IT’S THE KIND of thing you wonder about, so I went and asked him at the end of the number. “How do you get to whip the skins in the big time?” he repeated, and grinned at his sweating combo. He racked his sticks. “Take ten,” he called to the boys, and then turned back to me. “Lead me to a cola with the emphasis on ice, and I’ll tell you.” He was a big fellow, red-headed, with wide shoulders and a good grin. We got off the stand and around to the tables. He buried his mouth amongst the ice cubes for a long moment and came up out of it with a sigh. It was hot that night. “Saw you stompin’,” he said. “You’re a cat.” “You and your drums got me to jumping,” I smiled back. “Thanks,” he said, and I could see he meant it. “Now I’ll tell you how a guy can beat his way to the top.” He leaned back and, as he spoke, looked at something over my head and quite a while ago. “The very first combo I had,” he said, “was a five-man group—clarinet, alto, trumpet, guitar, and me.
