A shapely blonde with sequinned bustiere and marcelled perm, heavy mascara and violet eyes climbs to the stage and sings Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man, sweet and low; tears dampen the red-and-white checked tablecloths in several corners.

Faintly heard through the baffled walls, from the city street beyond, a muffled shot is heard. But the talk, the laughter, the hum of sophisticated conversation, and the echos of the band members warming up for their next number are not interrupted, sweeping over the crude interruption like a rising tide of bonhomie fueled by bathtub gin.