I was 16, trying to be a gangster In Brooklyn, but I was a white Irish fuck. Nonetheless, I hooked up with the hottest girl in the neighborhood, Mary Jane McAllister. I bought her purses, nothing fancy I mean, They were vinyl but they didn’t sag, you know? I got her two of ‘em, One for my .38 and one for my 45. I took her one night to a black club in Harlem and 100th and something, But I was a gangster so it didn’t make no difference that we was white. We sat in the worst seat in the house; We was there to se Ella Fitzgerald and we woulda shrugged off anything As long as we got to see her. I noticed in my line of vision dark black man with 2, 3, 4 beautiful women around him. It was Ray Charles. He had a heroin problem, you know. He looked really fucked up. The one woman was helping him eat, giving him directions about where the food was on his plate. “Twelve o’clock, steak,” I heard one of ‘em say. Then someone got on stage said, “We have a very special guest here with us tonight,” looking Ray’s way. “RAY CHARLES!!” and much applauding ensued. The women he was with seriously carried him up To the piano, and he played his ass off, A duet, Him and Ella, but I could tell he was baby steps away from a true overdose. But he played anyway, and Ella sang, And that’s my favorite story to tell whenever I hear either of them on the jukebox at the Uptowner.