El Greko and the Byzantine Babes, having slipped to the top deck of the Albert L. Hansell, surround the calliope player with an unmoving wall of disapprobation and stern demand.

Cowed, the poor, raggedly dressed po'boy at the triple keyboard, confesses, overcome with remorse.

"I did it. It was that Bluebearded Teach feller over on the man-o-war. He offered me a doubloon, and he lit all these sulfur matches in his beard and threatened to behead me if I said anything!!!"

El Greko reaches into an overstuffed fanny pack and draws out a wad of greenbacks.

"Doubloons, be damned, lad. Here's twice their worth in good American buckaroos if ye can make that monster machine of yours play in flatted thirds and other devious intervals and rhythms unknown to Western ears.

And sure enough, given the right incentive, the po' boy finds it in his clever fingers to rap out the theme from Back to Istanbul with remarkable dexterity, and El Greko and the BBs slither off down the gangplank pirouetting in the best belly-dance tradition.