Tiger Ragtime by Catrin Collier Page B

‘I’m strictly a small-time business woman. I don’t know anything about nightclubs.’
    ‘Don’t put yourself down. You run a successful bordello –’
    ‘A what?’
    ‘Sorry, American word.’
    ‘You’ve been there so long, you look like a movie star, you talk like a movie star, and the way you’re splashing your money around, you behave like one. When can I expect to see you in the pictures, Aled?’
    ‘Never. I like to keep my face out of the limelight. And, in my black heart, I’ll always be Welsh,’ he joked. ‘You run a brothel …’
    ‘I prefer house , and me and my girls are doing very nicely, thank you. We don’t need any business partners. I made twelve quid last night.’
    He whistled. ‘You must have rolled a couple of drunks to get that much, Anna.’
    ‘Just one. With peculiar tastes,’ she replied honestly.
    ‘I have no intention of muscling in on your house, but the fact that you’re still operating means you know the right people.’
    ‘What if I do?’ she challenged.
    ‘I’ll pay well for introductions.’
    ‘Most of our clients are small-time. Clerks, councillors –’
    ‘Clerks and councillors who work for the big boys. They’ll know which politicians I can pay to jump into my pocket and those who’ll turn a blind eye. They’ll also know who I should avoid. The sooner I get my club up and running the sooner I’ll start turning profits. And these people I need to be introduced to – they may like the odd private party.’
    ‘Introductions and the odd private party – that’s all you want?’ she asked cautiously.
    ‘For the moment. There may be more later.’
    ‘I’ll not work for you or any man. I’m good to my girls and they’re good to me. I answer to no one except myself and I’m not about to change that for all the tea in China, Aled.’
    ‘I’m not going to offer you a job – just commission you to run the odd special party in the upstairs rooms in the club for selected guests.’
    ‘I’ll charge you full rate.’
    ‘I wouldn’t expect you to do otherwise.’
    ‘Now that’s cleared up, I can relax.’ She held out her glass. He reached for the bottle Aiden had left in the ice bucket and refilled it.
    ‘I also need information,’ he added. ‘There was a very pretty young coloured girl singing with one of the jazz bands at the carnival. They were dressed in gold, even the musicians.’
    ‘That would be the Bute Street Blues Band?’ Anna eyed him carefully. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love.’
    ‘I’m looking for a singer for the club. I thought I’d seen the best in America but that girl was better.’
    ‘She’s also respectable. And all the men in the band look out for her. The Chinese drummer has a fearful temper, as does the Arab who plays the trumpet. The white man is pastor of the Norwegian Church, and you can’t get any more respectable than that. And the three tall West Indian Negroes are her uncles and they watch her like a hawk.’
    ‘What else do you know about her?’ he probed.
    ‘Her name’s Judy Hamilton, although I’ve heard she sometimes uses King nowadays, which was her mother’s maiden name. Her father’s a drunk and a sailor. I think she’s only seen him twice in her life, and the last time he robbed her of everything she owned. She’s nice as well as respectable. I’ve sold her a couple of evening frocks over the years. Her share of the money the band pulls in playing the pubs and clubs around the Bay doesn’t amount to much. But saying that, she hasn’t bought much off me lately. She moved in with Edyth Slater who took over Goldman’s bakery just before last Christmas; works for her too when she isn’t playing with the band. And, if it’s a band you’re after, you could do worse than the Bute Street Blues. But they’re not professional and I doubt they’d work for you full-time. Steve Chan – the drummer – runs his father’s laundry; as I said, Micah Holsten – the