He takes off his gloves, then reaches inside his motorcycle jacket and extracts a flask.

"Whatcha got there?"

"Johnny Walker Red. Want some?"

"Yeah, sure, I've never tasted Red before."

"Take a slug." He hands me the flask.

I hold the open flask under my nose and sniff it. Ahhh, yes. That's Scotch, alright. I'd know that olfactory experience anywhere.

Suddenly it is 1987 and we are at Fitzgerald's. Lightnin is fucked up on cocaine and far too many Lone Stars and I am soaring somewhere high above the crowd on wings of Ecstasy, anchored to this earth only by the shot of Johnny Walker Black in my hand.

There's a chick on the bandstand gyrating to the music and circling around Lightnin as he plays, enticing him with every drunken lunge. She's pretty fucked up. She keeps falling into the cymbals.

I take a sip out of the flask. Zowie! That shit's got a whang to it. Not like the Black at all. Burns all the way down. Zaps the sinus passages and leaves a funny aftertaste. A grimace forms around my mouth as I force the vile stuff down my throat.

The crowd is going wild. The band is playing some kickass number, some swing tune from the '40s. The horns are wailing and Lightnin is pumping out the rhythm. When he can, I mean. When that chick's not falling into his drumming apparati.

Now the Shamettes are getting into the act. Three more women in various forms of undress rush onto the stage to take their rightful place in the spotlight. Funny how shit like that gets started. One night somebody gets up there because they're drunk outta their minds and want to show off a little. Bert comments on it over the mic and dubs them the "Shamettes". It's a big hit. Thereafter they feel they must make an appearance at every show.

There are whistles and catcalls for the Shamettes. The Shamettes really get into their act and boogie down as never before. Behind them the first chick loses her balance, falls into Lightnin's lap, and knocks him winding.

K E E - R A S H !!!

Lightnin hits the floor with the chick on top of him. The throne leaps from under him and takes down the high hat. Crash, bang, whang, clang! Down come the rest of the cymbals.

BR is freaking out. A look of panic crosses his face. He keeps singing into the mic but his head jerks to the left, trying to assess the situation. Low Note keeps the beat going as best he can, but you sure notice that the drums ain't there.

Lightnin is trying to get to his feet. He can't get the chick off him. She's pretty heavy and *very* wasted. He is weighed down with her. Maceo is trying to set the high hat back on its feet. Ear is laughing so hard he can't play. The crowd is crazed with enthusiasm.

I take another sip of the Red.

"Whaddayathink?", he asks.

"Sure takes me back to old times."