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Violet Crime — Susan Brassfield Cogan
San Francisco, 1935
Imagine an insinuating saxophone and you will know what it was like to meet Violet Harris. A tight dress wrapped around her like a wet leaf in autumn. My own dress was silk and hers, who knows, maybe rayon, but she filled it out with a tawdry sensuality that turned men's heads.
The air was full of blue smoke and the band wasn't very good but that saxophone cut through the murky air like a warm finger through molasses. Violet knew about a man who robbed a bank. I was at the Red Toy Nightclub to find her.
Imagine an insinuating saxophone and you will know what it was like to meet Violet Harris. A tight dress wrapped around her like a wet leaf in autumn. My own dress was silk and hers, who knows, maybe rayon, but she filled it out with a tawdry sensuality that turned men's heads.
The air was full of blue smoke and the band wasn't very good but that saxophone cut through the murky air like a warm finger through molasses. Violet knew about a man who robbed a bank. I was at the Red Toy Nightclub to find her.
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