The Key to Midnight

o'clock show. Instead, she stepped down from the stage in a soft swish of pleated silk and moved slowly among the tables, acknowledging compliments, bowing and being bowed to, stopping to inquire if dinner had been enjoyable, greeting new faces and chatting at length with regular, honored customers. Good food, a romantic atmosphere, and high quality entertainment were sufficient to establish a profitable nightclub, but more than that was required for the Moonglow to become legendary. She wanted that extra degree of success. People were flattered to receive personal attention from the owner, and the forty minutes that she spent in the lounge between acts was worth uncountable yen in repeat business.
        The handsome American with the neatly trimmed mustache was present for the third evening in a row. The previous two nights, they had exchanged no more than a dozen words, but Joanna had sensed that they wouldn't remain strangers. At each performance, he sat at a small table near the stage and watched her so intently that she had to avoid looking at him for fear that she would become distracted and forget the words to a song. After each show, as she mingled with the customers, she knew without looking at him that he was watching her every move. She imagined that she could feel the pressure of his gaze. Although being scrutinized by him was vaguely disturbing, it was also surprisingly pleasant.
        When she reached his table, he stood and smiled: Tall, broad-shouldered, he had a European elegance in spite of his daunting size. He wore a three-piece, charcoal-gray Savile Row suit, what appeared to be a hand-tailored Egyptian-cotton shirt, and a pearl-gray tie.
        He said, 'When you sing "These Foolish Things" or "You Turned the Tables on Me," I'm reminded of Helen Ward when she sang with Benny Goodman.'
        'That's fifty years ago,' Joanna said. 'You're not old enough to remember Helen Ward.'
        'Never saw her perform. But I have all her records, and you're better than she was.'
        'You flatter me too much. You're a jazz buff?'
        'Mostly swing music.'
        'So we like the same corner of jazz.'
        Looking around at the crowd, he said, 'Apparently, so do the Japanese. I was told the Moonglow was the nightclub for transplanted Americans. But ninety percent of your customers are Japanese.'
        'It surprises me, but they love the music - even though it comes from an era they otherwise prefer to forget.'
        'Swing is the only music I've developed a lasting enthusiasm for.' He hesitated. 'I'd offer you a cognac, but since you own the place, I don't suppose I can do that.'
        'I’ll buy you one,' she said.
        He pulled out a chair for her, and she sat.
        A white-jacketed waiter approached and bowed to them.
        Joanna said, 'Yamada-san, burande wo ima omegai, shimasu. Remy Martin.'
         'Hai, hai,' Yamada said. 'Sugu.' He hurried toward the bar at the back of the big room.
        The American had not taken his eyes off her. 'You really do have an extraordinary voice, you know. Better than Martha Tilton, Margaret McCrae, Betty Van-'
        'Ella Fitzgerald?'
        He appeared to consider the comparison, then said, 'Well, she's really not someone you should be compared to.'
        'Oh?'
        'I mean, her style is utterly different from yours. It'd be like comparing oranges to apples.'
        Joanna laughed at his diplomacy. 'So I'm not better than Ella Fitzgerald.'
        He smiled. 'Hell, no.'
        'Good. I'm glad you said that. I was beginning to think you had no standards at all.'
        'I have very high standards,' he said quietly.
        His dark eyes were instruments of power. His unwavering stare seemed to establish an electrical current between them, sending an extended series of pleasant tremors through her. She felt not only as though he had undressed her with his eyes - men had done as much every night that she'd stepped onto the stage - but as though he had stripped her mind bare as well and had discovered, in one minute, everything worth knowing about her, every private fold of flesh and thought. She'd never before met a man who concentrated on a woman with such intensity, as if everyone else on earth had ceased to exist. Again she felt that peculiar combination of uneasiness and pleasure at being the focus of his undivided attention.
        When the two snifters of Remy Martin were served, she used the