The two of them tumble, glittering, out of the Detroit rain and into Cliff Bell’s nightclub, where they’re greeted by the snap of a hi-hat cymbal and the snarl of a snare drum. A few errant notes on a saxophone soundtrack the couple as they settle into a discreet corner booth, gazing through the thick, dark air at each handmade tile that makes up the mythical stage until two tall, fizzing glasses are brought to the table. They toast to their future and that of their tenacious city.