Charlie Pratt smiled. “Plenty,” he said.

After more beer and argument all around, and after playing Williamson’s oldest and latest LP’s by way of proof, it was decided that they should put it to a vote. Both the Pratts were of the same mind: Ashy Williamson was better than Dirty Rivers. The two fellows on the floor agreed with them. And also one of the girls. The other girl, however, the skinny brunette who had reconciled her beat to Rodney’s, observed that she had been raised on Rivers and felt, absolutely, that he had had in the past, and still had now, a very good thing going for him. But Rodney was not impressed. She had crooked teeth and was obviously out to flatter her date with her maintenance of an independent mind in spite of her looks. Rodney turned to Lynn, still sitting cross-legged and exposed on the floor, but saving Rodney from utilizing his cautioning eye by having the beer can conveniently placed between her open legs. “Well, what do you say?” he asked, standing over her in his usual way.

She looked up at him. Casually sipping her beer, she considered for a long moment. The room was now very quiet, the last cut having been played on the Williamson record. The only sound was Lynn sipping her beer. It grated in Rodney’s mind. The only movement was Charlie Pratt doing his rubber shift from foot to foot. That also irritated Rodney. “Well?” he said.

Lynn placed the can between her legs again, very carefully and neatly. “Dirty Rivers is an old man,” she said.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“He’s got nothing new going for him, bay-bee,” she said in a way that told Rodney she had made up her mind about it long before her opinion had been asked. She looked up at Rodney, her face resolved and, it seemed to him, slightly victorious.

“There you go, mother,” Charlie said.

Rodney could see them all smiling at him, even Lynn, even the ugly brunette who had reconciled. He sat down on the sofa and said nothing.

“Now I’ll play my new Roscoe and Shirley for you,” Charlie told the others.

“Wasn’t she a lesbian?” one of the fellows asked.

“Absolutely not!” said Charlie Pratt.