The show is in its last hour, and diners dance in the cramped space in front of the stage. It’s the same band as the weekend shows, and Arthur shifts from one song to the next, seamlessly transitioning the end of Sam Cooke’s “Cupid” into “I Put a Spell on You.”

Ming is up.

I stray to the bar to watch her take the stage in a deep-blue evening gown. Like many performers, she can take on different roles at the club’s shows: burlesque, host, or singer. She’s no Jane, but the way she purrs, “Because you’re mine,” transforms the lyrics into the most alluring threat.

Andrea is at the opposite end of the bar chatting with Michael. I still haven’t asked her about the renovations. Jane nags me whenever he’s home, though there’s been less opportunity with his spending most evenings with Charles. Now I wonder if asking me to fill in for the hostess wasn’t some ruse on his part. Double poo.

She catches my eye and raises a brow. I make a pitiful show of skulking back toward the hostess station, but Andrea shakes her head and pats the empty seat beside her. “Dinner service is over. Anyone else coming in can find the bar on their own. Care for a drink?”

“I’ll take you up on that, thank you.” I hop onto the offered stool.

Michael drapes himself over the bar, propping his chin in his hand. “What’ll it be, kitty cat?”

“It is a weeknight. If I say ‘velvet hammer,’ does it give you any ideas?”

His eyes twinkle at the challenge. “Sweetie, I have a light rum that will do you right. Just a gentle tap on the noggin.” He emphasizes “tap” with a mimed rap of his knuckles.

“I think you know I was offering you prosecco,” Andrea mutters, but her mouth quirks as Michael gets to work.

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission?”

She cackles and takes a long drink off her martini. “You’re a clever little thing, Kitten.” She notes the back of my dress. “And gutsy. Good heavens, weren’t you freezing at the podium? Standing there, you catch everything the AC can throw at you.”

“You’re telling me. And Jane brought the dress. His penance for roping me into covering for him.”

“Ah, Michael said he was by earlier. That reminds me. Michael,” she says as the bartender delivers my drink. “Fetch a Benjamin for Kitten, would you?”

I take a sip. The initial burn gives way to a sweet hint of coconut. “Michael, you’re a genius.” He shuts the cash register, handing me a stunning portrait of Mr. Franklin on linen. “Dangerous, but a genius.” I tuck the bill under the band of my watch.