Prologue

AS USUAL they were arguing-it was always about money or women or something that had happened in the dim forgotten past, and half the time it was a combination of all three. Hawk was driving, his hands gripped tight around the wheel. Teenochie sat next to him, stiff and erect, a derby perched lightly atop his shaven head. Wheatstraw kept one hand on the doorhandle, and every so often the door itself flew open, prompting cries of "What you doing, you crazy fool, you want to get us all killed?" and a squealing of car brakes.

"What you talking about?" Hawk's voice boomed out unmodulated, filling the automobile as if it were a concert stage. "I been knowing that gal for fifty-two years, and she be doing tricks when I met her. That gal got a cock that's made of whalebone, and your dick better be made of rubber if you want to last the time with her. One time she get a whole orchestra in the studio, and she do 'em all, sometimes two at a time. That's why they call her Ma Grinder. She-it." He chuckled to himself. "That gal keep all the nickels she ever made, she have more money than Rockefeller ever seen."

Wheatstraw giggled, and the door nearly flew open again. He gave his Woody Woodpecker laugh and fished a battered harmonica out of his suitcoat pocket.

"Yeah, yeah, but still and all, she wasn't no whore," Teenochie protested. "She made some good records-"

"Shoot. Just because she whispered sweet nothings in your ear fifty-two years ago!" Hawk rolled down the window and spat contemptuously. "You think every pussy you get has got your name written all over it.