He has a clarinet player named Little Brother, and loves to listen to anything he does. He’ll smile and say, “Beautiful!” Little Brother takes a step forward when he plays and stands at the very front, with the whites of his eyes like fishes swimming. Once when he played a low note, Powerhouse muttered in dirty praise, “He went clear downstairs to get that one!”

After a long time, he holds up the number of fingers to tell the band how many choruses still to go—usually five. He keeps his directions down to signals.

It’s a bad night outside. It’s a white dance, and nobody dances, except a few straggling jitterbugs and two elderly couples. Everybody just stands around the band and watches Powerhouse. Sometimes they steal glances at one another, as if to say, Of course, you know how it is with them—Negroes—band leaders—they would play the same way, giving all they’ve got, for an audience of one. . . . When somebody, no matter who, gives everything, it makes people feel ashamed for him.

Late at night they play the one waltz they will ever consent to play—by request, “Pagan Love Song.” Powerhouse’s head rolls and sinks like a weight between his waving shoulders. He groans, and his fingers drag into the keys heavily, holding on to the notes, retrieving. It is a sad song.

“You know what happened to me?” says Powerhouse.

Valentine hums a response, dreaming at the bass.

“I got a telegram my wife is dead,” says Powerhouse, with wandering fingers.

“Uh-huh?”

His mouth gathers and forms a barbarous O while his fingers walk up straight, unwillingly, three octaves.

“Gypsy? Why how come her to die, didn’t you just phone her up in the night last night long distance?”

“Telegram say—here the words: Your wife is dead.” He puts 4/4 over the 3/4.

“Not but four words?” This is the drummer, an unpopular boy named Scoot, a disbelieving maniac.

Powerhouse is shaking his vast cheeks. “What the hell was she trying to do? What was she up to?”

“What name has it got signed, if you got a telegram?” Scoot is spitting away with those wire brushes.

Little Brother, the clarinet player, who cannot now speak, glares and tilts back.

“Uranus Knockwood is the name signed.” Powerhouse lifts his eyes open. “Ever heard of him?” A bubble shoots out on his lip like a plate on a counter.

Valentine is beating slowly on with his palm and scratching the strings with his long blue nails. He is fond of a waltz. Powerhouse interrupts him.

“I don’t know him. Don’t know who he is.” Valentine shakes his head with the closed eyes.

“Say it agin.”

“Uranus Knockwood.”

“That ain’t Lenox Avenue.”

“It ain’t Broadway.”

“Ain’t ever seen it wrote out in any print, even for horse racing.”

“Hell, that’s on a star, boy, ain’t it?” Crash of the cymbals.