The smooth, mellow jazz played by the club band lulled the audience into relaxation. Underground and hidden away from the eyes of the authorities, The Cat’s Meow was one of the premier speakeasies in the city, according to the owner. Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t; either way, Piers enjoyed working there, even if he wasn’t the headlining act.
The music changed to something more upbeat, a fanfare of sorts, to herald an important arrival to the stage. When the lights dimmed, a cheer went up from the crowd, with a few catcalls coming from the men. From the wings and into the spotlight, an elegant woman stepped. Her blue, silk dress shimmered in the light. Low at the neckline, cut high to her hip and sweeping down to her ankles, it moved as fluidly as she did.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she purred into the centre-stage mic. “On behalf of the management, welcome to The Cat’s Meow, where the girls are welcoming, the boys are friendly and the giggle juice is always flowing.”
Aways the same spiel, but Chelsea Lane, the all-singing, all-dancing beauty of a club hostess never railed to raise a laugh and rapturous applause. When the clapping finally died down, the band struck up again and Chelsea began her opening number.
Just the way he liked it-- The smooth melody of the saxophone playing through the air of the building as the larger man settles himself in. He sat at one of the tables in the back, the ones with a large curved seat surrounding it with Chris sitting in the middle and multiple women on either side of him.
His arms were around the two closest to him, the women clinging to his sides and whispering sweet nothings into his ear. There were perks to being a big mafia boss around here-- ladies hanging on to your every beck and call, endless amounts of alcohol at your disposal, and every person in sight obeying your command without question. But his attention was drawn away from the ladies as Chelsea takes the stage and begins her charade, soothing everyone with her soothing voice and provocative moves.
“Hey-- the ladies and I need a refill.” His order was directed to the nearest personnel that resembled someone who worked here, probably a waiter. But...not just any waiter. This one ALWAYS served Chris when he made an appearance to this speak easy. “Another round for the table.” He looks the man in the eye. “Please.” Added in for a touch of politeness.
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