Free Signal Red by Robert Ryan

no big names on the bill that night, just homegrown talent. This meant the club was relatively quiet, which suited Bruce, who had called the meet, just fine.
    He sat at the rear, at one of only two rough tables, alternating watching the band with admiring the woman sitting on a stool next to Ronnie in her black, sleeveless and mostly backless dress, smoking a cigarette as if it were an erotic act. Actually, the way Janie Riley smoked a Sobranie was an erotic act. She could get a slot at Raymond's Revue Bar, just by lighting up and blowing smoke, any night of the week.
    Charlie Wilson came and sat down next to Bruce and ordered a beer. He listened to the band for a few moments with his face screwed into concentration. 'When does the tune start?'
    'About one a.m. usually,' said Bruce. The club was only licensed until eleven - for the first few months of its life the strongest drinks on offer were coffee or a lemon tea - but musicians often gathered after-hours, especially tyros looking for impromptu tuition and false-fingering tips from Ronnie.
    'I had to join to get in,' Charlie complained. 'Never had to join a club in me life.'
    'It's in a good cause.' Bruce had often spoken to the guv'nor, as they called Ronnie, and knew how precarious it was running a jazz club. Ronnie claimed he and his partner got together on Sunday afternoon every week and decided whether they could afford to reopen on Monday or if they should just hand back the keys. Their hunger for cash meant that getting past Pete King on the door without shelling out for membership was a feat in itself, even for a hard man like Charlie. 'Besides, there's one thing you never get in here.'
    Charlie cocked an ear to the spiky runs coming from the stage. 'Melody?' he offered.
    Bruce had to smile. 'Old Bill.'
    Charlie grunted. It was true that most of the clip joints, strip clubs and drinking dens in Soho were subject to random visits by coppers, either looking for information or a few quid. Some of the West End Central boys were regulars at the Flamingo, Murray's Cabaret and the Kismet. So were various politicians, judges, hacks, and even members of the clergy, the hypocritical bastards. But the kind of real jazz played at Ronnie's kept most of them away.
    'Where've you been?' Bruce asked.
    There was no reply. Charlie had clocked Janie Riley and was craning his neck. Bruce was well aware that Charlie was a fervent family man, doting on Pat and his daughters, but once in Soho he would take a run at anything that didn't have a dick between its legs.
    'Oi. Get your eyes off her. Where've you been?'
    'Geisha Club.'
    That was round the corner in Old Compton Street, a mix of a cabaret and a hostess bar that, like Murray's, turned a blind eye to how the girls earned a little extra on the side. Charlie, of course, never paid for any of the 'specials'.
    'Anything happening?'
    'New act called Ding Dong Belle,' said Charlie, taking a slug of his drink. 'Covered in these little bells. She lets you ring them as they come off. Ends up with just three. You can guess where.' He was looking at Janie Riley again, his eyes glistening with lust. 'She's really nice. Classy. Looks like Audrey Hepburn - only after a good feed-up.'
    Roy was the last of the three to enter the club, just as Stan Tracey gave his final two-fisted flurry of Monk. Ronnie grabbed the microphone and waited for the applause to fade. 'That was Stan Tracey, the thinking man's Winifred Atwell, with Tony Crombie on drums and Mr Jeff Clyne on bass. There will be a short break now while we give the piano the kiss of life. We'll be back in fifteen minutes when we will be auditioning a young saxophone-player called Ronnie Scott. Please treat him kindly as he only got his horn out of hock today. If any of you blokes want something to eat after the show I can recommend a Chinese place called Yung Poon Tang along the street. If you want food, try our sandwiches. After all, a million flies can't be wrong.' He flashed a lopsided