“You work for the radio station?” he asked again.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Lewis. I’m Dr. Dave Maxwell. What can I help you with?” Little Richard walked past us, and he,  too, looked frail and worn down. The Killer glared at him as he passed. The Innovator didn’t seem to notice. Jerry Lee turned his gaze back at me, his eyes smaller now, his face taut with rage.

“Can you do me a favor, boy?”

“Of course.” 

“Don’t let that niggah touch my pianah.” He and his two men went on their way.