Both the Pratts smiled together. “They broke up in ’52 because the girl was a lesbian,” his wife said. She had gone to Vassar, and Rodney always noticed how small and tight her mouth became whenever she took the initiative from her husband, which was, Rodney had noticed over a period of several dinners and many beer parties with them, very, very often. She was aggressive, in keeping with the Vassar tradition, and seemed to play a very intense, continuous game of one-upmanship with her husband.

“That’s not what happened at all,” her husband said. “After they hit the big time with ‘I Want to Do It,’ it was in ’53, Roscoe started sleeping around. One night she caught him in a hotel room with a chick and razored his face. His face was so cut up he couldn’t go onstage any more. I saw him in Newark in ’64 when he was trying to make a comeback. He still looked razored. He looked bad.”

Rodney felt tight inside, remembering that in ’64 he had been trying desperately to make up for a lifetime of not knowing anything about Baroque. Now he knew all about it and he had never heard of Roscoe and Shirley. “There was an ‘I Remember Rock ’n Roll’ Memorial in Cleveland last week,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Charlie. “Too bad Fatso couldn’t make it. But that was one hell of a song Dirty Rivers made up. Jesus, right on the spot too! Jesus, right on the stage! He sang for almost two hours. Christ! I was lucky to get it taped, the cats went wild. They almost overran the stage.”

“How did you get the tape?” asked Rodney, now vaguely disgusted.

“We knew about the show for months,” Peggy Pratt broke in. “We planned to go but there was an Ashy Williamson Revue in the Village that same night. We couldn’t make both so we called up this guy in Cleveland and got him to tape the show for us.” She paused. “Want to hear it?”

“No,” said Rodney, somewhat flatly. Then he added: “Not right now.”

“Want to hear the Roscoe and Shirley?”

“No.”

“I got a new Baptist group,” said Charlie Pratt. “Some new freedom songs. Lots of finger-poppin’ and hand jive.”

“That’s not my stick,” said Rodney.

“You mean that ain’t your thing,” said Charlie.

“Yeah,” said Rodney. “That’s what I mean.”

IV