"I want you to get on your knees, eat my pussy like a rat eat cheese."

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Eddie was committed to partying and "acting crazy" as a way of life. Attempts to get him to "clean up his place" (translation: "get rid of the niggers") were greeted by him with total contempt. He antagonized police, other club owners, and anyone else he considered "square," and reveled in his own defiant stance. After two in the morning, when bars are supposed to be clear of patrons, he would lock the door, draw the curtains, and party with the players, laughing, loud-talking, snorting cocaine, and serving drinks after hours. "Ready Eddie," as he was known, presided over what he proudly dubbed "the Toilet of the Street." He had no intention of running a square or respectable joint and was furious at the predictable official attempts to force him into compliance. "They just want to get my friends out of here," he would bellow, "they don't want no niggers on their street. Well, fuck them punks in the asshole!" This attitude was well appreciated and respected.

She had turned the bathtub into a trampoline for the gymnastics of sex

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"Hey, you ever hear that Jelly Roll Morton stuff where he tells Lomax how the old studs used to put each other down?"

"I got those records, man," Shaft said, pouring vodka into the three glasses, splashing tonic down on them and hunting around for a lime.

Sure he had those records. Anybody who knew anything about music and black men had them. Jelly Roll sitting there at the piano telling Lomax what it was like in New Orleans and all the other places. Jelly's foot tapping, his voice grinding gravel for the tape. Nickerson meant the scene where Jelly tells how a confrontation was built on a crescendo of threats and outrageous warnings. It was funky, old-fashioned nigger talk that Lomax made part of history by recording for the Library of Congress. Shaft cried when he read Lomax' book years ago. Somebody at NYU turned him on to it. He laughed when he heard the records. Jelly Roll, so fucking proud and beautiful. Finally stabbed to death in a Washington, D.C., bar by some other cat. Argument over a woman. That was a good way for Jelly Roll to die. The only way. He got the bottle of Johnnie Walker and poured himself another drink and poured a shot of straight vodka for Nickerson.

"Jelly Roll," Shaft toasted.

They wantonly danced to the funky band’s erotic pound

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He knew he was never going back to school. The education he sought was hidden away in the minds of those boss players who frequented Milwaukee’s jazz joints and cabarets. Beck was determined to infiltrate these clubs and steal secrets from well-heeled pimps. As a minor, he had always managed to talk his way out of prison, but he was a legal adult now, and for his next offense he would likely be sent to the Wisconsin State Reformatory. Mary’s absence gave Beck the perfect chance to explore the gambling dens and taverns in Milwaukee’s red-light district. He had neither the money nor the flash to try to break luck at any of the big-name clubs like the Congo Club and the 711 Club, so he made for the underground speakeasies instead. In one unnamed dive, Beck found a fraternity among a group of has-been pimps and gamblers. The old men had enjoyed moments of glory as the neighborhood’s top asskickers, but now they were broken down from a lifetime of prison, drugs, and scheming. They had stories to tell, though, and Beck memorized as many of them as he could.

doing a real funky bop, just about fucking on the dance floor

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After a while I got tired of church and hip to the Reverend. He was the biggest crook in the neighborhood. Leading all those people on about how him and God is pals and they got to show their faith by contributing to the church fund. Shit, that old bastard had a big house and a new Cadillac every year. And later, after he'd collected over fifty thousand dollars for the church, he just split-left L.A. with the loot and never returned. Most of the dudes who went to church did it to get off on the girls. I'd go to laugh at the preacher. He'd get to lying like old Reverend Monroe about how he'd talked to God in the woods, waving his arms around, saying God told him he was one of the Chosen Few ordained personally to spread His message. He'd go on and on misquoting the bible and comparing himself with Moses. Unable to stifle my laughs, I'd sometimes burst out right in the middle of the service. Then this hick would roll his eyes back to the other side of his head and start another lie about how the devil was right there among us.

Panama Paul sang, “Some black snake is sucking my rider's tongue...”

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there are more liquor stores, more churches, more whorehouses, more lying, more laughter, more screwing, fighting and footracing, more numbers players, more freeloaders, more sports, more bars, more jukeboxes, more jazz, more crime, more chitterlings eaten, more singing and dancing, more knife-toting and loud-mouthing, more praying and shouting, more credit-buying, more ducking and dodging the collectors, more worrying and complaining, and with all of that more fun to be had than in any other city in the world.

“I hear Mamie has cancer in her rectum,” some woman whispered. 

“That wouldn't surprise me, dear,” her companion whispered back. 

“She's been named correspondent in you-know-whose divorce.” 

“I know, it took place right here on this very sofa.” 

“I heard he was a homo.” 

“Little difference that makes to Mamie, as long as he is rich and white and has a thing.” 

 “Don't be too sure about the thing, dear.” Her companion laughed cattily.