e 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.

"What gives?" I inquire.

"Flying cuspidors," Frankie says in a frantic tone. "They are all around
the place, like they are maybe mad at something, and a few minutes ago
they buzz the ferry and get the passengers all nervous and upset. If
they do that again, business will be bad; maybe even now it will be bad.
Play something!"

He hops out in front with his baton and gives us a quick one-two, and we
all swing into "Space On My Hands," real loud so as to get people's
minds off things which Frankie wants to get people's minds off of.

Stella Starlight gets up to sing, but she looks more like she would
rather do something else. She stares at Hotlips and at the trumpet on
his lips and begins to quiver like she is about to do a dance.

I remember she says she does not like high notes, and this song has some
pretty well up in the stratosphere, especially for the trumpet section,
which is Hotlips.

She is frowning like maybe she is thinking real hard about something and
is surprised her thoughts do no good. Her face becomes waxy and there is
a frightened look on it.

She quivers some more, as the notes go up and up and up. Then she lets
out a shriek, like maybe she is going to pieces.

And then she does. Actually.

Right before our popping eyeballs she goes to pieces.

As each one in the band sees what is going on, he stops playing, until
finally Hotlips is the only one. But the trumpet is in Hotlips' hand,
and the music is coming from the recording machine we place under his
chair. The notes are clear and smooth, and you can almost feel the air
shaking with them.

But nobody notices the music or where it comes from. They are too busy
watching the thrush, Stella Starlight.

She stands there, her face as white as clay, shaking like a carrot going
through a mixmaster. And then tiny cracks appear on her face, on her
arms, even in her dress, and then a large one appears in her forehead
and goes down through her body. She splits in the middle like a cracked
walnut, and there in the center