Kathryn had barely entered the club when the bartender, Bobby, handed her the telephone.
“For you, Miss Hammond.”
“Thanks.” She tucked the phone between her shoulder and chin as she rolled up her sleeve. “Yes?”
“That kid,” Smitty’s irritated voice began without ceremony, “did not shut up from the second we walked out of your apartment till the second I left her inquisitive rear end on the sidewalk in front of headquarters.”
Kathryn laughed. “You volunteered.”
“Mother mercy. Why didn’t you warn me?”
“She has to be experienced to be appreciated. What did she talk about?” Like she needed to ask.
“Well, let’s see,” Smitty began, as if a synopsis of War and Peace were to follow. “First, she asked about you, then she asked about you, and when she got tired of asking about you, she asked about you some more.”
Kathryn grinned from ear to ear, partially because she knew Jenny would get no satisfactory answers from Smitty and partially because she was flattered. The mental image of Jenny chewing her lip as she decided which tact to choose in her futile expository effort was almost as clear as the mental image of Smitty’s aggravated face on the other end of the line.
“And what did you tell her?”
“I fed her a steady diet of ‘ask her yourself.’”
“Good boy.”
“She’s got it bad for you now, Kat. Do me a favor and don’t sic your conquests on me so soon after you’ve ravaged them. It leaves them in that delirious I must know everything haze.”
“I didn’t ravage anyone.”
“Uh-huh. A helping hand always necessitates a trip to your apartment in the middle of the afternoon to exchange clothing. You forget who you’re talking to.”
“For your information, Sherlock, she got herself into some trouble—”
“What a surprise!” he broke in.
“Down at the plant,” she finished slowly.
“Yeah, she probably opened her big mouth.”
“Smitty?” she said patiently, not appreciating his venomous glee.
He paused at her odd tone. “Yeah?”
“If I had ravaged her, do you think she would have had the energy to talk your ear off all the way up town?”
There was silence through the receiver, and she imagined him conjuring up a mental image of the act in question.
“Smitty?”
“Kathryn?” he said, as if he were surprised she was on the other end of the line.
“Yes?
“Is that you? Because if I didn’t know better, I’d say that last remark was meant to be humorous.”
“I was just helping her out of a jam.”
“I’m not even going to ask you how you got involved in that.”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
“So she said.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, and she sensed his disapproval.
“It was pure happenstance, Smitty.”
“Did I say anything?”
“Not in so many words.”
“You know where your boundaries are.”
“I do. Thank you.”
“Okay, then.”
She was glad it was a definitive statement rather than an accusation. It was obvious he was worried and still had lingering doubts about the wisdom of any relationship she might have with Jenny Ryan, but she had to give him credit for his attempt to mask it. His reaction also gave her a sense of Jenny’s frustration with her displays of concern, suddenly recognizing how easily they can be misconstrued as a lack of confidence in one’s abilities. She made a mental note to be more aware of Jenny’s sensibilities in that regard and vowed to be more conscious of her own.
“I’ll be careful, Smitty.”
“I know,” he said. “By the way, she told me she has a ride home tonight and not to worry about it.”
“Oh.”
That was disappointing and confusing. Maybe Jenny felt she had been pawned off on Smitty, mistaking the gesture as relief rather than necessity. Maybe she had barked at her one too many times. She couldn’t really blame her if she wanted to wash her hands of her. Their relationship, such as it was, had not been the smoothest, and no one gets unlimited chances to get it right.
“Anyway,” Smitty said, “I hear the band warming up in the background. I’ll let you get back to it. I just had to vent.”
“Thanks for sharing. Glad I could help.”
“How long will you be home this time?”
“Forrester is out of town until Friday, so the rest of the week.”
“Call me when you’re free for dinner. I’m having withdrawals.”
She laughed. “Will do.”
“See you soon, honey.”
Rehearsal was slow and plodding, with Dominic Vignelli overseeing the addition of two new songs to his club’s lineup. He could be very particular about the arrangements on occasion, and today was one of those days. Fortunately, he had the perfect bandleader for his temperament. Jimmy Laine had the patience of a saint when it came to the club owner’s particular sense of what should be.
Kathryn kept her mouth shut as she watched Jimmy rearrange timing, key, and tablature in an attempt to satisfy Dominic’s cheery interpretation of a relatively moody song. Jimmy was the third bandleader in her relatively short tenure at the club, and she had learned there was no point arguing the composer’s original intent with the boss. He had fired people for less, and while she had no fear of being fired for speaking her mind, she knew it was a fruitless argument.
Thankfully, Dominic didn’t interfere often. He paid handsomely to have the best people around him, and, for the most part, he let them do their jobs. But when he had a vision, he had a vision. Sometimes the results were brilliant, like the song they had hammered out earlier in the day, but other times, Kathryn just had to grin and bear it, all the while cringing at the sacrilege of it all.
The background singers gathered for the four-part harmony arrangement, and the group went about their work like the professionals they were, much to the delight of the boss.