I explained that she’d asked me to convey to him that she’d gotten a message at the front desk from a friend or relative (I said I couldn’t remember which) who was going to be somewhere in southern California for only this weekend before flying to somewhere in Australia to retire. Vera found that if she left that very instant, she could just make the last train out of Emeryville, that she didn’t even have time to pack, that she would rejoin us in Seattle, that Jack shouldn’t worry about her, and that she’d be fine. She’d suggested he explain to tomorrow night’s crowd that she’d come down with laryngitis.

He listened to my explanation, nodding assent to each vague turn of this ham-fisted story I’d had to create with enough slack built into it to cover Vera’s damnable tail.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, I mean, yes, that’s actually quite odd that she suggested the laryngitis. I was, actually, going to say that anyway. Even if she hadn’t left for, where’d she say? Southern California?” He gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. “Thanks for conveying the message as thoughtfully as ever, Ray.” He asked me if I’d lead the last set for a few minutes while he went to place a phone call. I said I would. As he started to leave the bandstand, he added, “Oh, by the by: I think you should start scouting up a new baritone sax. I think we deserve better than Dave Wooster.”

I told him I agreed.

I headed to where a contrite Russ was seated, doing hard time alongside Martha. Although he now seemed as abstemious as Henry Ford at a Mormon temple in Oklahoma on a Sunday, he actually had a shot of neat brown liquid sitting in front of him. I could smell the toastiness of a bourbon.

“Apologize for the scene I caused a while ago, Sherwood,” he said gruffly.

I waved his words away. “I think you need to apologize to Gail and Martha, not me. I’m afraid I’ve been just as tight as you were a couple of times in my life.” I hadn’t consciously meant this to be a message to Martha, but her expression showed me she’d taken it that way. For a fleeting moment, she looked almost human, until she corrected herself. I pointed to the bourbon. “But don’t start all over again.”

“Hair of the dog that bit me,” he said. “This stuff I can handle.”

“You should never touch gin,” Martha said. “The juniper berries make you crazy. I still don’t think you’re anywhere near fit to drive.”