At the Trinidad Club

Another tale by Bob Dvorak

Bill knocked on the door. A brass plaque read, “Arthur Jackson, General Manager”. A rich baritone invited him in. As he entered the 18th-floor corner office, a handsome man wearing his best Palm Springs casuals strode forward.

“Thank you for coming, Bill.” Art motioned to the bar, waved at a plush chair, and took another beside it. “As I indicated on the phone, I’m having a bit of musician problem. According to my bandleader, their professionalism is being hijacked by the costumes of the showgirls, and the music is less than the perfection I demand at the Trinidad Club.”

Bill outlined some ideas, they conversed for a while, and he finally said, “Give me a computer and quiet and I’ll be back in a half- hour.”

Thirty minutes later he was back. “I believe I’ve solved your problem. I’ve put together an eighteen-piece all-female orchestra. While nothing’s guaranteed, they’re less likely to be distracted.”

“That fast?” asked Art. “I’d heard you had connections but I hadn’t realized they were that good.”

“No problem,” replied Bill. “Amazing what you can do these days with broadband access.”

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