I arrived early and was relaxing with the bartender when three couples arrived. They asked when the music starts and I said in 90 minutes but come in, have a drink, and you literally will have your own private club. “Capiche?” They bought it, settled in nicely, and became the anchor store to the diverse jazz mall of customers we would be adding. The music started and the quintet pulled everything together. The band was into a Freddie Hubbard tune when two attractive young women stepped outside to smoke. They were out there less than a minute and I had a bad sense, stepped outside, and was greeted by a street person with an “Excuse me sir, can I ask you something?” (always a lame intro to a request for money). As The Doorman, one would expect a snappy response, but I responded with: Sure, ask away. So, he hands me 97-cents and says that he needs $2.25 to take the bus. (O.K., someone explain why panhandlers always need money to get somewhere? They need to “get home” or to another city to “visit my sick aunt.” If a panhandler leveled with me and said, “I need money to get drunk or to buy a twist or a rock,” I’d probably say, Here’s 20 toward your goal—good luck.). I handed his change back and said I can’t help and promptly went inside. Then it dawned on me that I left two cuties out there with the I-need-bus-fare guy, so I quickly went back outside and the panhandler scruff was gone. I apologized to the damsels in potential distress who were chuckling about the whole affair. One of them formed her sweet soft lips into a sneer, blew smoke out, and said, “Don’t worry, if he’d tried to pull anything we would have kicked his ass.” I looked at both of them and could tell only a fool would ever cross either of them. I went back inside and knew that, with them out front, the club is safer than ever.