"Yes, indeed, I had money on it." Joe Louis had been a hero of his younger days. Now it was the aging Patterson, struggling for a comeback, that he identified with. George had always followed the fights devoutely, and his own son had been a fine middleweight for a time. Boxers and jazzmen were the great folk heroes of that culture. In George's youth, long before black men were allowed into other fields of sports and entertainment, the fighter and the musician were looked upon with reverence and awe. These men, who could beat the hell out of white men with impunity, or blow the corny white society bands off the stand, these men were half-gods in the eyes of their brothers. The jazzman is still respected on the back streets of New Orleans. "Take me," George would say. "Now I always been a little man. But I don't care how bad the neighborhood is--when you walk down the street with a musical instrument in your hand, peoples treat you with respect. Nobody bother a musician." He paused. "At least, no colored man bother a musician." He nodded emphatically.

HE WAS SILENT for a time, looking out the window at a pigeon that was perched on the ledge. Then he looked at his right thumb, the callus which had been formed by more than fifty years of clarinet playing. "See that callus?" he said after a moment. "Slow Drag got calluses like that on all his fingers from playin' the bass."

Slow Drag Pavageau had been the regular bassist with the George Lewis band and with Bunk Johnson before that. He had worked with George for almost 30 years, and had toured all over Europe with him. He had been the grand dad of the group, and now--at 80--he was hospitalized with stomach cancer. Drag was a delightful little man, a creole who spoke little English that was intelligible, and a lot of creole French that no one understood but him. He had grown up--like many New Orleans jazzmen--in a French speaking family, and seemed to personify the blend of Latin and African cultures which had made New Orleans and its music so unique.

"Anybody been over to see Drag lately?" George asked.

"Yeah. I was over there yesterday," I said. "He's mighty sick, George. I gave him some blood."

"Oh, I'm real sorry to hear that. I been with that old man a long time," he sighed, "a long time."

"When did you start to play with him?" I asked.

"Well, I didn't play with him until the 40's. But I started listenin' to Drag when I was only a little bitty fella.' He didn't play no bass, then. He played guitar and sang creole songs. He had a little group of 'bout three or four pieces. Had a fella slappin' a washboard" -- George made a washboard-slapping gesture--"and a fella on violin, and Drag. They would go all around to little picnics, and backyard parties, and wakes and weddin's. Wherever they could find food and liquor." He smiled.

"He made a living that way?" I asked.

"No. Never did get no money in them days. They would play for food and drinks. Drag was a carpenter in the day time." He paused. "Now all that liquor, that's what got Drag started drinkin'. Man, we used to drink anything," he laughed softly, and got sort of a devilish look in his eye. "Canned heat, hair tonic. I mean we drank some terrible stuff. I gave it up finally. Don't drink nothin' now. But you take Drag. Now, Drag say he can take all that stuff. Say he never been sick from it. That's true until we was up in Cincinnati, and he fell sick for two weeks. That was all that liquor in him," George nodded solemnly. "Man, he could put it down. Bunk, too. Bunk used to drink almost as much as Drag. That's what killed Bunk."

"George, did you ever hear Bunk play much before the 40's?"

George looked up suddenly. "Hear him? I was playin' with Bunk the night Evan Thomas got killed. That was the last job Bunk ever played until we made those records," George paused and gazed at the ceiling for a minute or so. The years were peeling back in his memory as he went back to a scene that took place more than 30 years ago. It was as vivid to him then as the night it happened. "It was during the depression. Let me see, it was nineteen and thirty . . . two. I was workin' with Evan Thomas in Crowley, Louisiana. We was all sittin' out in the sun by the railroad tracks one day, and Bunk was ridin' a flatcar on a freight train. He was lookin' for work. When he seen us, he jumped off that train and come over to me with a big grin. He says, 'Hi, George. Need a trumpet player?' We took him on with us."

"Didn't Evan Thomas play trumpet, too?" I asked.

"Yeah. We took Bunk on as a second trumpet. He and Evan started soundin' real nice together--man, we had us a band then. Well, about two nights before Thanksgivin', we was up on the bandstand, and this fella name of John Gilbey come runnin' into the dance hall with a butcher knife. Said Evan been messin' around with his wife. Evan didn't have no time to run, so he grabbed me by the shoulders and ducked down behind me." George raised his eyebrows and smiled his ironic smile, "Man I thought I was finished then. That man reached over me with that big knife and started hackin' at Evan. His wrist kept hittin' my shoulder. Blood was pourin' out all over me. Cut Evan's throat. Then Gilbey ran out of the hall, screamin' and cussin'."

"Didn't you guys run?"