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that. He said it was cheap. He said singers who did that were acrobats.
    Rags opened his eyes. His smile went away, and he lifted his hands from the keys and laid them in his lap. He didn’t curse. He didn’t yell. For a minute he hardly seemed to move, and the silence was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Then he motioned for her to come over to the piano. She hesitated, then went over, kind of dragging her feet, sullen and hard-faced, and watchful-looking.
    And then Rags reamed her out—real hard. It was pretty rough.
    She took her place again. Rags brought his hands down on the keys, and she began to sing. I moved in close. Rags gave me a little nod. I stood up close, drinking her voice in, drinking her in.
    She finished the song. Without thinking how it might seem to Rags—like I might be butting in, you know—I busted out clapping. It had been so nice, I just had to.
    Rags’ eyes narrowed. Then he grinned and made a gesture toward me. “Okay, baby, take off,” he said. “You’ve passed the acid test.”
    I guess he meant it as kind of an insult. Just to her, of course, because he and I are good friends, and always kidding around a lot. Anyway, she started down at me—and gosh, I’d forgot all about what a mess I was. And then she whirled around, bent over and stuck out her bottom at me. Kind of wiggled at me.
    Rags let out a whoop. He whooped with laughter, banging his fists down on the top of the piano. Making so much noise that you couldn’t hear what she was yelling, although I guess it was mostly cuss words.
    He was still whooping and pounding as she marched back across the bandstand, and down the steps to the dressing room.
    I grinned, or tried to. Feeling a little funny naturally, but not at all mad.

3
Rags McGuire
    I saw her for the first time about four months ago. It was in a place in Fort Worth, far out on West Seventh Street. I wasn’t looking for her or it, or anything. I’d just started walking that night, and when I’d walked as far as I could I was in front of this place. So I went inside.
    There was a small bar up front. In the rear was a latticed-off, open roof area, with a lot of tables and a crowd of beer drinkers. I sat down and ordered a stein.
    The waitress came with it. Another woman came right behind her, and helped herself to a chair. She was a pretty wretched-looking bag; not that it would have meant anything to me if she hadn’t been. I gave her a couple bucks, and said no, thanks. She went away, and the three-piece group on the bandstand—sax, piano and drums—went back to work.
    They weren’t good, of course, but they were Dixieland. They played the music, and that’s something. They played the music—or tried to—and these days that’s really something.
    They did Sugar Blues and Wang Wang, and Goofus. There was a kitty on the bandstand, a replica of a cat’s hat with a PLEASE FEED THE sign. So, at intermission, I sent the waitress up with a twenty-dollar bill.
    I didn’t notice that it was a twenty until it was in her hand. I’d meant to make it a five—which was a hell of a lot more than I could afford. Anything was a lot more than I could afford. But she already had it, and you don’t hear the music much any more. So I let it go.
    The waitress pointed me out to them. They all stood up and smiled and bowed to me, and for a moment I was stupid enough to think that they knew who I was. For, naturally, they didn’t. They don’t know you any more if you play the music. Only the players of crap, the atonal clash-bang off-key stuff that Saint Vitus himself couldn’t dance to. To these lads I was just a big spender. That’s all I was to anyone in the place.
    I saw the waitress go over to a table in the corner. There was a man seated at it, facing me, a guy with a beer-bleared face and a suit that must have cost all of eighteen dollars. There was also a girl, her back turned my way. The waitress whispered to her, and the girl got up. Her companion made noises