Charlie downs his booze and wipes his mouth
on his sleeve.

Larry sips and dabs a clean linen to his lips.

CHARLIE
Sorry.

LARRY
Glad to see you appreciate a good drink. More?

CHARLIE
Uh ...

Charlie stews, indecisive. Larry fills his glass.

LARRY
Here's to the best damn brass blower I know.

They drink. Charlie stands, bobbing on his feet.

CHARLIE
My lips'r buzzin'.

LARRY
Maybe I poured too much. How's your eye?

CHARLIE
It's fine.

LARRY
Let's have a look.

CHARLIE
Naw, I'm fine ... jus' peachy.
CHARLIE
I think I'm uh ... I'm a little
drunk. I better go. Thanks
for the dance, and for
takin' our picture, and
golly, everything. You're
just the tops.

Charlie collapses.
JACK
This band is the best thing that
ever happened to us.

CHARLIE
There'll be other bands.

JACK
Yeah. But not like this one.

CHARLIE
Maybe they'll be better.

JACK
Never. Never in a million years.
Charlie watches the janitor push his mop.

He raises his trumpet to his lips and plays a
solo. His music is heavy with pent-up
emotion. It is melancholy and stunning.

Jack returns to the wings and discreetly
watches Charlie perform. His jaw clenches.
He strides back out and joins him.

They steal solo riffs back and forth. The
music becomes fragmented and angry -- a
fiery brilliance to it. Their growing energy
infects each other. Spent, they finish their
parts on trumpet.

The janitor applauds.

CHARLIE
Thank you!

JACK
And good night!

They bow deeply.