Worse, their party of three turned out to be a party of four, with Toby Ackland serving as Gail’s date. He was decked out in a white sports coat, and Gail looked quietly stunning in pale blue chiffon. Russ was wearing a three-piece suit with the vest unbuttoned. Martha wore a plain black dress and flat heels, neither of which did anything for her. A silver mesh clutch bag was her one concession to fashion; my guess was that it had been a gift from Gail.

The maître d’ was gracious enough to extend the “no cover” to the unexpected (and unwanted, from my point of view) fourth guest, and sat the Hewett party fairly close to the stage. Ackland talked through every number we played. I could hear his bray from the bandstand, even over the trumpets.

What I wanted to do more than anything was sock him in the nose, walk Gail out onto the terrace, and ask her if she had any idea why someone who looked like the deceased Marie Prasquier was now picking up music in the name of Gail’s rival Ada Head.

On our first break, I stepped over to their table. Russ, mopping his face with an oversized handkerchief, was polite enough to stand. Ackland didn’t even look my way, although he knew I was there, but continued talking to Martha Prentice about a trip he’d taken to Guatemala.

Russ smelled strongly of gin and seemed to sway ever so slightly as he said, “Sorry if we were a little late, Sherwood. Had to pick up the two kids, then stop by my office on the island and pick up a few things I need for the morning. Toby, this is Ray Sherwood.” He had a little trouble getting to the w in my name.

Toby looked at Russ without looking at me. “Yes, we’ve already met,” he said and resumed his conversation with Martha, who at least nodded politely in my direction.

I turned to Gail, who had a neat little Manhattan sitting in front of her. “Evening, Gail.”

Gail said, “Very nice of you to have us as your guests, Ray. I hope you don’t mind that I brought along Toby. I figured there’s no way on earth that you can dance tonight.”

Russ was served a second pitcher of some cocktail, and he spilled its pinkish fluid in the vicinity of his martini glass. “Damn good music, Sherwood. And Miss Driscoll is a damn handsome woman. Love to put a saddle on her sometime and take her around the corral.” Yes, he’d been drinking. “I’m having pink gins tonight, would you like one?” The drink was exactly what it said it was, straight cold gin with just enough Angostura bitters to add a blush of shame.