11: 36 pm

A small crowd had gathered around the bar as Alfred skillfully juggled three silver drink mixers. In awe they gaped as he tossed one above his head and spun two others in one hand, and caught the airborne mixer in the other. He slammed all three on the counter, opened them, and poured them into several glasses that had been lined up within seconds.

A roaring round of applause went up from his spectators. He took two deep, cheesy bows, then passed along the drinks: a sidecars for the gentlemen in blue and white shirts, highball for the old man with the pencil mustache, and a dry appletini for the pretty Belgian girl.

He sent them off with a smile and began to wipe up the droplets that had spilled onto the counter from the shakers. As he did so, a large man in a white shirt took a seat at the bar.

"Howdy! What can I getcha?"

"Beer, please. Just beer."

"Draft or bottle, buddy?"

The man hesitated. "Draft."

Alfred gave a clap. "Comin' right up." As he filled a tall class from the tap, he peered at the man out the corner of his eye. Tall, muscular, pale blonde hair smoothed back evenly against his head. Blue eyes, strong jaw, and looking horribly awkward. Alfred placed the foamy golden beverage on a Union Jack cardboard coaster and slid it over. "Anything else I can get for ya?"

The man shook his head. "No. Thank you."

Boy, he's a real talker, huh? Al thought to himself. However, Alfred F. Jones was a natural conversationalist. He loved to talk, though he wasn't always the best at reading the mood. "So, what brings you here tonight?"

He looked up from his beer. "Ah. My older brother, he plays here. In the band." His accent was thick, definitely German. "He wanted me to come tonight."

"Which one's your brother?" Alfred asked.

"Gilbert. Gilbert Beilschmidt. The cellist."

Alfred gave him a toothy smile. "No kidding, huh? Then you must be Luddy, the pilot guy!" He shot out his hand eagerly. "Alfred F. Jones, Kirkland's resident hero of bartending. Nice to meetcha."

"Luddy" was apprehensive, but he cautiously reached out and took Al's hand in a firm shake. "Ludwig. A pleasure."

"You ever heard your bro on that cello? He's amazing! All the boys here are amazing. Well, boys and girl. Lizzie's our little songbird. She's practically our mascot. Sort of. Don't think she'd really appreciate being called a mascot, hahaha!" he chuckled loudly. Ludwig stared at him. "Well, drink up, pal. They start in 5. It's one helluva show, lemme tell you."

Ludwig nodded, then turned toward the stage. Shortly, the lights above the stage began to brighten as the rest dimmed. Brass shone brilliantly as musicians got into position. Gilbert stood by Roderich at the piano, testing the strings on his cello as Roderich stretched his hands. The handsome Austrian stood and held up a hand to the band. They raised their instruments to their lips. He waved his hand once, twice, thrice, and the magic began with the heavy thump of bass drum.

Suddenly the bar came alive with the sounds of big band swing, trumpets blared, clarinets hummed, cymbals clashed, and Gilbert, fingers plucking his strings, began to sway dramatically with the music, grinning broadly. People rose from their tables and clustered before the stage in pairs, twisting and twirling and shaking with one another to the beat.

Behind the bar, Alfred tapped his feet and tried to fight the urge to dance. He failed. Soon he was boogying like a madman in the narrow space between the bar and the shelves loaded with drink bottles, oblivious to everything but his own wild dance moves and the music.

When the song faded out, a cacophony of mad applause and cheering rose up from the dancers and the drinkers. Gilbert, ever the ham, took deep bows, and kissed the neck of his cello like a nurse in Times Square. From his seat, Ludwig clapped civilly, but he was smiling the smile of a proud man. It made Alfred happy.

During the several other sets that followed, Jones was up to his cowlick in orders. Tipsy women cackled in herds at the bar and fluttered their eyelids at Alfred, while tipsy men tried and failed to hit on the tipsy women. By now, he'd worked up a sweat. Bartending wasn't easy.

"Oy, Alley-cat, gimme a tall cold one, and hurry it up. I'm dyin' over here."

"Keep your pants on, Gil! I got my hands full." Alfred shook his head at Gilbert's obnoxious cackle. In a free moment, he filled up another beer glass and sent it over.

"Son of a bitch! West, is that you? You bastard, you made it!"

Looks like Gilbert found Luddy, Alfred mused as he fixed up a round of mint juleps. The bar now cleared, he replaced Ludwig's once-again empty glass with a freshly filled one.

"Al, you met my little brother, right? The one I'm always tellin' you about!"

"We've met. Who do you think gave me my beer?" Ludwig asked, giving his brother a stern look. Gilbert ignored him.

"So what'd you think of the show, West? I'm pretty awesome with that cello, huh?"

"Very nice. I enjoyed it."

"It was kickass! I'm telling you, Bruder, you should come more often. Beats working all the time. Gotta let loose; it ain't healthy!" Ludwig sighed. The conversation went the same each time he came to watch Gilbert play. "I got another set to play in a few hours. Lizzie's gonna sing. You remember Lizzie, don't you? You gotta stay for that."

Gilbert rambled on to his brother, talking up his performances with the border-line narcissistic passion of a young musician. Meanwhile, Al started packing dirty glasses into plastic tubs for the soft-spoken Lithuanian busboy, Toris, to pick up. As he did so, he spied Arthur, arms crossed, leaning on the doorjamb of his office, casting a long, suspicious look at Ludwig, before mysteriously disappearing back inside.

Alfred wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

I'm not sure where this is going at this point. I'm really not.

Also, the song the band played was "Sing, Sing, Sing" by Benny Goodman, one of the more famous songs of the Big Band era. I highly recommend giving it a listen.