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domination, not ideologies. Italians, blacks, it didn't matter. Riffs mattered. Rhythm mattered. Bonds were made that made no sense to those outside this beat. Jazz Man was strong, very strong having spent his youngest years as a beast of burden in dye houses lugging monstrous cloth bolts, ten to twenty at a time. Average men could barely lift one. He had vitality and strength, not height. He failed a very desired police recruitment for lack of one eighth of an inch height, as the city doctor merely yelled, "TOO SHORT - NEXT" giving him the bum's rush. He hated such arbitrary injustices and used 'Too short - next' as a battle cry in his own little personal wars. Just quote some arbitrary rule and see how fast that phrase gets spit into your face. He wasn't slowed by defeat but elevated. He was the kind of guy you could dump shit on and somehow he carried it well. Hey, Jazz, the shit on your shirt goes well with your shoes. Why? Because he wasn't about self. He was as selfless as protoplasm allows. He wore the scars of others. On him a crown of thorns was a crown indeed. Self sacrifice. That's the key. Do you tell a missionary tending the starving that he needs a shoe shine? If you did, he would only smile. He could love and he loved Maria Carmella. The love of his wife only doubled his energy, energy to be directed to others. He never ate unless all ate. He never had comfort unless all had comfort. His was theirs. What made it all the more fascinating is that he could have had it easy. His young musical bride was the sister of Franco Francesca, miracle son-in-law of Louis Prio, a man of vision, instinct and stature. The valley below was an old attic chest full of older stories tucked away. But this particular story, Louis Prio, was kept mostly locked up. Maybe so, but this Piper had good ears and an uncanny retention of the overheard fragments. How secret could Prio be? He sat on the man's lap many a time. Some lap. Louis Prio was not a man to be in