It was hard to talk above the music and the noisy crowd, so as soon as I got my hands on my beer, I slipped away from the bar scene. Then I wandered into the depths of the club and leaned against the back wall for a while, watching the Negro jazz quartet perform their musical miracles. And when I tired of doing that, I began a thorough, table-to-table survey of the audience. (I can’t help it, you know. I’m just naturally nosy. Even when I’m not looking for a murderer.)

That’s when I saw her.

She was sitting at a table right next to the stage, so close to the spotlights that her face and figure were fully illuminated. Her eyes were closed and her fluffy, platinum-blonde head was thrown back against the shoulder of a large, completely bald man in a suit and a tie. The skirt of her white

Seven Year Itch-style halter-top dress was hiked high above her knees, and her legs were crossed. (Well, sort of, anyway. One of those slim, shapely appendages-the top one, of course-was also draped across the lap of the huge, hairless man she had either cuddled up to or collapsed upon.)

You could have knocked me over with a feather-or any other flimsy utensil. It was Rhonda Blake (Gray’s

Hot Tin Roof understudy partner, in case you need reminding), and she looked drunker than any skunk I’d ever seen.

I gasped with delight and started searching for a way to get to her table. What an incredible stroke of luck! I’d been wondering how I was going to get to chat with (okay, interrogate) Rhonda again, and now here she was-laid out like a blooming buffet at a wedding banquet-just waiting for me to help myself to her secrets. Praying that Rhonda wasn’t too intoxicated to carry on a conversation, I handed my beer to the thirsty-looking young man standing next to me and began winding my way through the crowded tables toward the stage.

I didn’t get very far, though. All of a sudden the jazz quartet stopped playing, the audience burst out in applause, and the emcee for the evening bounded onto the stage and took over the microphone. “Are these cats crazy, or what?” he exclaimed. “Let’s have another hand for the Fountainbleu Four!”

Some of the people near me jumped to their feet and began clapping like there was no tomorrow. I ducked my head to my chest and tried to bulldoze a path to Rhonda’s table. I was about halfway there when the emcee motioned for everybody to quiet down and take their seats again. Too polite (and self-conscious) to remain standing like a monument in the middle of the room, I sank to my haunches and tried to waddle my way forward.

It was no use. The tables were too close together, and the thick jumble of jostling legs, knees, and feet at my face-level made further waddling impossible. I was about to stand up and retreat to the rear when the emcee returned his mouth to the mike and announced, “Now it’s time for another treat, guys and dolls. Are you ready to have your socks rocked and your inhibitions defrocked? Are you ready for a hot transfusion? Then let’s hear it for the cat with the dog! Here comes Jimmy Birmingham and his sidekick, Otto, to give us the midnight truth-the groovy, far-out gospel of today and tomorrow!”

Aaaargh. I was stuck like a pig in a poke. I had no choice but to sit down on the floor and enjoy (okay, endure) the show.

Carrying Otto in the crook of one arm, Jimmy walked onto the stage in a thunderstorm of applause. He pulled a tall stool up close to the mike, planted one buttock on the seat, and arranged his oh-so-young-and-sexy body in an oh-so-casual half-sitting, half-standing pose. Then he stretched Otto out on the shelf of his thigh (the one that was propped up on the stool) and gave him a long, slow stroke from the tip of his pointy nose to the end of his stringbean-size tail. Otto snorted and put his head down on Jimmy’s knee. Was it my imagination, or was the little dachshund as unimpressed with Jimmy’s act as I was?

To signal that he was about to recite his poem, Jimmy cleared his throat into the microphone. Then, when the applause had completely died down, he unleashed his pompous, theatrical baritone and began:

Pounding, resounding

Moonlight noises,

Slams me in

And out of my mind.

A high and low life

Cerebral celebration,

A garden of madness.

Maggot salad

Spiced with lice,

Bottles of holiday frenzy,

All sucked up

Into tomorrow’s rushing,

Failing day

Of push and pull.

Put my snail in your pail.

A love thrill

Keeps me slowly

Burning away,

Smoldering like a fire in

The rain.

The people sitting around and above me were transfixed. They sat in silence for a couple of seconds, letting the full impact of Jimmy’s, um, verses sink into their sodden brains. Then, all at once, they rose from their chairs and broke out in a wild shouting, clapping, cheering, whistling, finger-snapping ovation.

“He’s so deep!” one woman cried out. “He’s real gone.”

“And his words are true, man,” a bearded fellow bellowed. “Like, really true.”

Yeah, true twaddle! I said to myself, laughing out loud and jumping up off the floor. Then, as Jimmy tucked Otto under his arm and proudly strode off the stage, I began pushing and shoving my way toward Rhonda’s table again.

I could have saved myself the trouble. When I finally got there, she was gone. Real gone.

“RHONDA BLAKE WAS HERE?” ABBY said. “Are you sure it was her?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said. “She was sitting so close to the stage she was lit up by the spotlights. I got a good look at her.”

“Maybe she’s in the bathroom?”

“Nope. I checked.”

“Did you see when she got up and left?”

“No. I was sitting on the floor. I couldn’t see anything but the people right around me and what was happening up on the stage. Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t see her leave, Ab. With her platinum blonde hair and bright white dress, she really stood out in this dark-as-doom crowd. And she must’ve passed right by you on her way out.”

“I was concentrating on Jimmy’s performance,” she said, with a sniff. “All I could see was the poetic vision of my genius loverboy’s face.” She turned to Jimmy, who was now sitting on the barstool next to hers, and gave him a juicy nibble on his neck. “You were great, babe. Really great.”

“Thanks, doll,” he said, swiveling away from the bar and stepping down off the stool. “Be back in a few. Takin’ Otto for a stroll.”

I hopped onto Jimmy’s vacated seat, ordered another beer, and lit up a cigarette. My head was spinning with questions about Rhonda. What had brought her to the Vanguard tonight? Did she come here often? Did she live in the Village? Did she know that Gray’s apartment was just a few blocks away? Who was that man she was with? Had she been as inebriated as she seemed? Had she heard the news about Gray’s murder and gotten drunk to escape the pain? Or maybe she was trying to wipe out the memory of the hideous crime that she herself had committed! Why did she disappear so suddenly? Had she seen me trying to get to her table?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Abby said, “but please don’t say a word about it.” She gave me a threatening look and took a deep swig of her gin and tonic.

“Huh? What?” I sputtered, wondering what the hell she was talking about.

“Jimmy’s poem,” she said. “I know you didn’t like it.”

I spat forth a great gush of smoke. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” I teased, coughing, abandoning the unanswerable questions about Rhonda and returning to the issues at hand. “The ‘maggot salad’ part was pretty darn entertaining.”

Abby giggled. “Yeah, that was a scream, wasn’t it? If only he had

meant it to be funny. I could really dig it then!”

We looked at each other for a couple of goofy seconds and then cracked up laughing. And once we started, we couldn’t stop. We cackled and crowed and shrieked and guffawed, letting all the tension of the last two days spew out of our souls onto the beer-splashed, ash-strewn bar. We were out of control. We were insane. Everybody at the bar was staring at us, wanting to be let in on the joke. It was pure heaven.