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happen.
    Fred Lee nudged Bessie gently, “That’s it, baby … you’ll be lucky if you see Mil uhh Kanoon, again ’til Friday. We better git on outta here so I can get up tomorrow.”
    Bessie laughed out loud, a fine gin ’n Squirt film clouding her vision, good vibes and her man cooling out all negatives. They made their way through the crowd, portions of it milling around as though they had been led astray, while others sat, patiently waiting, hoping that Kanoon, after the “girl” and the woman, would return for another set.
    It was never possible to know what was going to happen in the Pot, mainly because the place belonged to Kanoon, or possibly, as rumor had it, to one of his numerous lady-friends. It was said that Kanoon, weeks after his opening, got onstage one night and explained, in no uncertain terms, what the policy of the Pot was going to be. The versions varied with the people telling the story, but it was generally agreed that he had said that the Pot would be on from Monday to Saturday, that it might only be simmering sometimes, to allow the amateur cooks a chance with their unorthodox recipes but, for the most part, they would be cookin’!… everything that was musically edible.
    Bessie and Fred Lee struggled into their coats in the crowded foyer of the club and then eased out into the cold night. Bessie held Fred Lee’s arm, fending off competition with the move, admiring her man’s wide-brimmed, silver crowned hat, his full, beaver brush mustache and the peacockish way he carried imself.
    He broke into laughter as they walked.
    â€œWhat’s funny, baby?” she asked him, already smiling, the contagion spreading.
    â€œI was hahhhahhahhh I was thinkin’ about one night, remember? one night at the Pot when Kanoon came onstage, sat down and started readin’ the newspaper.”
    Bessie’s laughter echoed his, “Yeahhh! yeahhh! I remember that!”
    â€œWhat was it he said when people got pissed off and started fat mouthin’ ’im?!”
    â€œWell, aside from callin’ the people in the audience a bunch o’ stupid motherfuckers and tin-eared baboons and a bunch o’ other ol’ weird-ass things he said … he said.…”
    â€œOh, I remember if Beethoven was up here, you wouldn’t be askin’ him to perform on cue, like a fuckin’ trained seal or somethin’, so why should I? or somethin’ like that, and walked off the stage.”
    Bessie shook her head, “Kanoon is crazy as hell.”
    â€œReally!” Fred Lee agreed, “but that motherfucker be playin’ a whole lotta music.”
    Fred Lee slowed his step, thoughtfully checking out the dark areas on the street ahead of him, alert for midnight fliers, delinquents and the pigs. “Uhh,” he continued, satisfied that the way was safe, “uhh, yeah, yeah, I guess you could say he was crazy, in a way. But dig what the dude done did. First thing he did, which was really superslick, right after he made a lil’ bread off his first few albums, was to buy a club, right in the neighborhood.”
    â€œWell, you know what they say ’bout that, ’bout who got the club for him?”
    â€œUhh huh, yeah, well, that may be true. But the fact remains, the dude got a place to play his own music, I mean, like he can git funky as a motherfucker up in the Pot and ain’t got to answer to nobody No-body!”
    â€œI hadn’t really thought about it like that.”
    â€œYeah, dig it! I was standin’ ’round, me ’n Jake the Fake.”
    â€œYou ’n who?” Bessie eyed him suspiciously.
    Fred Lee smiled and lowered his hand to pat her affectionately on the rump.
    â€œI said me ’n Jake the Fake, baby but don’t be gettin’ all excited ’n shit. I ran into him one evenin’ and we stopped for a taste in the Pot. No, baby no deals, no schemes, we just stopped for