The jazz bubbles out the back and front doors, but no one answers the front, and it doesn't take long for Providence to catch the drift that the back entrance is the way to go.  A large man-- stocky, sure, but with a black flannel jacket that makes him look even larger with its single-button stretched over his thick middle-- looks at her over his thick-framed glasses and tips his hat.  "My my,<i>swanky</i>Miss Jean, and how be you this fine evening?"  He grins broadly with gold teeth in his smile and tips his broad-brimmed hat to her.  "And who might you be Miss Tomato, hm?  Coming to enjoy the festivities, or just shake a leg?"<br/><br/>As he sees Fatemeh approach, almost at the same moment, but from a slightly different direction, he tips his head a bit and appraises them.  "Well well, two does going stag, ain't that a shame?  Well, ladies, there will be no shortage of company this evening, lots of dance partners and diversions, party games of all sorts for the private customers... real high-style Joes if you're looking to pet, or even skirts and smarties too, if that's what you're after.  And despite your dress, miss," he says to Fatemeh, "I can see you ain't no Reuben."  He accepts the tip graciously and tips his hat again.  "Miss, I may recommend you dip to the right, there's a ladies' wardrobe of the missus' own keeping with dresses for loan, if you wish to blend in just a bit."  Opening the door, the raucously intoxicating call of trumpets and saxophones echoes out in fantastically energetic dissonance, promising wild, free, fable-strewn times.  "And would the tall drink of brown care to enter as well?"<br/><br/>*<br/><br/>Within the walls, past a short corridor lit by gas fixtures, stands a forty-foot high ceiling of glass over the main room-- ensconced by a balcony at the second vaulted floor, balconies overlook the marble and alabaster dance floor where roulette and poker are played on fine, imported tables of walnut and cherry.  Cash and chips are fluttering and clacking about, and tuxedos and smoking jackets abut high skirts and exposed garters, feather boas, silk scarves, long gloves and hand-carved cigarette holders.  The smell of Cuban tobacco is thick as the night, as is the floral bouquet of rose water and lily splash, undercut by sandalwood and leather.  Antiques and rare imported items perch in every nook, and at the feet of each balcony corner rest blue and white Chinese vases overhead beneath the transluscent white and rose glass dome.  Ferns, flowers, and feathers adorn the place, as do couches and a couple of crowded bars.