Buying Whores for Chuck Berry and a Threat from Jerry Lee Lewis
“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.
I think my dad had a hard time with retirement. In the five months since stepping away he’d grown increasingly interested in me. I couldn’t tell if it was out of boredom or guilt for not having been more involved in my life up to that point. And though I never felt abandoned by him, it was nice—albeit strange—to get to spend some time with him.