"Hotlips does some practicing this afternoon," I tell her, "to get his lip in shape for tonight."
She looks at me like she is looking through me, and then she turns back to Hotlips and says, soft and murmuring: "Please do not play too high, Hotlips. I am delicate and am disturbed by high sounds."
She waltzes away, and I scratch my head and try to figure out what this pitch is for. Hotlips is not trying to figure out anything; he just sits there looking like he has just got his trumpet out of hock for the last time.
"Hotlips," I say to him.
"Go away, please, Eddie," he tells me. "I am in heaven."
"You will be in the poorhouse or maybe even in jail if you tell somebody how we fix your playing," I warn him.
"I still feel funny feelings though, Eddie," he tells me, frowning, "like I cannot hit high notes now if I try."
"Then do not try," I advise. "One problem at a time is too much."
There is a commotion at the entrance on the other side of the dance floor, where some people all dressed up come in. A woman is holding her head and moaning and threatening to faint all over the place.
Frankie hurries over to us, running fidgety hands through his hair. "For goodness sake, play something," he almost begs.