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“Not that I know of.”

Her smile was calculated yet oddly sincere. She was what they would call a white woman, wearing a coppery foundation with some glitter here and there.

“I, uh, I’m from New York,” I added. “And when I was looking for things to do in LA, I came across this club.”

“And it looked so good you just had to come and see?” She tucked her chin in a little, expressing doubt with the gesture.

“It did look good,” I agreed. “But the reason I came out was my grandmother.”

“She likes jazz?” The woman in red was beginning to enjoy the conversation.

“Yeah. She had a friend who used to frequent a place with the same name, back in Manhattan.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She said they used to go there and listen to a singer, um, what she called a torch singer… I think her name was Dalia Shorts.”

“Oh.” The lady was more serious now. “And that’s why you’re here?”

“Because my grandma and her friend Arman used to talk about what a good time it was. They said that the Oyster was the place to be.”

The woman in red had a face that was long and chiseled, not classically beautiful; it made up for that with forthrightness and a certain imperturbability even when she was suspicious, as she was with me.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Joe—Joe Oliver. Yours?”

“Caledonia Reese.”

She reached out a hand to shake. I took it, saying, “I had an aunt named Caledonia, from down in Tennessee.”

“Maybe we’re related,” she suggested.

“Could be. There was a lot of mixing of the races back in those days, though nobody wanted to admit it.”

“You’re an outspoken man,” she commented. “I like that.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Waiting for someone?”

“Everyone.”

“Everyone? That’s a tall order.”

“Not when your uncle owns the place and has made you manager.”

This was no surprise. Caledonia was very self-assured and certainly not looking or hoping to find a good time. She was the head woman in charge, the kind of back-office boss who knew all the dangers and most of the secrets. She saw the possibility of both in me. And I saw her as definitely, maybe, a lead.

“Can I buy you a drink, Miss Caledonia?”

She measured me with her eyes, seemed about to reject the offer, and then said, “Okay. Follow me.”

There must have been three hundred revelers, blind dates (and half-sighted ones), along with jazz aficionados crowded into a space made to accommodate maybe a hundred and fifty patrons. This kind of calculation came easy to me because I had been a New York City cop, and knowing the numbers was one of our top responsibilities when on the job. And I was definitely on the job that night.

As we made our way from the bar area across the crowded room, two waiters were rushing from the opposite direction to the empty corner we were headed for. Before Caledonia and I reached that corner, the men, one who carried a round table built for two and the other having hauled linen, silverware, and two slender chairs, had just finished setting up the station.

“Thank you, Arnold,” the floor boss said, laying a hand on the stronger man’s shoulder.

He did not speak, only bowed and backed away, accompanied by his linen support man.