Eunice got the school bus driver to let her off a couple of stops before home and made her way out of the land of lawn and shrub to the other side of the tracks where the hep cats dwelt. The squares who called themselves "Mom" and "Dad" just couldn't fathom how an eight year old could be fluent in the language of cool and solid. "Doc Pop's Jazz Shop" was a dive, no bout a-doubt it, but the heart in the place soared and flowed as smoothly and fluidly as the smoke and the smell of stale beer inside.
Nobody remembers when Two-Note Jackson took over from Doc Pop. Two-Note just always seemed to be elbow-deep in the bar as far back as anyone could remember. He played a mean tenor sax but, as his name suggested, he only knew two notes. He smiled as Eunice walked through the door, nodding to the house band, who jumped to attention as quick as a quartet of hop-heads could.
"Gentlemen," Eunice greeted them politely, for she was always polite, "wind it up, motherfuckers."