"You bastard! Is that all? You couldn't even hold your hot little rod!"

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"White folks! Shit!"

"White folks?"

"Bringing their frantic selves uptown."

"What they doing?"

"Looking around, is all, waiting for something to happen. Oh, niggers are so exciting, always raping and killing each other!"

"How many are they?"

"Three couples. Pasty-faced men and high-class chippies with their titties hanging out. Oh, here come old pasty-faced Charlie now."

"Are you Ludlow Washington?"

"Sure. What you want?"

"I've seen you playing lots of times. Anyway we're having a party later on and we'd like you to come if you want to."

"This is Norman Spencer. You heard of him?"

"Sure I heard of him. God! It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Spencer. I have every one of your records."

"You got all my records, boss? You do me an honor. Thank you, boss. Thank you very much — boss."

"God, Mister Spencer, I should thank you for making them."

"Oh, no, boss. Poor old colored jazz music player like me shouldn't never get thanked by no white man, boss. You the boss, boss."

"You want Mister Spencer to come too?"

"Yes, if he would. We have a grand piano."

"A grand piano, boss? Really, a grand piano? I ain't never played on them. Only played a whorehouse upright piano in my life. Imagine old Norman T. Spencer on a real live grand piano—"

"All right, we'll be there."

"God, this is really wonderful. Thanks, Mister Washington. Thanks, Mister Spencer."

"We oughta round up twenty of the worst cutthroats we can find and loot that fancy address, chandeliers and all."