingering my money clip. The greenbacks are
thick enough to let a glimmer of  hope shine.
 
Charlene stretches an arm over the top of the upright piano
and presses  her hip to its side. She's crooning a slow tune
full of sex and innuendo,  emitting enough heat to put the
wood in danger.
 
"Tonight, we love in the glow," come her words. "We touch
the  sky."
 
I'm being played. I know it, but I'm not sure by whom.
Brother has an  agenda, but what about Charlene? I don't want
to think of her as a player.  She's an angel. My angel in
red.
 
"If she touches her titty it means she's okaying the
prospect."  Brother's words feel like the devil's breath
against the back of my  neck.
 
I watch her arm on the upright, willing it to move to her
breast. She  doesn't disappoint. Her hand glides off the
piano and finds the red velvet  hugging her shoulder. My
heart races. I focus on her ruby-tipped fingers.  They dance
down the front of her chest, smoothing the velvet and
showing  the pattern of the nape over her tit.
 
"You're in, mister. Easy greasy."
 
I flinch when Brother chuckles. His laugh is clear, like a
kid's laugh,  except there's no innocence in the sound. He
leaves, and the weight of him,  that has never touched me,
feels like it's been lifted away. I glance at  Charlene. She
winks, but she doesn't smile. So she's not an angel.  It
makes my choice easier.
 
I miss the canary's last song to make my way to the
payphone. I dial and  wonder if Mitsy has ever been dressed
to the nines-maybe at our wedding.  After the first ring, I
think about my money. No sense in giving it all away.  I
separate it and tuck a bit of it inside my sock. Mitsy
answers on the  fourth ring.
 
"What took you so long?" I ask.
 
"I was sweeping the floor."
 
"Yeah, okay. I'm going to be really late tonight, Mitsy. Go
to  bed."
 
"But I made you dinner," she whines. Mitsy has her talents
too. They all  center around housework and the kitchen.
 
Guilt yawns and almost comes full awake. "So wrap it up for
lunch  tomorrow," I tell her.
 
"Oh, okay. That's a good idea," she says, happy that her
meal won't go  to waste. Her easy acquiescing rocks my guilt
back to sleep.
 
I hang up just in time to catch the last of Charlene's act.
I glance  around for her brother. He's standing on the
opposite side of the bar and  nods at me with the drink in
his hand.
 
"This is my last night here," Charlene is saying as I settle
back into  my seat. So that's the occasion. I should have
known it wouldn't be a happy  event. Life isn't that good.
 
A few "ahs" come from the pool players, but no one else
seems to be  upset by the news. I would have been, if there
weren't the promise of one  final act still on my horizon.
Charlene throws me a kiss and turns to leave.  I look around,
wondering if I'm supposed to follow her. The bartender  is
shining his glasses. The pool players have racked up another
round, and  the few other stragglers in the joint have lost
interest in the stage. I take  the indifference as a sign and
trail along after her. Just as I reach the  side door where
Charlene has gone, there's a jerk on my arm. Brother.
 
"Pay first, mister."
 
I turn around, fists clenched at my sides. I want to pop him
one, knock  him good for treating his sister with such
contempt, but I know I'm just as  bad.
 
"Maybe we should see how your sister feels about this deal,"
I  say.
 
"Don't worry, she's jake." He unbuttons his suit jacket and
a snub-nosed  brownie glints at his side. He's taller than
me, maybe stronger because of  his age. I don't feel like
testing the theory. I reach into my trouser pocket  and pull
out the moderate wad of cash I hadn't removed from my money
clip.  The remainder of my simoleons scratches at my ankle
inside my sock. I can be  played, but on my own terms.
 
Brother grabs the money clip and counts the cash. He doesn't
smile when  he's done. He just turns and walks away. I watch
his back long enough to know  he's buttoned the jacket back
up, ready to move on to the next mark.
 
The small hallway behind the door leads to one room. The
door is open.  Charlene sits in front of a vanity. I enter
and she looks at me through the  reflection in the mirror.
 
"My biggest fan," she says. "You almost waited too long to
come back  stage."
 
I shut the door. "I didn't know I'd be so welcome."
 
She smiles and it's nothing like her brother's. It reaches
her eyes.  "Dickie told you to come back here, didn't he?"
 
"Dickie your brother?"
 
"Yes. I saw him sitting near you."
 
"He paved the way, so to speak."
 
She glances down at the powder puff in her hand. "He's here
to take me  home."
 
"You seem a little old to be dragged home if you don't want
to  go."
 
She doesn't answer, but when she looks up again, tears fill
her eyes.  "It's a long story," she says.
 
"I got a minute."
 
"You're nice." Not so very, I think, but I let her believe
it. We can  both get by pretending there are no cracks in our
reality. "My mother's ill,"  she says, but the tears are
suddenly dry.
 
"You don't seem too worried."
 
She shrugs and the red velvet slips at her shoulder, showing
a hint more  of skin. "She's always ill with one thing or
another."
 
"But this time you're going home because of it?" I have the
urge to beg  her to stay, but it's not my place. I'm just the
guy in the audience. I never  knew she had a mother before
this moment.
 
"Dickie says I have to."
 
"Odd that a big sister gives in to a little brother."
 
She shrugs again but this time the velvet stays in place.
The rhinestone  at her ear catches the light. "Family. What
are you going to do?"
 
I nod and the quiet between us grows uncomfortable. I figure
it's time  to get down to business. I've done a lot of bad
things in my life, but paying  for sex has never been one of
them. I'm not sure how to go about it. I flop  around like a
seal with a fish.
 
"This is new for me" I finally spurt out.
 
"Coming back stage?"
 
I can't tell if she means the pun or not. But I suddenly
feel bolder.  "Can I kiss you?"
 
"Does this mean you're going to miss me?"
 
"Absolutely."
 
She rises from her padded bench and floats over. The hem of
the red  velvet swishes on the floor. Up close, her curves
are even more defined. I  stare hard at her cleavage as she
moves. Her tits bounce against one another,  fighting for
space. Just as she reaches me, I get a flash of deep  pink
nipple.
 
"Like what you see?"
 
I look in her eyes. The age difference shows a little more
under the  fluorescent bulb. "Absolutely," I say.
 
She doesn't wait. She presses her body against me and raises
her face to  mine. Kohl around her eyes highlights the green
irises. As if they need  highlighting. This color of green
should be illegal-it's a drug no man can  resist. Her lips
touch mine and it tickles. The faint smell of  perspiration
clings to her upper lip. Singing must be hard work.
 
I wrap my arms around her. She tenses but relaxes when I
loosen my hold.  The kiss is sisterly. No tongue. No
lingering. Just a pat of lips.  Disappointing. I grip her a
little harder again and force my tongue in her  closed mouth.
She struggles, pushes against my chest, but it's a  weak
attempt. I kiss her with six months of pent-up lust. When I
finally  pull my mouth from hers, she swipes at her lips and
backs away.
 
"That was some kiss," she says.
 
"Might as well do things right."
 
"Well, thank you for coming to see me night after night. I
don't know  what it would have been like not to see you
sitting out there." She turns  toward her vanity.
 
I'm beginning to see the scam. "That's it?"
 
She turns around. "What do you mean?"
 
"The money I paid your brother. It was for a single kiss?"
 
"I don't know what you're talking about."
 
"Sure sister."
 
"You paid money to Dickie?"
 
I remember how she rubbed her tit as she sang-the signal to
Dickie that  she is okay with the deal. I think about the
winks and the kiss she blew.  She's never done any of these
things before tonight. "Emptied my money clip,"  I tell her.
 
"Well, I don't know what you think you were paying for."
 
"A hell of a lot more than a kiss, that's for damn sure."
 
Her smile is gone. "You're out of luck." She whips around
toward her  vanity.
 
I grab her arm and pull her to me. Her breathing is ragged.
"I make my  own luck," I say and rip the bodice of the red
velvet. Her tits bounce free,  full and pale. She tries to
cover herself, but I'm holding her arm and her  hand can't
quite reach the nipple that's hardening. She uses the other
arm  to stretch across her chest, but something inside her
snaps and she flings  the arm down to her side. The gaping
material falls open completely. I loosen  my grip and let go.
 
"Go ahead," she says. "You won't be the first man to force
himself on  me."
 
For a moment I almost believe she's not in on the scam, but
the moment  passes. "It isn't force when you and Dickie set a
fellow up. It's getting  what I'm owed."
 
"It's Dickie who owes you. Not me."
 
She could run. I'm not holding her. But she doesn't. She
stands there  exposed. Her hair is mussed and the lipstick is
smeared from our kiss. But  the eyes are clear. No tears. No
deceit. She's suddenly the angel  again.
 
"Sing," I tell her.
 
"What?"
 
"Sing. That's what I really want."
 
Her hand flutters to her neck, and a pretty blush rises on
her  skin.
 
"But do it naked."
 
She hesitates. But then slips the shred of velvet off her
shoulders and  down over her hips. She's wearing garters and
stockings but no panties. The  dress pools at her feet like a
spent flower. She stands up tall. Her mound is  dusted with
down, and the pink of her sex matches the pink of  her
nipples.
 
The first note is weak, but every note after is clear and
strong. I'm  hard as stone. I unzip my pants and let my cock
breathe. She doesn't falter.  She reaches the chorus, and I
wrap my hand around my shaft. The second verse  and I'm
rubbing furiously, heading for her big finish. The chorus
again  and she changes tempo, faster and higher, trilling the
notes. The end is near  and her voice gains force, building
up the scale. The last note rings out and  my spunk finds the
floor.
 
Her body glows. Dew glistens between her legs. "Come here,"
she  whispers, opening her legs and arms to embrace me. She's
hot and ready.
 
The pool of my liquid on the floor makes me think of Mitsy.
She would  have been bustling to clean up the mess. "I don't
think so, doll." I tuck my  johnson into my pants and zip up
my trousers. "An ordinary man just can't  fuck an angel," I
say, and I walk out.
 
I turn toward the door to the stage but it's blocked.
Brother  again.
 
"Quick on the trigger, eh?"
 
He's a punk, the kind that thinks life is only for him. But
I can play  his game. "I got what I wanted," I tell him.
 
He's leaning against the stage door, picking at his teeth.
"No  complaints?"
 
"None," I say and move to pass him.
 
"Then I'll be taking the rest of that cash you've got
stuffed away." His  words are smooth and gentle, as if he
were asking for the time of day and was  sorry for it. I try
to ignore him, keep on moving, but suddenly his gun  is
jamming into my mid-section trying to burrow through to the
other side.  Maybe I *can't* play his games. I'd forgotten
about the brownie.
 
"Dickie." It's Charlene come to join us in the hallway. The
red velvet  has been replaced with a dingy bathrobe, and
she's taken the pins from her  hair, but she still looks like
an angel. "Leave him be, Dickie."
 
"He's a welcher, sis. He stuffed a bunch of currency in his
sock." The  nose of the brownie pokes a little more against
my ribs. "I figure it's his  way of saying you ain't worth
it."
 
"Take it," I tell him. Not so much because of the gun, but
because it  isn't true. She is worth it. I reach for the cash
and the gun explodes. I  hear it but I don't feel anything.
I've been hit. "You're shot," my brain is  saying, but I have
this flash of it's not so bad. And then I'm on the floor.  My
legs are tingling and twitching as if I'm kicking the dust
at home  plate. But still, I feel nothing
 
"You didn't have to shoot him, Dickie. He was giving you  the
cash."
 
"I told him you didn't come cheap, sis. And I meant it."
 
And there it is- a hot ice pick stabbing into me. I want to
take a deep  breath, but I can't. A blistering numbness
spreads inside of me like a  chocolate bar melting on hot
pavement and suddenly, the pain intensifies. It  stretches so
fast I don't know where the bullet went in. My side? My
back?  I can't breathe. It must be my chest. I bring my hand
to my chest, my arm  must weigh a hundred pounds, only to
find hot liquid gurgling out of a gaping  hole burned clear
through my clothes. Damn! *Can Mitsy sew a bullet  hole?*
 
Charlene leans over me, her hair loose and touching my face.
*But  where's her halo?  She should have a God-damned halo.*
 
"I think you killed him, Dickie. We've got to get out of
here." The  chanteuse's words are muffled like she's talking
with the microphone lodged  in her mouth.
 
I want to touch her, stroke her beautiful hair, listen to
her sing.  She's my angel. But there's no halo.
 
No halo.
 
*I should have fucked her.*
 
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