a selection from - RUEBI LIPZ - A Tale of Gin, Jazz, and Murder

 The Ruebi Room, which could comfortably hold roughly sixty patrons, was jammed with at least eighty, for it was Satyrday night, and nearing ten p.m. - and the flotsamed and jetsamed denizens of the "low-class" end of Queensville were reaching the frenzied point of trying to find something- anything- in an attempt to distract themselves from the recognition that their lives were made of-and for- ordinariness.

The hum and buzz of the meaningless words of too many people, all competeing to say nothing at the same time, set the very air of the over-crowded room thrumming. The droning din was punctuated by the kind of laughter that is made brittle by the fact that it is too strident-too desperate- to have been born out of anything truly clever, or genuinely funny.

The noise was like nothing so much as a distant summer storm, far-off thunder and lightening presaging, perhaps, the possibility of a brief, if ferocious, release- rather than any long-term relief for their parched lives and psyches.

On the cramped bandstand at one end of the teeming room the piano bench was suddenly filled with the serene derriere of a man of middling years. He had a faded sort of handsomeness, like that of a leather Beidermier chair, that though its springs had begun to sag a bit, its leather upholstery possessed still, an inviting and not unattractive sheen.

He had a pencil moustache, of the type popular at the same time as his evening clothes would have been in the latest vogue. And though their cut and drape showed them to be of the first quality, the slightly frayed collar and the shiny knees and elbows betrayed their vintage as something belonging to the subtle charms of "La Belle Epoch"- rather than to the sleek modernity of "The Jazz Age".

His heavily pomaded hair gleamed with a subtle, sable, chatoyance
in the dim light that managed to find its way through the fog of ciagrette smoke and gin haze in the air. The slight grey at his temples gave a certain disreputable distinction to his sharp featured handsomeness.

As soon as he had seated himself at the piano, and adjusted the tails of his cutaway so that they hung down from the bench rather than bunching unattractively about his hips, he raised his hand, his manicured fingers poised like the fangs of a cobra. It held in that dramatic attitude for a moment, and then strike it did- plunging down into the lower register of keyboard and producing a basso-profundo roll. The fellow then announced, his voice redolent with a florid "accent Francaise" -

"Lahdeez anduh jhenteelmun, preesentunga farrah ewer intertaynmo' zee whounn- zee honley - Mezz R-r-rhubee Leepz!"

There followed a cascading arpeggio of long practiced percision. Though the effect was less stellar that it might have been due to the missing notes on the piano. Upon reaching the lower registers again, it segued into a jazzy vamp. And the entire room looked expectantly towards the small stage adjacent to the bandstand.

At first, nothing happened. Then, just as the first of the less patient viewers began to squirm in their seats, through the beaded curtain that hung from the proscenium arch - thus blocking off the secrets of just what sorts of goings on might indeed be going on back there- a shapely female leg appeared through the beads.

It was, to be exact, a left leg. It wore a silk stocking, which was rolled well down past the equally attractive left knee. The shimmering hoisery was held in place by a bright red satin garter that was liberally spangled with gold and red sequins. And its embrace of the lovely limb was assured by a small gold buckle inset with red and white rhinestones.

The nude patella was rouged to a fare-the-well. The foot that appeared at the base of this well-turned limb was attached by an attractively slim ankle.

This foot was enshrined in a scarlet satin pump, with a single narrow strap over its arch, which ended with a small buckle the exact twin of that which  adorned the garter. Likewise, the heel of the shoe was spangled too with gold and red sequins.

As soon as it appeared, the foot began to tap the heel of its shoe onto the stagefloor in time with the vamping music of the piano, like a percussive heartbeat.

The appearance of this remarkable appendage sent up a rollicking cheer from the crowd, followed by an almost immediate hush. Lest in their clamorous enthusiasm, they might fail to see what happened next.

What happened next, was that a left arm appeared  through the the beaded veil, only something higher up than the leg. The arm was a every bit as attractive as it's more southern counterpart. The hand that crowned its end was of a likewise appearance, and made up the fourth part of this quartet of disembodied feminine allure.

The nails on each of its fingers were painted a vivid red, and the large faceted red stone set in the gold ring that adorned the hand's middle digit, winked and sparkled in the light, as the fingers began to snap the after-beats to the pulse of the foot.The graceful wrist that connected the vivacious hand to its only slightly more demure arm, was adorned with an uncountable number of golden bangle bracelets of varying widths, that produced a jaunty tintinnabulistic complement to the combined efforts of foot and fingers.

  Almost imperceptively at first, the rhythm of vamp and heel and fingers began to increase in tempo. Then, seeming to gain more momentum the longer it continued, the pusling rhythm sped faster, and faster, towards its unknown destination - like a
run-away train. The audiece held its collective breath, for surely something had to happen. The tempo of the music could not go on increasing into infinity. There was a denouement needed- and needed soon!

Suddenly, the arm and leg withdrew back behind the curtain again. But though no longer visible, the audienec could hear their enticing tapping and snapping continuing behind the opaque veil of multi-colored beads. Which served only to heighten the audience's level of fervid anticipation.

Again, without warning, the pianist dropped the vamp and did a two-handed glissando up the keys. When he reached the highest register, his hands lifted off the keyboard with a florish, only to fall again instantly as he struck a brilliant major double-octave chord.

It burst upon the ears of the audience like a musical orgasm. And at that precise instant,at the very heigth of this raucous, erogenous, fortissimo - the beads were flung wildly askew, and a bombast of red fringe, henna curls and flashing eyes burst onto the stage.

The crowd's response was cacophonously joyous. Hands clapping, feet stamping, lips whistling, voices cheering. This surging surf of adulation swept across the room, and cresting, broke upon the small stage. Any mere mortal would have been swept away by the force of it. But this crimson-clad demi-goddess stood defiant.

Legs akimbo- arms upraised- head thrown back- as the sea of idolatrous adulation washed over her she not only embraced it, she absorbed it. She let it fill her and fuel her. It seemed to those enthralled onlookers that this henna-haired hellcat was somehow alight with her own lunescence, and was reflecting back upon them the stuff of their deepest longings. And with that glow, that she was somehow burnishing  the bawdy, if boot-leggedly bogus, delusion that the wanton and delirious abandon that they were experiencing was, in some way, actual.

  As the fervor of the welcome began to subside, the scarlet harlot on the stage suddenly began to move. She did not take so much as a single step mind you, nor shift a single limb. But she began, almost imperceptively at first, to quiver. Her entire body from head to toe vibrated as if subject to some unseen electricity that flowed throughout her anatomy. Then, as the now subdued crowd watched, the quiver increased in intensity and segued itself into a shimmy.

The bright crimson sheath she wore was completely covered with layer upon layer of long silk fringe, and what other of the costume that was visible was heavily encrusted with red and gold bugle beads. The net result being, that whatever did not sway sparkled, and whatever sparkled did not sway.  As the velocity and intensity of her muscular undulations increased, the costume seemingly took on a life of its own as it carressed the oscillating frame of her body.  The fringe was in full flight of wild abandon, and the beads seemed to be winking, almost licentiously, in the light of the stage.

Again the crowd roared its approval, and, as both the cheering and the shimmying reached their mutual apex- the vibrating vixen threw her head back and gave out with a lusty "bum's laugh". Stopping stone still, her head snapped forward as her eyes scanned the crowd. Then, Ruebi gave them a libidinous wink, and began to sing --

           They call me a drifter 'cause I've been around-
           I'm the baddest damned woman in this whole damn town-
           But I never apologize-'cause that's how I roll-
           I want some money in my pocket and some sugar in my bowl.

As she finished the first verse in a throaty alto a'cappella, the piano swung in under the chorus.

            I'm a bad woman- A bad, bad, woman-
            The baddest damn woman in town.
            But if you want to see just how good I can be-
            Come on and lay your money down!

Ruebi sang with her entire body. She was never still, her feet dancing, her hips gyrating, her hands- like two manicured birds of prey- circling and diving. She did not so much entertain them as consume them. Some vampiric need in her sang, siren-like, demanding that they let her feed on their ardent approval, for that, above all, was the sustenance she craved the most. And the audience, mesmerized by the sheer power of that need, capitualted willingly.

           Now if you want to hear this kitten purr-
           Cover me from head to toe in white fox fur-
           Or a diamond neclace with earrings to match-
           But don't show up empty-handed 'cause this kitty can scratch!
                       * * * * * * * * * *
            I'm a bad woman - a bad, bad, woman-
            The baddest woman you'll meet-
            If you want to taste my fruit-just show up with the lo0t-
            "Cause baby my fruit is sweet!

The piano player launched into his solo, his dexterous fingers dancing over the keyboard and producing sweet-hot riffs of blues-tinged jazz. These came completely unexpectedly, for they were the dichotomously opposite of the faded dignity that his appearance suggested.

  And while he played Ruebi worked the crowd. She all but leapt off the stage and into the audience. She passed among them, dancing, laughing, flirting. A salacious Salome - a dancing Delilah. She knew instinctively, it seemed, just what lap to sit on, just what bald head to bloody with her crimson lip-print, just what off-color quip would bring on either the deepest blush, or the loudest laughter.

And her ass - it seemed had a preternatural ability to know just when and who would reach out to pinch it. And just as the perpetrator's thumb and forefinger would close, its ripe, apple-like, perfection would frisk just out of reach. Leaving the ardent Adam empty-handed. And once at a safe distance, it would seem to give the ungallant grabber a pert twitch, to taunt the poor fellow with his lack of speed, aim, and manners - and then dance on.

Then, just at the last second, with but a few solo notes still to be played Ruebi would, almost as if by magic, suddenly be back up on the stage agai. And seamlessly launch herself into the final verse and chorus-

           Pat or Sam or George or Jim or Fred or Mike-
           I've never met a rich man that I didn't like.
           I've been all through the alphabet from A to X-
           So don't take it personal when I holler "Next!"
                         * * * * * * * * *
            I'm a wicked woman- a sinful wicked woman-
            And Satan will come calling some day-
            But if his bank account has the right amount-
            I prob'ly won't turn him away!

 As she reached the final note, Ruebi filled her lungs with air, and held it, carressing it like a lover, as the piano accompaniment sinuously played on. And then, just as the audience was cerain she could not sustain that achingly sweet note for another millisecond, Ruebi would bump up its volume and its pitch - first by the fifth- and then the octave.

And then, and only then, when it had reached that heart-stopping pinnacle did she let it plunge off the precipice and into silence. It's death on impact made plain by the final "sting" of the piano.

The resultant reaction of the crowd was near riotus. For their beloved high priestess of high spirits had again faced the demons of their hidden sadnesses and weaknesses, their desperations and their disappointments- and with the magic of her song, had banished them into the darkness of the night.

Oh, the crowd knew, all too well, that they were not destroyed but only banished. And that come the dawn, like scurrying rats, they would find their way home again. But this reprieve, however long it lasted, was welcome. And it was Ruebi who had delivered them from themselves. And so, for tonight, they heaped their bountiful, inebriated, applause at her feet.

Ruebi, however, was only vaguely aware of their enthusiastic response, For, you see, she never took a curtain call. When she performed she gave herself to her audience totally. She poured herself out upon the stage. And when she had done so, she felt no need to be imposed upon further by standing there on display.

The way she saw it, they had what they wanted of her- and she of them. So she saw no purpose in prolonging the exchange. So, by the time the applause had begun to fade- she was already back in her dressing room.