It was a staid crowd that night in the Claremont’s ballroom. The male patrons had generally opted for white dinner jackets. The women were favoring taffeta or crepe, most of them in black, turquoise, or silver.

A few minutes into our last set, I was muscling my way through an extended solo in our version of “Christopher Columbus” when I saw Frankie Pompano elbowing Jerry Garden. He directed Jerry’s attention to the side of the bandstand, where I, too, saw a young woman leaning gracefully against a pillar, a champagne goblet in her hand. She was listening intently to what I was playing and gave me a small, encouraging smile. She looked smart and sleek in a black crepe sheath, over which she wore a sleeveless gold-and-pink bolero jacket. Her hands were cloaked in opera gloves. Her hair was pulled back in a French twist. She could have been a debutante heiress, toasting the whims of fate after losing the family fortune at Monte Carlo. A moment later, I realized she was Gail, and she was there to hear only me.

As the set progressed, it was clear she’d arrived unescorted. I liked this an awful lot. She arced appreciative glances my way as if I were a game of ring toss, and I savored both the hungry looks my musical compatriots launched in her direction and the resentful looks they hurled in mine.

Usually in the last set, Jack would have me sing a number I’d penned called “Beef Lo Mein.” It was standard for a band to have a couple of sidemen vocalize once or twice in the course of the night, adding some variety to the evening at no additional expense to the bandleader. Since I was being paid salary and a half as the band’s arranger, it behooved me to do this without complaint.

Not much was expected from an instrumentalist’s vocals except that he have some swagger. Jack introduced me as “that man about town from the sax section.” “Beef Lo Mein” was a crowd-pleaser that everyone smiled at but me, because although its title was silly and its tempo bouncy, I knew in writing it that it was actually a very sad song.

Over the crowd’s applause as I finished, Gail gave me a long, loud whistle.

She vanished just before the set was over, to my momentary dismay. But after packing up my instruments, I found her where I’d hoped she would be waiting for me, in the Terrace Lounge, seated before a second champagne cocktail.

Despite the fact that she already had a drink, Warren Taplin, trumpet, second chair, was trying to purchase her a new one. As I arrived, I heard her say, “Sorry, you can’t buy me a drink on three counts. First, I’m still drinking this one. Second, I get my drinks free. And, three, I’m reserved for Ray Sherwood.”