A few days later when he again went to the club there was a lean brown man, zulu-haired and with a thin line of mustache, standing at the bar talking with the bartender. Spurgeon nodded and went straight to the piano. All the way down he had been hearing music in his head and now he sat and played it. Bach. The Well-Tempered Clavier. And then bits and pieces from French Suites and Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue.

In a little while the lean brown man came over with two scotches-and-milk.

“You play big long-hair piano.” He held out a glass.

Spurgeon took it and smiled. “Thanks.”

“You know how do something little more relaxed?”

He took a sip and then set the glass down and did a little Shearing.

The man pulled a chair over to the lower part of the keyboard and his left hand took over the bass and his right hand sneaked in on the harmony and Spur moved over and began to work on the treble keys in improvisations that became wilder as the bass demanded it by setting a faster pace. The bartender stopped polishing glasses and just listened. First one of them dominated, then the other. They fought it out until sweat glistened on their faces, and when they stopped by mutual agreement Spur felt as though he had been running a long way through a rainstorm.

He held out his hand and it was slapped.

“Spurgeon Robinson.”

“Speed Nightingale.”

“Oh. This music box is yours.”

“Hell it is. Belongs to the place. I’m just a hired hand. Thanks for tuning it, sucker. I haven’t sounded this good for a long time.”

They moved to a table and Spurgeon bought a round.

“Bunch of us get together and jam all the time, early mornings, little place on Columbus Avenue, down there in the housing project. Apartment 4-D, Building 11. Real music. Come on over.”

“Hey.” He took out his notebook and wrote down the address. “I’m going to do that.”

“Yeah. We play a little, burn a few, have a ball. You want to turn on, somebody usually brings some good stuff.”

“I don’t use it.”

“Not none of it?”

He shook his head.

Nightingale shrugged. “Come anyhow. We’re democratic.”

“Okay.”

“Good stuff harder to get in this town than a good gig, lately.”

“That right?”

“Yeah. Understand you’re a doctor.”

“Who told you that?” Behind the bar the man studiously polished glassware. Spur waited. In a moment it came, as by now he knew it would.

“Bring some stuff to one of our little sessions, we sure would appreciate it.”

“Now, where would I get it, Speed?”

“Hell, everybody knows all kinds of stuff just layin’ around in hospitals. Nobody goin’ to miss just a little bit. Are they, Doc?”

Spurgeon stood and dropped a bill on the table.