He looked over the stranger again, a man of his age or so, well built and dressed in a form-fitting suit, his hair brushed forward in a shag crew cut reminiscent of Marlon Brando’s in Julius Caesar. “No, we haven’t been introduced yet.”

“It is Maynard Ferguson—you know, the trumpeter? He is staying for the weekend with his wife.”

The news didn’t move him much one way or the other. This wasn’t Coltrane or Miles or even Gerry Mulligan or Herbie Mann, but still, he’d never been in the presence of a celebrity before, and there was something arresting in that. Ferguson was a big name. He toured all over the country. He got write-ups in DownBeat and the Times. And there he was, across the room, sharing a glass of wine with Joanie as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. But really, he thought, you had to hand it to Tim: no matter what anybody said, he was no ordinary professor.

“But you do not want a drink?” Fanchon asked, lifting her glass in emphasis. “Not even one—to put you in the mood?”

He was watching Tim and the new blonde, who was every bit as striking as Brenda, maybe not as tall or busty, but she definitely had the goods, and wondering if he should go over and butt in because he really did need to talk to Tim or at least show himself so Tim could appreciate that he was here—and willing, a loyalist and a follower and a member of the inner circle whether Maynard Ferguson qualified or not.

“A drink?” Fanchon repeated. She was wearing a black cocktail dress that left her arms bare. She’d pinned up her hair in back and teased out her bangs so they floated and bobbed with every movement she made.

“Yes, sure,” he said, “sounds good, but I can—”

“No, no,” she murmured, putting a hand on his arm, “I will get it for you. A martini? Yes?” Her smile was tight and self-satisfied and it came to him that she was burning to tell him something, which she wound up doing in the next breath. “You know,” she said, “I am the hostess now.”

The trumpet flared and then the drummer came in, too heavily, making a stampede of the tune thumping through the speakers, and because he was distracted—he needed to say hello to Tim—he just said, “Sure,” but when she didn’t drop his arm, he appended a question, “What do you mean?”

“Tim has no wife,” she said.