wind chop

"Oh baby, it's all math," the bassist growled, "math, math, math." His hair was greased back and wavy, his beard trimmed and defined as neatly as a baseball diamond. He spoke with a cigarette loosely dangling from the corner of his mouth. The Marlboro bounced as he spoke, accentuating the rhythm of the sentence, hitting every beat as he said the words "math, math, math."
"Dig it," the blind sax player said, his wild glassy eyes hidden behind dark glasses. He wore a black pork-pie hat and chewed on a mentholated toothpick. Bourbon and ice clinked inside a short heavy glass.
"Four-four, three-four, five -four, nine-eight, fifteen-thirteen. Dig Brubeck man, the notes be packed so tight. Shit." The bassist raised his hand to catch the barmaid's eye. Her red hair was plaited tight against her scalp, and she wore a flower above her right ear.
"Damn, it's more than than that. You know it's more than that," the organ player said, leaning back on the two rear legs of his chair.
"What you want Curtis," the red head called from across the smokey room.
"Four more bourbons baby,"
"You got four bourbon money over there Curtis, or y'all talkin' more bullshit? 'Cause honey, my cash register don't understand none a that deep jazz shit. It understands cash money baby, cash money."
"Give the girl four dollars," Curtis told the organ player.
"Four-four," said the blind sax player, working the toothpick deep in his mouth.
"And one for Red," added Curtis.
"Four-five," the organist coughed.
"Shit," Red said, shaking her head as she poured four stiff glasses of Old Crow.