Hawk was driving, his hands gripped tight around the wheel. Teenochie sat next to him, stiff and erect, a derby perched lightly atop his shaven head. Wheatstraw kept one hand on the doorhandle, and every so often the door itself flew open, prompting cries of “What you doing, you crazy fool, you want to get us all killed?” and a squealing of car brakes. “What you talking about?” Hawk’s voice boomed out unmodulated, filling the automobile as if it were a concert stage. “I been knowing that gal for fifty-two years, and she be doing tricks when I met her. That gal got a cock that’s made of whalebone, and your dick better be made of rubber if you want to last the time with her. One time she get a whole orchestra in the studio, and she do ’em all, sometimes two at a time. That’s why they call her Ma Grinder. She-it.” He chuckled to himself. “That gal keep all the nickels she ever made, she have more money than Rockefeller ever seen.” Wheatstraw giggled, and the door nearly flew open again.
