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through a gap in the curtain. “Not bad, huh?”
    Not bad at all. The floor was packed; they had even set up tables in the bar to accommodate more patrons. He hadn’t seen such a full house in the entire six months he’d been playing here.
    “Look up front. See the guy with all the hair? Isn’t that Wooley?”
    Ben scanned the front row. Sure enough, there he was. John Wooley, jazz critic for the World . Ben recognized him from his photo in the paper.
    “He’s the one we want to please,” Gordo whispered, moving away from the curtain.
    “We want to please them all,” Ben corrected.
    “Well, yeah, right.” Gordo hoisted his guitar and strummed a chord. “But you know what I mean.”
    Ben nodded. He did. “For that matter, I saw notepads in several laps. I bet Wooley isn’t the only critic in the crowd.”
    “There’s more?” Ben immediately realized his mistake. Gordo’s facial expression suggested extreme airsickness.
    “On the other hand,” Ben said, “they may just be waiting to get your autograph.”
    “Oh,” Gordo said. His face relaxed a bit. “Well, that ain’t so bad. Anyone got a pen?”
    Scat lowered his shades a fraction. “I expect your groupies brought their own, Gordo.”
    “Oh. Yeah, right.” He settled back on his stool and practiced the opening ten bars.
    “Are you boys ready?” Uncle Earl asked from the wings.
    “Ready,” they shouted back—all except Ben. Ben had just noticed that, once again, the piano was bathed in darkness. He couldn’t even see the set list, much less make out all his chord notations.
    “Just a minute,” Ben said as he climbed onto the piano bench, but it was too late. Earl had already switched on the backstage mike and begun his warmup spiel.
    “Good evening, sweet ladies and gentle men,” he boomed out. The crowd yipped and whistled in response. “Good evening, hustlers and hobos, rustlers with your mojos. We got a super-special spectacular for you tonight.”
    The crowd roared. Ben continued groping for the overhead stage light.
    “We got a show like no show you’ve ever seen before,” Earl continued. “We got living legends up here on this stage. We got the funksterators and tricknologists and true mu-jicians. We got more excitement than a D.A.’s indictment. Are you ready?”
    The crowd shouted back: “Yes!”
    Earl’s voice swelled. “I said, are you ready?”
    “ Yes! ”
    “All right then, brothers and sisters. He-e-e-ere we go!” Earl gave the signal, and the curtains parted.
    Thunderous applause erupted as the curtains split apart, revealing three musicians poised behind their instruments and one shortish white kid standing on the piano bench with his arms overhead groping for a light fixture.
    The downstage lights hit Ben and he froze. Oh my God, he thought, suddenly realizing there were about a billion eyes out there—all of them staring at him. They must think I’m a total moron. He stayed right where he was, not moving, not sure what to do.
    “Sit down!” Earl hissed from the side of the stage.
    The other three musicians also appeared not particularly thrilled with the onstage state of affairs. Normally they would start playing as soon as the curtains parted, but Scat could hardly give the signal while their pianist was standing on the bench with his arms flung up like some perverse sun worshiper.
    “Sit down!” Denny barked from behind the drum set.
    “Like now!” Gordo spat out. His voice trembled a bit. Obviously, this unforeseen wrinkle was making them all nervous, Gordo worst of all.
    Ben couldn’t decide what to do, and his indecision was only prolonging the moment and making it worse than it already was. His heart was racing.
    “Sit down!” Earl bellowed again.
    Easy to say, Ben thought, but he couldn’t play in the dark. He pushed up on his tippie-toes and reached for the large flat overhead light fixture.
    “Leave it alone!” Earl shouted. He had gone long past stage whispers now. His voice echoed