Jezebel

Jezebel

Koko Brown

Copyright
© 2013 Koko Brown

All rights
reserved.

ISBN-10:
1483987671

ISBN-13:
978-1483987675

JEZEBEL

ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED

Copyright
© 2013 Koko Brown

Cover
art by Reese Dante

Electronic
book publication April 2013

With
the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be
reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means without
permission from the author, KOKO BROWN.

WARNING:
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or
distributed via the Internet or any other means electronic or print,
without the author’s permission. Criminal copyright
infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is
punishable by up to 5 years in Federal Prison and a fine of $250,000.
For more information regarding the government’s stance on
copyright infringement visit :http://www.fbi.gov/ipr.

TRADEMARK
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author acknowledges the
registered trademarks for the following products and goods:

Coco
Cola: Coca Cola Bottling Company

Macy’s:
Federation Stores

Radio
Corporation of America

Welch’s:
National Grape Association

DEDICATION

This
book is dedicated to my mother who always believed in me and
supported all of my crazy dreams.

CHAPTER one

Cleveland,
Ohio
Fall
193
8

Engelmann Theatre’s
resident MC tweak
ed
his bow tie. For added dramatic effect, he brushed imaginary dust
from both shoulders
,
then
pulled
the microphone toward him with a
practiced
fla
ir
.

“
Ladies and gentlemen.
May
I
introduce to
some and reacquaint others
with
the most
delectable
,
the sweetest
dance troupe you’ve ever laid eyes on
.
L
adies
hold onto your
beaus.
Ge
nts hide
your wallets
.
E
veryone put
your hands together for…BROW
N
SUG
AR
!”

On
cue
,
center stage exploded
into
a kaleidoscope
of light, feathers and
sepia–toned
skin
.
Costumed in
Salmon pink, perfectly coiffed and powdered, Brown Sugar moved as
one.

The feathers on their
abbreviated bolero jackets quiver
ed
as they twirled, spun and pulsed to the house band
.
Their matching pink silk short
s,
barely cover
ing
bee-stung buttocks
,
rode high on
their
rounded hips
and firm thighs.

Great genetics aside,
grueling rehearsal hours contributed to a dozen pairs of well-toned,
café-au-lait colored legs slicing through the air with
military precision.

Tallulah
“
T
ookie”
Whitfield mentally counted each step. If anyone messed up, she’d
make sure she’d drill them on it
at
t
tomorrow’s
rehearsal
.

Perfectionist?

Slave Driver?

Masochist?

All of the above,
T
ookie
acquiesced. She
hadn’t
become
the
sole proprietor of one of the Chitlin Circuit’s most successful
vaudeville show
s
b
ecause
she was
soft.
If
she had, then she would’ve folded years ago. And Whitfield’s
follies were still going strong after being on the road for more than
fifteen years.

“
Has she shown up
yet?”

T
ookie
kept her eyes on her dancers. The most valuable lesson she’d
ever learned in show business was never let them see you sweat
.
E
specially
theatre
owners like Rufus Engelmann,
who held the keys to the safe and
her
reputation in his hands.

“
The show
’
s
almost over, Whitfield,
”
Engelmann threatened, “
and
she hasn’t stepped foot on stage yet.
She was top billed and you aren’t delivering.
”

T
ookie
dredged up one of the half-a-dozen excuses she’d used
during
the past
year
,
but she choked.

Silently fuming
and wishing it was Celeste’s scrawny neck
,
T
ookie
clenched the
Cuban
cigar in her hand so tightly it crum
bl
ed
in
to
several pieces.
She
let the tobacco slip through her slack fingers just like the money
she would lose by not honoring the terms of Engelmann’s
agreement.

“
You can ignore me all
you want
,”
Engelmann barked, continuing his temper tantrum. “
But
I’ll see you in my office after the show.
And you better bring your contract.
”

Abandoning her for now,
Engelmann turned
on
his
heel and
disappeared in the throng of backstage hands and miscellaneous
performers watching the show.

Not only was her star act
missing, but
so
were
two other
girls who danced in this particular number. Her troupe was falling
down around her ears!

While a tremor rocked her
pint-sized frame,
T
ookie
scanned the
backstage
crowd.
Spotting Hershel Broomfield, one-
half
of the
Broomfield
brothers
’
comedy
act, she reached out, grabbed his
suspenders
and pulled him into the corner.

“
Where are Del
ilah
and
M
olly?”

Hershel’s eyes widened
until the white practically engulfed his brown irises. He
’d
better be fearful
.
She had a can of
whoop
ass up her sleeve
.
And at this point it didn’t matter who was on the receiving
end.

“
S–someone one
from the sheriff’s
office
dropped by
before
the start of the show
,”
he stuttered. “
Instead
of tell
ing
you, both of them
bailed
Celeste out of the slammer.”

“
Are they back yet?”
Tookie asked, shaking him. She was only five feet, but she could
shake a pecan tree dry with her bare hands.

Hershel
nodded.
“About
t
w
en
ty
minutes ago, but it doesn’t look
go
—
”

Before he
could finish, To
okie
released
him
so fast he stumbled backward and became entangled in the velvet stage
curtains.
While
he righted himself, T
ookie
ma
rched
a mean streak
to
the girls’ dressing room.
Celeste
Newsome and jail were so synonymous, she digested the information
without missing a beat.

“
I should’ve let
that pickled broad go
years
ago,” she muttered under her breath. “Nothing
but trouble
from the jump.”

Despite her woes with
dealing with the Follies’ resident drunk,
T
ookie
knew very well why she hadn’t
canned
Celeste.

Good enough for any
Hollywood Studio,
the
twenty-something
charlatan was a tap dancing dynamo and one of the Whitfield Follies’
star attractions.

So much so,
T
ookie
made sure she featured Celeste on all of their promotional posters
along with
songbird
Effie Bingham and
Dickey
Cooper’s twelve-piece band. Together
,
the
acts
guaranteed
a sold-out circuit.

T
hat
didn’t mean
T
ookie
would
let
the heifer get away with ruining what she’d built with her own
blood, sweat and tears. With
a
good portion
of
the country unemployed, every Tom, Dick and Harry was vying for a
spot on the Chitlin’ Circuit.
I
f
another theatre learned the Whitfield Follies couldn’t deliver,
the entire troupe would wind up on the soup line by the end of the
week.

And it would be all her
fault.

For
years
,
she’d turned a blind eye to Celeste’s insatiable thirst
for hooch and male companionship. Heck, she would
turn a blind eye to cold-blooded murder
as long as
Celeste
filled theater seats. And she did, sometimes twice in one evening.

Instead of taking comfort in
standing ovations and accolades, the talented young dancer lived like
a demon was riding her back.
As
soon as the curtains closed, she high tailed it to the nearest
juke joint.

Remembering the dirty little
Indianola shack and the even dirtier bum whose arms she
’d
personally fished Celeste from last fall, a shudder racked
T
ookie’s
solid frame.

Fed up,
she’d
given Celeste an ultimatum. Get clean or pack her bags and go back to
Brooklyn.
Her
threat
seemed
to do the trick
.
Celeste
pull
ed
herself up by the bootstraps. No more showing up late for the
troupe’s daily practices or not at all and no more juke joints.