Moe, Moe, Moe, Moe, and Moe. Musicians. Known as "Five Guys Named Moe." They played the New York nightclub scene starting in late '48 and hit it big with "Rootie Patootie (She Sure Was a Cutie)" less than a year later. More a novelty song than anything else, it was a sure-fire crowd pleaser, even on the off nights. Cab Calloway, on first hearing it at the Cotton Club, said, "That one might make you famous."

The Hi-De-Ho man was right. Herman Langer of Decade Records was making a phone call in the lobby when a wailing saxophone tugged him by the ear. He listened to the rest of the Moes' set, sat through the fifteen-minute intermission nursing a ginger ale, then caught most of the second set. When the Moes piled into their dressing room, Langer was waiting with a contract in hand.

Five handshakes and six signatures later, history was made. "Rootie Patootie (She Sure Was a Cutie)" b/w "That Harlem Heat Sure has me Beat" made it straight to the playlist on NBC Yellow and flew out of record shops in Harlem, Mobile, Miami, Philadelphia, Detroit, and even parts as far west as San Francisco and New Orleans.

A tour of the chitlin' circuit followed, and everywhere they went, the Moes played to packed houses. It didn't matter whether it was a small municipal auditorium in St. Louis or a tarpaper fish joint at the end of a Mississippi dirt road. People jumped to the Moes' jive.

Five Guys Named Moe were: Big Moe, Little Moe, Know Moe, Four-Eyed Moe, and Eat Moe.

Big Moe came to New York after the army discharged him in '46. He had served in Europe as a cook even though he couldn't fry an egg, and served as a waiter during the conference at Yalta. There, he had the misfortune to spill coffee in Stalin's lap. The Russian dictator wanted Big Moe shot, but Churchill convinced him it wasn't a good idea. When Big Moe was drunk, he sometimes claimed that Churchill had bumped his arm then used the diversion to transfer a packet of secret documents to the Swedish ambassador.

No one believed him.

He played bass and a little piano.

Little Moe fronted the band. Some Moeologists say that the joke about a moose and an R&B band was first told about him. Others dispute the statement, calling it a slanderous accusation, claiming that success was more than he could handle (but did overcome during a six-month "sabbatical" in the summer of '52). Rumor has it that two members of the Internet newsgroup alt.music.swing.moe.moe.moe.moe.moe exchanged blows over this issue at Moefest '96 in San Jose, California.

Know Moe has variously been referred to as Know Moe and No Moe. Five Guys Named Moe's first full-length recording, Five Guys Named Moe, lists the band's sax man as Know Moe. However, the original 1956 release of Koko Moe on the Hi-Jinx label lists him as No Moe. His name was changed back to Know Moe when MCA rereleased Koko Moe in 1975. Various conspiracy theories abound regarding his name change. The most reliable link him to early rock and roll pioneer Johnny Bueno, some going so far as to suggest that they were the same man. This notion is pure fiction. Most of the respected Moe historians agree that Know Moe's name change was merely a clerical error.

Four-Eyed Moe graduated from Columbia magna cum laude, then gave up a Julliard scholarship to play trumpet and trombone with the Moes. Many have debated whether Four-Eyed Moe made the right choice. Some say had he pursued the highbrow path, he could have been recognized as one of the greatest brass players of our century. Others say bull-puckey, education or no, his chops put him up there with Armstrong, Dizzy, and Davis. A third camp, perhaps the wisest, ignores the other two and spends its time enjoying the music. Four-Eyed Moe was the last Moe to join and the first Moe to leave when Johnny Bueno's "Move Over Mozart" changed the face of popular music and the Moe's brand of kicked-up jump blues fell out of favor. His influence as a session man and songwriter in the late 1950s and early 1960s for Detroit's Hi-Jinx label continues to permeate modern pop music.

Eat Moe played drums. In 1962 he departed from the music business to open Eat Moe's, a New Orleans catfish restaurant. This event was considered at once a great loss for the recording industry and a great gain for seafood gourmands.

—from "Who The Heck Are Five Guys Named Moe and Why Do We Love Them," by Legs Greeson, Blues Line Magazine, July 1999.

On April 23, 1955, shortly before dusk, Little Moe used the whites-only restroom at the Montgomery, Alabama Greyhound bus station. He was arrested before he had time to zip his fly.

Some historians have tried to set Little Moe's arrest as an early spark to the Civil Rights movement. However, in 1955 most Americans weren't concerned about civil rights. They were concerned about the tailfins on their Cadillacs, about better living through chemistry, and whether Ambassador Disney could do anything about the situation in East Berlin. Communists were everywhere (under rocks, behind trees), threatening to unravel the fabric of freedom and democracy that America so proudly displayed in the prosperous years following World War II.

Little Moe's arrest had nothing to do with communism or civil rights. The truth is that Little Moe had been drinking.

"He was intoxicated," the other Moes said in an interview in the March 1972 issue of Blues Line.

"He was inebriated."

"He was just plain drunk."

Little Moe, in a television appearance on the Mike Douglas show shortly before his death, claimed he had forgotten they were in the South. "I saw that door that said, 'Men,' and I went in. When you gotta go, you gotta go." The Moes had spent much of 1954 and early 1955 touring New York and the American northwest.

The police held Little Moe, but released him in time for him to slip in front of the mike at Pauline's Pig Pit just as the other Moes eased into the opening bars of "The Gumbo Blues (It Sure Ain't Like New Orleans)."

Little Moe's arrest is common knowledge. The story is in the official and authoritative Moe history, Five Guys Named Moe: An Official and Authoritative History. Few know what happened after the show that night. The veracity of certain events is uncertain, for no reliable records exist. This account, though it contains some basic truths about the Moes, has, by necessity, resorted to the techniques of fiction when trying to fill in certain details.

After the show at Pauline's Pig Pit, the Moes received a pair of visitors. Pauline herself showed them to the dressing room. "Two men to see you," she said in a tone more appropriate to a funeral parlor than a juke joint. She waited long enough for the Moes to acknowledge what she said. Know Moe put away the sax he was cleaning. Little Moe drained the last of his soda water (at least that's what he claimed it was) and set the glass on the crowded tabletop. Pauline silently studied each Moe's face in turn, like she was assessing each one before they went away to war. Then she slipped out like a shadow.

Two white men in black suits entered the dressing room. They wore sharp white shirts and razor-thin ties.

Little Moe pulled Big Moe close. "What's this about?"

"I don't know," Big Moe said.

Eat Moe welcomed the men to Pauline's. He smiled like he was finishing his encore at an old minstrel show.

"I already paid my bail," Little Moe said.

"We're not here about that," one of the men said. He flashed a badge from his jacket pocket. "Agent Smith, United States Department of Justice. This is Agent Jones, also with the United States Department of Justice. President McCarthy wants to see you boys."

A crash filled the small dressing room. Four-Eyed Moe, who a moment earlier had been drinking beer and now stood empty-handed, said, "What are you talking about?" He looked pale and just a little bit shaky.

Agent Smith was tall and thin, with dark hair that appeared recently mown. Agent Jones was younger, developing a gut. His blond crew cut sprouted from his head like a field of wheat.

Big Moe stepped forward and crossed his arms like a bouncer. "Yes, what is this about?" It was a bold move, but he, unlike Four-Eyed Moe, had never been to a meeting of the Communist Party of the United States of America.

"I only went once," Four-Eyed Moe said, years later, during JFK's second term. "I was curious." He also claimed in various interviews he had gone to meet a girl, he had stepped inside to get out of the rain, or that he thought it was a meeting of the Canadian Patriots USA Society. A recent search of CPUSA records revealed no mention of Four-Eyed Moe on their rolls.

Agent Jones stepped back. His right hand shifted under his coat. Agent Smith said, "It's not about that."

"They checked," Four-Eyed Moe muttered.

Big Moe said, "Then what's this about?"

"National security," Smith said.

"Then I guess we don't have much choice."

"You never did, Mr. Moe."

The cars took them to Maxwell Air Force Base where a fully fueled, black DC-3 sat on the tarmac. Nothing on the airplane gave any indication of its ownership—no logos, no military symbols, no fancy crests with circular Latin phrases inscribed inside.

Smith, Jones, and the Moes were the only passengers. The pilot and copilot stayed in the cockpit. Jones shuffled back and forth, shuttling communications, coffee, and little bags of peanuts.

The plane taxied, then the engines roared for take-off. Big Moe clutched his seat as the plane surged forward. "I don't know if I like this." None of the Moes had ever flown. On tour they took trains.

The other Moes were looking out the windows. Smith and Jones sat silent, watching the Moes.

Little Moe said, "Hey! I can see Pauline's Pig Pit from here!"

"We have strict orders to bring you in through the passages."

Eat Moe said, "Maybe we could come up through the kitchen. Carry some trays."

"Pretend we're taking the President some midnight snacks," added Little Moe.

"Absolutely not," Smith said.

"That's too bad," Big Moe said. White dust from the walls spread in streaks across his dark suit. "This ain't no way to visit the president."

"People like you shouldn't be seen in the White House proper," Jones said.

Know Moe stopped walking, and Little Moe ran into him.

"National security," Smith said. "You boys haven't been properly cleared by the proper agencies."

Little Moe shoved Know Moe forward. "Oooooh," he said, drawing it out like he did in the chorus to "Down at the Laundromat." "That makes all the difference."

"Shut your mouth," Big Moe said as he squeezed forward.

Smith stopped and listened at a plain wooden panel. Through it came a faint chugga-chugga like someone was running a pump on the other side of the wall. He knocked twice, once, then twice again. He listened. He nodded.

"Clear?" Jones asked.

"Clear," Smith said. He pushed the panel open. The Moes filed through the secret doorway into the Oval Office. The president was waiting for them.

He sat behind the great mahogany desk installed by Theodore Roosevelt, flanked by the American flag to his right and a blue flag displaying the Seal of the President of the United States on his left. Even with the trappings of the presidency, Joseph McCarthy didn't appear terribly presidential. He looked more like a blue-collar union man starting to go soft with booze and age. Stubble shadowed his face though he had shaved several hours earlier in anticipation of the meeting. But his gaze latched on to you like a bulldog's bite. That grip got him his presidency. Some have wondered how the world would be different if General Eisenhower had accepted the GOP's offer to run for president instead of remaining the leader of NATO. Many have said that Adlai Stevenson would have been elected. But after McCarthy cleaned up commies in the Senate, America decided he was the man to take on Khrushchev. When Castro took over Cuba in '53, America knew they had put the right man into office, never mind that two years had passed and Castro hadn't been toppled.

The chugga-chugga noise came from a machine behind McCarthy, six feet high and so wide it blocked the entire span of the window that normally looked out over the rose garden. Know Moe thought at first it was one of those new computing machines from IBM, but he quickly realized he was mistaken.

"Artificial liver," McCarthy said. "Damn fine example of American democratic know-how. You think the Ruskies got anything like this? Hell, no." He barked out a laugh. Now that they looked, the Moes saw tubes connecting the president to the machine. They saw the filters and the pumps sending fluid from the president through the machine and back again. The whole thing was plugged into the wall by the lamp.

McCarthy pointed to five folding bridge chairs set in a line before his desk. "Why don't you boys sit?" Smith and Jones sat in a pair of upholstered chairs that had been pushed from the desk to the wall.

The chair creaked when Big Moe sat. The president asked Smith and Jones if they wanted anything. "Coffee? Tea? Soda water?" Smith shook his head. "No, sir, we're on duty."

McCarthy said, "I sure wouldn't mind something myself," he winked at the Moes, "but doctor's orders, you know. None of the hard stuff for me anymore." He gestured with a nod back at the mechanical liver. "Anyway, enough of that." He folded his hands on the desk. "You boys must be wondering what this is all about, why I brought you here."

Big Moe said, "That we are, sir."

The president leaned forward. "You boys are good Americans, aren't you?"

All the Moes nodded, including Four-Eyed Moe. Especially Four-Eyed Moe.

"That's what I thought. What this is about is the fight of Democracy against those Godless commie bastards down in Cuba. You boys have heard of Cuba, right?"

"We have, sir."

"Good. Those commies down there got something cooking. We've already lost one agent, and …"

Agent Smith said, "Sir."

The machine behind McCarthy went chugga-chugga. Little Moe watched a tube feed yellowish liquid into a gallon-sized bottle. Another tube emptied the bottle. He couldn't imagine one person producing so much bile.

"You boys ever thought about serving your country?"

Big Moe said, "I already served, sir. Four years in Europe."

"Me too," Eat Moe said. "Saw Italy by way of Anzio."

McCarthy hunched over his desk. He slowly scanned each Moe, looking like a lizard taking in its next meal.

"But that doesn't mean we wouldn't serve again," Four-Eyed Moe said. "We're always happy to serve our country. Like any good American."

McCarthy smiled. "That's what I thought. You're making the right choice. Normally, we wouldn't use boys like you for such an important job, but we've been having a bit of a problem with our, let's say, regular agents down there in Cuba. Something's brewing, and we can't figure out what it is. I tell you what. You do the right thing, you serve us well, I'll make a few phone calls, see about getting you into the Copacabana."

"We already played the Copa, sir," Little Moe said. Not six months earlier, the Moes had completed a highly successful week-long run headlining the famous New York nightclub. Critics raved in all the papers, even the ones that mattered.

"Never mind then," McCarthy said. The machine went chugga-chugga. "How about television? You like Sinatra? That man's got some pipes on him. Do-be-do-be-do and all that. I'll have my people make a call to his people"—McCarthy looked at Smith, who said, "I'll make a note of it, sir," as he reached into his pocket for a pen—"and we'll get you a spot on the Sinatra Variety Hour."

In 1955, Sinatra's show was broadcast coast to coast and was starting to pull in bigger numbers that Milton Berle's "Texaco Star Theater," which had the nascent medium's highest ratings to date.

Big Moe hated the hold that Sinatra held over American popular music. As far as he was concerned, the airwaves were one vast musical wasteland from one end of the radio dial to the other: nothing but washed-out ballads, seventy-six–string orchestras, crooning, and do-be-do-be-do. He knew, however, that he shouldn't let personal preferences stand in the way of a beneficial career move. "That sounds all fine and dandy, Mr. President, but what exactly do you want us to do?"

"Ha!" McCarthy said. "I thought you'd never ask." He pulled a cedar box from his desk drawer. "You boys want cigars?" Agent Jones was at the president's side immediately, flipping a gold Zippo emblazoned with the presidential eagle. McCarthy bit a plug from one end and spit it expertly into the trashcan. "Go ahead. These things aren't Cuban, no way you're going to find commie cigars in my office, but they aren't bad. Fine Honduran tobacco leaf. You better get used to it. Ever since that trade embargo I slapped on Castro's ass, ain't nothing commie is getting into these here United States."

Little Moe exhaled a long wisp of smoke. "This certainly is a fine cigar."

"You bet it is. Those Honduran bastards better not get any communist ideas next. You boys don't like commies, right?" The Moes nodded. "I bet you'd rather cut off your arm than smoke a commie cigar."

"You bet, sir," Eat Moe said.

"That's what I need you for. That rat-bastard Castro is up to something. Ever since that embargo started, he's put his mind to destroying democracy as we know it and spreading his filthy morals all over the United States. I need you five fine Americans to figure out what he's up to this time."

The president pressed a button on his intercom. The vice president entered, pushing a cart on which sat a reel-to-reel tape machine. He also looked like he needed a shave. McCarthy said, "Dickie! How you doing?" The vice president muttered, "Fine, sir."

McCarthy slapped the desktop. Pens and an inkwell bounced on the blotter. "Great! Plug that in, will you?"

Smith leapt up. McCarthy waved him down. "Not you. Dickie can do it."

The Moes watched the second most powerful man in the free world perform audio-visual duty. Big Moe whispered to Know Moe, "Who would've thought?"

"Kind of creepy if you ask me."

The vice president left, but not before taking a proffered cigar from his boss.

"Great guy," McCarthy said. "A whiz with this tape recorder." He took a long puff, then whacked cigar ash into his porcelain presidential ashtray. "Now listen to this." The tape hissed. There was background noise—crowd chatter like you'd hear at a baseball game or in an auditorium. A voice came on: "This is Agent Hopper. Consider this my resignation. I'm staying in Cuba. My life has been saved by—" The crowd noise rose, covering Hopper's words. A few bars of music played, cheering, then the tape ended.

McCarthy pressed the red "stop" switch. "You boys are musicians, right? Whatever Castro's got up his sleeve, it involves music. I want you to go into Cuba, figure out what's going on, and stop it. The future of democracy is on your shoulders."

The boat's driver was a young kid who didn't look six months out of the academy. His partner, a large fat man who the kid called "Colonel," sat at the boat's stern puffing a big cigar. Around midnight he threw it into the Atlantic. "Don't want to attract any undue attention," he said.

"No, sir, don't want to do that," the kid said. He spoke with a soft southern accent.

Little Moe asked, "Where you from?"

The kid said, "Memphis."

"No kidding. I got a cousin from Memphis. Nice city. What agency you folk with? The CIA?"

The Colonel said, "Don't answer that."

"I'm just making conversation," Little Moe said. "No harm in that. It's a long ride to where we're going. What you do in Memphis before you joined up with the government?"

"Drove a truck," the kid said.

"You shouldn't have answered that," the Colonel said. He sounded like a father who had caught his son in the good whiskey.

"There's lots of people drive trucks. Not many do what you do, working for the government. You like that, being a spook?"

"Don't answer that," the Colonel said. He looked ready to pitch Little Moe overboard and continue to Cuba with Four Guys Named Moe.

"It's okay," the kid said. "How do you like being a spook?"

"Don't answer that," Big Moe said. He too looked ready to pitch someone overboard. The rest of the trip was silent except for the lapping of the water and the boat's steady hum.

Thirty minutes before dawn, they pulled into a secluded cove outside Santiago. "Never thought I'd be seeing Cuba this way," Know Moe said.

"Communist?" the Colonel asked. His tone suggested he had enjoyed the fruits of Batista's tenure, when the Mafia ran beachside casinos and you could get anything you wanted, provided you had the correct amount of cash in hand.

"Not exactly," Know Moe replied. His tone suggested he didn't give a flying fig about communism, casinos, or the Cosa Nostra.

"Damn communists. Ruined everything." The Colonel handed passports to the Moes. "These are your cover." Little Moe opened his immediately to look at the picture. "Not bad," he said. It had been cut from the back of the 78 rpm release of "Red Light Special on Avenue B."

Four-Eyed Moe didn't get so far. "What's going on here? These are Canadian." Sure enough, the passport covers were stamped with "Canada" and a gold crown instead of "United States" and a big bold eagle.

"It's your cover. This place is full of Canadian tourists."

"Swarming with them," the kid said.

Canada is not now, nor has it ever been, a Communist country.

Little Moe read from his passport. "Moose Jaw? This thing says I'm from Moose Jaw. Do I look like I'm from Moose Jaw?"

"Where the heck is Moose Jaw?" Know Moe asked. Big Moe shrugged. Four-Eyed Moe muttered, "Beats me."

The Colonel scowled. He perched his hands on his hips, elbows akimbo. "It's in Canada somewhere." The kid, near the waterline now, nodded. He was busy unloading dufflebags onto the beach.

"You made the damn passports! You ought to know where the place is!"

"Listen, if no one knows where Canada is, how do you expect me to know where Moose Jaw is? Would you have preferred we put in Puyallup?"

Little Moe's mouth snapped shut. "I still don't like it. Canada. What's Canada ever done?"

Four-Eyed Moe said, "They captured Detroit in the War of 1812."

"And a damn good thing we got it back," Eat Moe said. He loved his automobiles. He had, at this time, a '32 Ford, a '48 Chevrolet, and a '54 Cadillac.

"Enough of that," the Colonel said. He handed envelopes to the Moes. "These contain pesos and your hotel reservations. We got you boys rooms at the Mir-a-Mar. That means 'view of the sea' in Cuban. It ain't exactly the Hilton, but we've had problems with that one recently."

"Do our rooms at the Mir-a-Mar have a mir a mar?" asked Little Moe, who spoke fluent Español.

The Colonel spat into the wet sand near Little Moe's feet. "I'll see you boys in two weeks." The sky to the east hinted at dawn.

Eat Moe called after him. "Don't we get a map? How do we get to the hotel?"

The Colonel climbed into the boat. The kid already had the engine running. "Ask a local. You're Canadians, remember?"

The boat disappeared into the darkness.

"I don't feel Canadian," Little Moe said.

After the fall of Batista, people cheered in the streets. Women threw flowers when Castro visited their villages. Men stopped shaving. The people put Castro's enemies up against the wall and bullets into the walls behind them. All in the name of la revolutión. A Marxist paradise was born. Khrushchev couldn't have been happier. No more unsweetened tea for the loyal comrades.

President McCarthy, hot from the campaign trail and full of anti-communist vitriol, immediately severed diplomatic and economic relations with the island nation. United Fruit and the Mafia cried foul.

Outside of Santiago, the battered husks of exiled slot machines still littered the fields. "Look at that," Little Moe said. "Maybe we ought to check for quarters."

Eat Moe said, "Maybe we ought to keep walking until we find someplace for breakfast." Their last meal had been donuts and government coffee nearly ten hours before at the dock in Key West.

"What the hell do we need quarters for?" Know Moe asked.

Little Moe said, "It never hurts to have some American money in a foreign country." They had nothing in their pockets but Canadian passports, pesos, and a hotel reservation. Their wallets were waiting for them in a government building in Langley, Virginia.

"Keep walking," Big Moe said.

As the dawn brightened, people started appearing on the road, traveling out of Santiago. Peasants mostly, men and women in worn clothes and faded green fatigues. Many walked or pedaled paint-chipped bicycles; a few rode mule-drawn carts. They noticed the Moes, but said nothing. The Moes were polite when necessary, but generally kept their mouths shut except for Little Moe, who said "Buenos dias" to the attractive señoritas. The girls smiled, or giggled, and they all kept walking.

"Be careful with that," Big Moe said, sotto voce. "I don't want to end up against the wall."

In town, the road narrowed between small white buildings roofed with wood or corrugated metal. Iron bars covered the windows. Eat Moe detoured toward a street vendor standing next to a food cart. The smoky scent of grilling meat and vegetables had caught his nose like a fishhook a few blocks back and dragged him down the street. Fortune had smiled on Eat Moe up to this moment because the other Moes happened to be going in that direction.

Know Moe held him back. "You don't want to eat that."

"What do you mean I don't want to eat that? I'm hungry and I got pesos." He shook off Know Moe's grasp.

"You don't know what that meat's made of," Little Moe said. "You remember what happened down in Mexico." He put his hands to the sides of his head, palms forward, and made floppy ears with his fingers. "Bow wow," he said.

Eat Moe grimaced. "Awww, you don't know for sure what was in that taco. And I only ate one."

"One was enough."

"But it smells so good."

"That's what you said about the taco."

"We eat when we get to the hotel," Big Moe proclaimed.

"We don't even know where the hotel is," Eat Moe protested.

"Then ask a local."

Eat Moe's face lit up, the well-known broad smile that appeared on the cover of 1951's Cup a Moe, Joe. "I'll take my chances!" He ran to the food vendor. They chatted after the exchange of pesos.

Eat Moe returned, eating vegetables and chunks of meat from a skewer. "Nice fellow," he said between bites. "Said he always wanted to visit Canada. He has relatives outside of Quebec."

"You sure he didn't say Tepic?"

Eat Moe licked sauce off his fingers. "Fairly sure. He called me monsieur. Damn fine food, too. It's cocodrilo, by the way. Not perro."

"Better him than you," muttered Four-Eyed Moe, who had lost a cousin or two in the Louisiana bayou.

The Hotel Mir-a-Mar had lime green stucco walls set with clean white windows that gave it a pleasant Caribbean feel. The owner, a sleepy-eyed man of seventy, had lodged Spanish, Americans, Cubans, and communists. Five Guys Named Moe were barely worth his notice. As long as they paid their bills and didn't trash their rooms, he didn't care.

Four days later, Know Moe said, "I could get used to this." He sat with his bandmates at a round table in the Mir-a-Mar's tiled courtyard, eating ceviche and sipping cold cerveza. The warm Caribbean sun dappled a melody of light and shadow on the potted palms and harmonized with the cool ocean breeze.

The Moes had become favorites of the staff. They tipped decently and treated everyone well. They were also picking up the local language like lustful linguists.

In the evenings, they visited nightclubs and bars.

The Tropicana was full of tourists and featured a revue every night. The Moes sat in the back, nursing daiquiris and piña coladas decorated with fruit and paper parasols. Pretty girls danced highly choreographed routines to big-band swing. The Moes hated it. The music had no heart or soul. To them, it was all counterfeit—plastic and mass-produced like trinkets sold on a New York street corner. "This ain't no threat to democracy," Big Moe said. "I've seen worse in Manhattan."

"Worse music or worse dancing?"

"Both. Last thing I want is more of that do-be-do-be-do crap."

They left in disgust, but not before giving the coat-check girl a generous tip.

The Patio los Dos Abuelos proved more promising, and La Claqueta offered dancing as well as music and drinks. The Casa de la Trova soon became the Moes' favorite. It had pink walls hung with paintings of singers and revolutionaries. Che Guevarra held a prominent spot by the Moes' regular table. Rumor had it he once visited in '54 and was a big fan of the Son style of music. The Moes discovered they could listen to live music morning, noon, and night while sipping cold cheap beer and puffing on cigars rolled two doors down by an old Cuban woman and her daughter. ("McCarthy don't know what he's missing," Little Moe said on first trying one. "Is it worth an arm?" "It might just be.") The music was local stuff, Cuban and Caribbean, colored by Central American and African rhythms. American Jazz had worked its influence, but not like the Tropicana's crass commerciality. The musicians at the Casa were folding it into the local beats, making it their own, just like the Son and Salsa they played on lazy hot afternoons.

Little Moe stretched himself to near reclining in his chair, his hands folded behind his head. "This is more like a vacation than a chore." An inch of ash hung like a leech to the end of his cigar. "What was McCarthy thinking?" On stage, a young man playing American blues on an acoustic guitar finished his set.

"He was thinking he has to protect his fine American way of life," Big Moe said.

Little Moe struck a thoughtful pose, eyes looking skyward (blue, with a few puffy clouds), hand lightly grasping chin (scholarly, pondering). "And would that be our idea of fine American life?"

"Hey!" Four-Eyed Moe said. He sat up straight. "The Colonel! In the doorway." The other Moes turned in their chairs.

The doorway was empty. "You're blind," Know Moe said.

"Seeing things."

"Hallucinating."

Four-Eyed Moe pointed at nothing, just the shade-shrouded space outside. "He was right there." A woman ambled by, balancing a basketful of fresh laundry.

"That don't look like the Colonel," Know Moe said.

"That's not the Colonel. But he was there. I saw him. I swear I saw him. I think he's watching us."

"You shouldn't swear," Little Moe said. "It ain't becoming of a gentleman."

"What do you know about becoming a gentleman?"

"Both of you shut up," Big Moe said. "If the Colonel's here, that could be trouble"—"Because we haven't been working?" Eat Moe asked—"Because I just don't know. What's a guy like him doing sneaking around Cuba?"

"We know what he's doing," Know Moe said.

"Exactly. And that's going to get us in trouble."

Know Moe leaned forward. "Aren't we supposed to be doing that?"

"Getting in trouble?"

"No! The other thing."

The Moes contemplated and agreed. Little Moe said, "We need to do what we were sent here to do. Find some music."

The band started playing a vibrant cha-cha-cha. "We got music here," Eat Moe pointed out.

Big Moe said, "I don't think this is what you-know-who was talking about when he sent us here. These guys are good, but not a threat to you-know-what."

"He's got a point," Little Moe said. He waved the bus boy over. A thin youth named José approached. He wrung a damp rag through his hands. "Sí?" he asked; then, in soft, accented English, "Aren't you Five Guys Named Moe?"

Big Moe wanted to deny their identity. Little Moe, who always liked the fans (despite the joke about the Moose), said, "Certainly!" before Big Moe opened his mouth.

"But you're Americans."

"Canadians."

"Canadians?"

"Sí, Canadians." Know Moe showed José his passport. José studied the gold crown stamped on the cover. He folded his towel. He shrugged. "I always thought they were Americans."

"That's the other Five Guys Named Moe," Little Moe said. José smiled and nodded in comprehension. Little Moe grimaced and waved his hand at the band like they were about to be hooked from the Apollo stage. "This music. It doesn't do much for us."

"But you loved them last night."

"They're off today. One horn's flat and the other's sharp. And I'm getting tired of the notes they're playing. It's the same notes I heard yesterday."

"And the night before," Eat Moe added.

Little Moe stood. He put his arm around José's shoulders and pulled him close. "The thing is, you gotta understand, is that I, of all the Moes, am an artiste. I need something more than yesterday's riffs. I need music that is fresh, today, with it, on the edge. Dig me, daddy-o?"

No one saw Little Moe slip the busboy a twenty-peso note. He was an expert. In New York, even when he didn't tip, Maitre'ds often gave him the best table in the house because they were so impressed with his technique from the previous visit. If he ever gave up music, he could teach classes. No one was ever so suave when it came to greasing palms.

Even José, the recipient of Little Moe's largess, was unaware at first of his sudden windfall. His hand rose slowly up his shirt, then settled gently over the pocket covering his heart. He felt the peso crinkle, and realization spread over his face like dawn's light over the beach on an autumn morning. He nodded sí, then ran out of the club.

Two days later he appeared during breakfast at the Moes' hotel wearing a Mir-a-Mar busboy's uniform. "He works here, too!" Eat Moe said between bites of chorizo. José looked left, right, put his finger to his lips. He spoke furtively as he leaned in to take their plates. "Someone wants to see you." In one smooth movement, he slid a slip of paper onto the table, then grabbed Eat Moe's coffee cup and set it atop the stack of plates piled on his left arm. The paper's message, written in thick, smudged pencil, was a scrawled dinner invitation. It said to meet a cab at eight o' clock.

"What's this about?" Little Moe asked.

Know Moe said, "I'm not sure, but I think our vacation is about to end."

"Ain't that a disgrace," Eat Moe said, buttering the last piece of bread.

That evening, Four-Eyed Moe stepped first from the hotel. A pre-war Buick taxi held together by rivets and primer idled at the curb. The moment Four-Eyed Moe's foot hit the sidewalk, the cabbie put away his newspaper and activated his on-duty light.

They climbed in: three in the back, two in the front. The cabbie pulled away without getting instructions or directions. The engine rumbled like the car had rolled off the assembly line that morning.

He took them a roundabout route through Santiago, through residential areas full of crowded houses, past markets and gardens away from the tourist spots, down slim alleys populated by street thugs and prostitutes. "This is quite a tour," Little Moe said. The driver didn't reply. "Anything good on the radio?" Still nothing. He turned left and took them out of the city. They drove east past shanties and the skeletons of old plantations. Mules chewed grass at fence posts; cook fires flickered outside weathered shacks. The elevation rose. Trees grew thicker, closer to the road.

The Moes had expected to meet their mysterious contact in town, at one of the clubs or in the shadowy back booth of a restaurant. Here, in the jungle that had housed Castro's revolutionary army in the days of Batista, they were out of their element. "I don't know about this," Big Moe said.

The taxi halted in front of a cottage at the edge of a coffee plantation. A single white candle burned in the window.

"What do we owe him?" Four-Eyed Moe asked. No one knew. The cabbie had never activated his meter. He spoke his only words for the entire trip: "No charge for the Moes."

"I like that," Little Moe said. He exited the cab and the others followed. The night was warm, and from far off came the rustling of leaves in the breeze and the call of a macaw. The cabbie turned a corner into the jungle.

"Hey!" Know Moe cried. "We should have told him to wait."

Big Moe said, "I don't think he would have. Let's go inside." The door was opened just wide enough to let a slab of warm, buttery light slide onto the gravel walkway.

At a scarred wooden table sat a white man wearing khakis and a loose white shirt. Blonde stubble decorated his cheeks and chin. A Cuban woman with dark eyes and hair stood by a stove stirring stew in a cast-iron pot. Its aroma filled the room. Her belly was starting to swell with child. "Sit down, gentlemen," the man said. The Moes recognized him—it was Hopper, the voice on the tape.

Five empty chairs waited around the table.

The woman dished out stew.

Eat Moe picked up his spoon.

Hopper stopped him. "A moment." He said a quick, soft prayer. "Now we may get down to business."

The stew was delicious, full of fish, chicken, potatoes, onions, rice, and chiles. The woman brought them icy bottles of beer that went down like water. When their bowls were empty, she gave them refills. Eat Moe had thirds. "She's a fine woman," he said. He would marry her in an instant, baby and all, were she not already taken.

"She treats me well. And I try to do the same. Life here is different than it is in the States." Hopper pointed to the bare wooden walls, the iron stove, and the kerosene lantern illuminating the room. "With so little, I'm very happy."

"Happier than you were at home?"

"Happier than I was with a split-level ranch-style house in a Baltimore suburb and a shiny Chevrolet in the driveway."

A moth fluttered in through the window. Its chaotic orbit around the lantern's globe threw syncopated shadows against the ceiling and walls.

"To each his own, I guess." The Moes had spent most of their lives working to get out of tarpaper shacks lit by candles and kerosene. To have the comfortable life that often eluded people like them (not just musicians) and to throw it away seemed foolish. Or stupid.

Hopper looked sad. "You wouldn't understand. I had hoped that men like you—"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Big Moe said.

He raised his hands, showing the palms. "Nothing offensive."

Eat Moe held up his bowl. "Got any more?" Hopper's wife ladled more in. As she passed, Hopper brushed his hand over her belly then squeezed her arm. She kissed the top of his head. Eat Moe said, "I'd consider giving up a ranch house for chow like this." He spooned a chunk of fish into his mouth.

"Enjoy it," Hopper said. "It could be your last."

Big Moe shoved his bowl aside. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"We know what you five are doing here. You're spies. So far, I'm the only thing keeping you alive. There's a Russian General who wants to have you shot immediately. I, however, think that shooting you would be counter-productive. I think you're more valuable alive."

"I can't argue with that," Little Moe said.

"But my control over Castro and the Russians is limited. It's all black and white to them. The way they see it, you're either with us or against us. If you're with us, I'll do everything I can to make sure you're treated well. Good food, good homes, the best recording equipment and instruments money can buy. You'll be able to make music without having to worry about the bottom line. A musician's paradise."

"And if we're against you?" Big Moe asked.

Hopper made a gun out of his fist and pointed it at the Moes. His outstretched thumb dropped. "Bap," he said. "Bap times five."

"I don't know if I like that," Little Moe said.

"I don't know if I like it either. I like you guys. Come with me. What I can show you, it will change your life. What's out there is new and exciting. Words can't describe it. It's," he paused, searching for the words that couldn't describe what he wanted to describe. "It's primal, basic, something at the foundation of all humanity, yet transcending humanity." He sighed. "I can't explain."

"And music is a part of it?" Big Moe asked.

Hopper nodded slowly. He looked exhausted.

"Damn," Little Moe said. "That must be some bandleader they got down here."

"It's more than that," Hopper said. "But there's a catch. If you come with me, you'll have to give up everything—your preconceived notions, your politics, your entire way of viewing the world. They won't let you go to McCarthy and report back to him."

For once, the Moes were speechless. Their latest release, "Funnyback Dollar and a Hole in My Shoe," was currently number seven and rising.

"What's happening here is too important to let McCarthy stop it," Hopper said.

"What if we didn't tell him anything?" Know Moe said.

"That's not going to happen. He'll know you've seen me. That was the Colonel you saw the other day."

Four-Eyed Moe said, "I told you so!"

"Are you telling me that you have people watching the people watching us?" Little Moe asked.

"I am."

"I don't know if I like all this spying stuff," Eat Moe said. "We gotta have a Moe conference."

Usually the Moe conferences lasted at least an hour. Sometimes they went on for days, especially if liquor was involved. This one went on for exactly forty minutes. At the end, they voted, and came to a decision: "We want to see what you got, but we can't leave our lives at home." They had homes in America, wives, girlfriends, business obligations.

Hopper opened the front door. "Go back to Santiago. Stay there. Drink beer and smoke cigars. Act like you're tourists on a tropical vacation. I'll do what I can to keep the Soviets away."

"But," Little Moe said.

"Trust me." Hopper rested his hand on the butt of a pistol stuck into the waistband of his khakis. Eat Moe looked back at the woman who had made one of the finest bowls of stew he'd ever eaten. She stood by the stove carrying a Mosin Carbine, and she looked like she knew how to use it. Never had a chef so betrayed him before.

A Soviet GAZ-51 troop transport waited for the Moes outside. An army officer directed them into the back, which was full of fuzz-faced soldiers, each one carrying a Kalashnikov. They cleared a space on the bench for the Moes. Hopper, after conferring briefly with the officer, said, "If you want to survive your vacation, remember what I said. Stay in Santiago. Don't leave town. Smoke your cigars and drink beer at the Casa. They're watching you. You try anything else …" He sliced a finger across his throat. A particularly brutish looking soldier emitted a guttural laugh. When the Moes looked back at the cottage, Hopper was gone, his door closed. The candle no longer burned in the window.

On the bumpy ride back to Santiago, no one spoke. The Moes smiled. The soldiers didn't smile back.

"They going to kill us?" Little Moe asked quietly.

"I certainly hope not," Big Moe said. "I'm not done living yet."

The army truck rumbled into Santiago shortly before midnight and grumbled to a halt in front of the Mir-a-Mar. The Moes were standing before the engine stopped coughing.

"This is our stop," Little Moe said. "Thank you for your fine hospitality." He waved a big wave, arm arcing from hip to shoulder, then hightailed into the hotel after the other Moes.

They didn't notice the fat man and the kid a block away, lurking on the corner under a broken street lamp.

The band piled into Big Moe's room. Know Moe threw the deadbolt. Big Moe and Eat Moe shoved the armoire in front of the door. Little Moe shouted, "Wait!" A silence hung in the air. "We need to put this outside." He displayed the "Do not disturb" sign.

Know Moe snatched it from Little Moe. "That's not going to do any good."

Little Moe snatched it back. "Every little bit helps."

Big Moe pointed at the armoire. "Door's barricaded now."

"Only a minor difficulty," Little Moe said. "Lean that thing back." He then slid the sign, "Do not disturb" side up (lest the maids make up the room), under the door. "You gotta think outside the box. Now we have a little insurance."

"Insurance against what?"

Little Moe's eyes went wide and his arms gyrated while he thought of an answer. He looked just like he did while singing "Ooky Spooky Gal, I Got a Crush on Her" in the 1952 movie, Mardi Gras Midnight. The other four Moes stared at him, waiting. Big Moe leaned against the armoire, his hand resting on the top. He was almost as tall as the cabinet. Eat Moe tapped out a nervous drum line against his thigh. Inspiration struck Little Moe: "Insurance against being disturbed."

Big Moe said, "We gotta have another Moe conference."

Eat Moe asked if they could get room service.

Little Moe pointed to the door. "Not unless we want to be disturbed." He knew, at that moment, an entire battalion of unshaven young communistas waited outside, ready to put the Moes against the wall if they made the wrong move.

The Moes conferred. They argued, altercated, bickered, and battled for the better part of two hours. Little Moe wanted to get out of Cuba immediately. Big Moe pleaded prudence. Four-Eyed Moe recommended they change their names. ("To what? Five Guys Who Used to be Named Moe?") Know Moe suggested they do what Hopper said and spend the rest of their days in Cuba at the Casa de la Trova learning the local rhythms. Eat Moe liked that idea, but he also offered they consider everything over a bowl of gumbo.

In the end, they decided to do nothing. Then they argued for an hour more about how to go about doing nothing: another sixty minutes spent cajoling, contending, persuading, and pondering. The Casa de la Trova won out. It had food and music, two of the three things the Moes considered essential for life.

"And what if we meet the Colonel?" Little Moe asked.

"Then we tell him what we know and that we want to go home early."

It made sense. They had seen Hopper. And the Moes were professional musicians, not professional spies. Let the latter handle the espionage. The Moes were made for bringing down the house with a high-brow beat. Or a low-brow beat if it was that kind of place. Didn't matter to them. So the next day they repaired to the Casa, ordered up cinco cervezas, and settled in to watch Santiago's musicians strut their stuff.

Big Moe and Four-Eyed Moe, the group's songwriters, took notes, soaking in the new musical styles. Little Moe hit on the waitresses. A few hit back.

"They don't know about your obvious talents," Eat Moe said as Little Moe nursed a slapped cheek. It had been three days since their visit with Hopper. "You ain't fronting a band."

"Then maybe we ought. Get up and play." Little Moe's place was on stage. In interviews he said he never felt more alive than when he was in front of a crowd.

"We can't do that," Big Moe said.

"What do you mean we can't do that?"

"We're supposed to be incognito. We get up there and play 'Rootie Patootie,' they're going to know we're the American Moes."

"As opposed to the Canadian Moes?"

"Exactly."

Little Moe looked like he sucked a lemon. "We ought to get ourselves a lawyer, a Jewish one, and get an injunction out against those Canadian Moes. They're stealing our thunder."

"Diluting our brand," Eat Moe said.

Know Moe interrupted. "Never mind that. Look at what's happening outside."

Two girls and a boy, teenagers, had paused on the sidewalk outside the Casa. The boy wore a dark suit with thin lapels and a thin tie. Everything about him was thin except for his shoes, which were big and clunky and shined to perfection. If a strong wind came up, they might be the only things to keep him from blowing away.

The girls were just as polished, in sweaters and skirts, bobby socks and saddle shoes. Colorful scarves kept their hair tied back in ponytails.

The other Moes were unimpressed. "They're going to a party, so what?"

"That's the tenth set of kids I've seen walk by in fifteen minutes. All in the same direction. Something's going on. Those kids are dressed like they're going walking in Harlem on a Saturday night."

"Hey!" Little Moe leapt from his seat, knocking over Four-Eyed Moe's beer. "It is Saturday night. We ought to follow them."

"We ought not follow them," Know Moe said. "You remember what Hopper said. We leave the Casa and …" He grimaced and drew his finger across his throat.

"We leave the Casa every day. Hopper said if we leave Santiago. Do those kids look like they're leaving the city? Nobody dresses like that to pick cotton."

"Almost too dark to pick cotton anyway," Eat Moe said.

Little Moe stuck his finger in the air like a preacher. "My point exactly! Those kids aren't leaving the city and we ought to see what they're doing."

"What business is it of ours?" Big Moe asked.

Little Moe shook his head as if ashamed of his band mates. "Because those kids are dressed up to go to a party. And where there's a party, there's music."

"That is correct," Big Moe said, thoughtful.

So they threw a fistful of pesos on the table and, spylike, peered out the Casa's door, each one at once, with Little Moe at the bottom, Big Moe at the top. A pedestrian walking up the street would think the Casa had installed a rhythm-and-blues totem pole in its doorway.

Teenagers clustered in the town square a block away—dozens of them—talking, laughing, engaging in chaste Catholic flirting. Three boys dressed in matching suits stood a little apart from the crowd, singing and dancing in harmony.

To the east, dusky violet crept into the sky. To the west, the horizon seeped red from the ocean. An old school bus, painted purple and pink, rumbled toward the crowd, leaving a stinking blue cloud of diesel exhaust hanging in the street. Eat Moe sneezed. A girl at the outside of the crowd turned and smiled, white teeth and rocket-red lips.

Another conference followed, perhaps the second shortest ever (the first being the one before they signed on Herman Langer's dotted line). Little Moe wanted to board the bus, see where it took them: "Are we on that bus or off it?" Eat Moe agreed. Know Moe worried it would take them out of the city. Big Moe was skeptical, "He does have a point about the way they're dressed," but Four-Eyed Moe was curious. "If we hit the city limits we just ask the driver to let us off." They took a vote and it came out three to one, with a lone abstention.

As the last few teenagers hopped aboard the bus, the five Moes came tearing down the sidewalk, waving and hollering.

The bus' door shut, opened a little, shut, opened a little, jammed, then creaked open as the Moes reached the corner. Know Moe, the last to board, asked the driver, "Cuanto dinero?"

"Nada," he answered. Hummingbirds could have roosted in the gaps in his smile. He cranked the door shut and jerked the bus into gear. Kids crammed three and four to a seat. As the bus pulled away, kids standing in the aisle packed themselves backward to make room for the Moes. Eat Moe smiled and said, "Howdy," but the teenagers mostly ignored them. They talked, flirted, laughed, watched out the window, held hands, and there, tucked away in the corner of the very last row, two kissed, oblivious to the rest of the world.

The bus ride took an hour. The Moes watched as the city faded into country. Little Moe asked the driver to stop and let them off. He refused, citing his schedule, and Little Moe resorted to pleading. That didn't work. Neither did threatening, begging, or bribing. Know Moe said, "This is going to get us killed."

"I knew I shouldn't have gotten on this bus," Four-Eyed Moe said.

Little Moe punched him in the arm. "You voted to get on the bus."

"I abstained."

Big Moe said, "Shut up, you two. We end up where we end up. We'll deal with it then."

The driver stopped on a rural road flanked by trees and cranked the door open. The teenagers stirred from their seats. The Moes, last in, were first out. "Where the hell are we?" Little Moe asked. A white wooden fence interrupted by an iron gate separated rain forest from fields.

"United Fruit," Know Moe said, pointing above the gate to a weathered sign. Under Batista, the company controlled a significant portion of Cuba's fruit-packing industry. Under Castro, the company had been sent packing. Now, revolutionary peasants worked the land and harvested the fruit.

The kids flowed past the Moes into the abandoned plantation. They seemed to know where they were going, so the Moes followed.

It was a nice night—warm, but with a cool breeze blowing jasmine perfume off the trees. Bright stars twinkled, and an untrampled pristine moon dripped silver light over all creation. It was a night for falling in love.

At least for the first fifty feet. Then Little Moe stopped his bandmates with outstretched arms. He pointed with a nod. Two soldiers sat in a jeep, watching the procession. They smiled at the teenagers, waved here and there at people they knew. Farther away, three more soldiers, rifles slung across their backs, patrolled the area. "Do you think they're looking for us?" Little Moe asked.

"Couldn't be," Four-Eyed Moe said. "If they were, they'd be on us by now."

"We just keep walking," Big Moe said. The soldiers didn't have the tense look of men waiting for a confrontation. Nor had they come running to arrest the Moes. They were there for security.

"And what if they want to shoot us?" Little Moe asked.

"Then we run like hell."

"Sounds like a plan."

"Always best to be prepared."

So the five black men from America strolled past the soldiers like they belonged in a gathering of Cuban teenagers.

It worked. The guards happily let them by. One said, "Noche bonita," to which Eat Moe replied with, "Sí."

The crowd was not just Moes and Cuban teenagers. As it came together, Big Moe noticed white Europeans and Canadians, black Caribbeans, Mexicans, squat Indians, and even, over there, a cluster of Japanese kids in sharkskin suits and poodle skirts. Everyone gathered in a field facing a stage on which was set up a drum kit, microphones, and a stand-up bass. Soldiers stood by, protecting the stage and the buildings beyond it. Other soldiers walked lazy circuits around the field.

"What kind of concert do you think this is?" Little Moe asked Know Moe.

"Got me."

"You're supposed to know."

"I can't know everything."

"What kind of Know Moe are you then?"

A man in an electric blue zoot suit came on stage and the crowd cheered. He thanked them for coming with the loose-limbed exuberance of a professional comedian. The crowd clapped, and in a moment of control he introduced the first act: The Pastels.

Four men took the stage. One sat behind the drums. Another took the bass. The third plugged a guitar into an amplifier. The last carried a big gold alto sax. They settled at the rear of the stage, then looked stage right. Three women, girls actually, looking barely out of their quincieras, and wearing matching gowns appropriate for the party, entered single file, each one stopping in front of a microphone.

The guitarist played a melodic introduction. The Moes, veterans of the stage, could see how nervous the girls were. Was this their first performance? Their gazes roved all over the crowd: hands twitched, knees shook. One girl's voice cracked in the middle of the first song, but the musicians swept it away. The guitarist gently strummed, the bassist plucked out sweet notes, and the drummer caressed his snare and cymbals.

In the second song, the girls became absorbed by the music, less aware of the hundreds of eyes watching them. Their voices came together, sounding like a perfect spring day. Little Moe wept at the beauty of their harmony. He wanted to adopt all three and bring them back to the States.

The next act was the Debonairs—five men in shiny shoes and matching black suits. They sang a cappella. The shortest one, a guy barely over five feet tall who could hide behind a stalk of sugar cane, sang bass. They danced highly choreographed routines to accompany their songs. Couples broke out from the crowd to sway with the music. Those without partners swayed alone. "These guys are also good," Know Moe exclaimed.

Carlos and the Cucarachas came out fast and loud to favorable applause. Carlos played a Fender Stratocaster as he sang, striking a knock-kneed pose like he had to pee. The Cucarachas provided back-up vocals. Their music was a mix of country and R&B, with only three chords and a four/four beat. It was all they needed.

Couples danced the jitterbug, the cha cha cha, or just moved in whatever way the music took them. The Moes had never heard anything like it. The music was basic and just the right bit of raw. It was primal, affecting something archetypal in the human soul, a far cry from the processed jazz at the Tropicana or the slick pop on the Sinatra Hour. It was new, it was fresh, as musicians they were excited, but as businessmen they were scared. They could see this new form taking over, relegating them to footnotes in the history of popular song.

"We gotta do something about this," Little Moe said.

"I think that's why you-know-who sent us here," Big Moe said.

A murmur came through the crowd. The girls looked restless, their boyfriends a bit anxious. A girl yelled "Pepito!" and she was answered by screaming and clapping. Soon, others joined in, clapping and chanting "Pepito! Pepito!" over and over.

Four-Eyed Moe elbowed Eat Moe. "Say, who is this Pepito? He certainly seems popular with the ladies."

Eat Moe shrugged. The clapping grew louder. The Moes worried that if he didn't appear on stage soon, there'd be another revolution.

The emcee came out. The screams intensified. "Muchachos y muchachas," he said, his amplified voice barely audible over the noise, "PEPITO!"

Frenzy overtook the crowd. It was like the mania created by Sinatra's live appearances, but a thousand times more powerful.

Musicians walked on stage. The screaming continued. The drummer tapped out a roll on the snare. The guitarist bashed out a minor chord then a flurry of notes. From stage left came Pepito, and the mania intensified a millionfold. A girl near Eat Moe fainted, and he barely caught her before she hit the ground.

Pepito's three-inch pompadour swooped down to touch his collar. He wore a necklace made of shell casings, big shiny rings on every finger, a tailored lime green suit, and a purple cravat. When he smiled, all the girls swooned. Little Moe squinted and said, "I think that fellow is wearing an earring!"

Pepito sang song after song: songs of love, of life, and of the revolution. Every one came in under two minutes fifty-nine, and with every song the girls screamed and swooned. Twice, they leapt to the stage trying to kiss him. The soldiers grabbed them and gently led them back to the floor. The Moes stood slack-jawed and unmoving, like five stone pillars in the storm-tossed surf. They saw, in those moments, a crowd of kids--brown Cubans, black Caribbeans, pale Europeans, and the smattering of Japanese—all together for one thing. Nothing mattered except the music.

Pepito did three encores, finishing the last by throwing his jacket into the crowd. It was torn to shreds by his adoring fans.

"We have to see him," Know Moe said.

"But how?" Eat Moe said. Tired and sweaty teenagers milled about or filed back to the gate where a line of multicolored buses waited. Cuba's finest stood guard around the stage and the outbuildings.

The Moes ran a gauntlet of girls determined to catch a glimpse (or something more?) of Pepito. Two soldiers blocked the backstage door. Little Moe turned the charm up to eleven, the same charm that hadn't done him an ounce of good in the Montgomery, Alabama whites-only restroom not so long ago. It didn't work here either.

"Nobody comes backstage to see Pepito," the guard said. He looked barely eighteen, too young to be holding an AK-47.

Little Moe pleaded: "But we're musicians like him. He'll want to see us."

"Nobody comes backstage to see Pepito."

Little Moe paced twice, two steps each way. "We need to talk to him about a record deal. Big money."

"Pepito doesn't need money. He sings for the glory of the State."

Little Moe glared at the guard. To the other Moes, he said, "We need to talk," and the fourth-ever-shortest Moe conference commenced.

"We're not getting through."

"Maybe we can bribe him."

"Got any chocolate?"

"Perhaps we should tell him the truth?"

"That we're spies?"

"No! That we're Moes."

They voted and it was five to zero in favor. Little Moe approached the guard and waited patiently while the soldier dealt with a weepy Pepito fan. The girl driven away, Little Moe said, "Sorry for bothering you again, but my friends and I want to see Pepito. We're Five Guys Named Moe."

This time, the guard smiled, revealing a gold bicuspid on the left side. "From America?"

"Yes, damn it, the American Moes. Not those phony Canadian imposters."

The guard called his buddy over. They agreed to let the Moes backstage, but only after each one had scrawled personalized signatures in the autograph books the soldiers produced from the deep pockets of their fatigues. "Look at this!" Know Moe said as he flipped to a blank page. "He's got Castro's autograph in here next to Pepito's."

At the mention of Pepito, a dozen lingering fans perked up and swarmed the door. One soldier held them back while the other ushered the Moes inside.

When the building belonged to United Fruit, it had been a dormitory for field workers. Since then, someone had partitioned the large rooms, painted the walls pale eggshell blue, and improved the lighting. Where naked light bulbs once hung, now Soviet fixtures illuminated the recently refinished wooden floor.

"Damn," Four-Eyed Moe said, "this is nicer than we ever got."

They passed a door from behind which came the giggling and chatter of young women. The next dressing room belonged to the Debonairs. The last door on the right, decorated with a painted yellow star, belonged to Pepito. It was partially open, spilling light from the gap.

Pepito sat at a dressing table in front of a mirror. Hopper sat on a table nearby, one foot on the floor, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Eat Moe glanced into the shadows for Hopper's wife and was glad to find her absent. The heartbreak of seeing her again may have been too much.

The room was big enough to hold all seven men despite the furniture and racks of clothing.

"Gentlemen," Hopper said.

"Hopper," the gentlemen said.

"Manners say I should tell you I'm glad to see you, but I'm not. You shouldn't have seen what you saw."

Big Moe filled himself out, making his presence crowd the room. "We're also musicians."

"Technically, you're spies who happen to be musicians. I could have you shot." He uncrossed his arms, revealing a 9mm Makarov clutched in his fist. He pointed it at the Moes. Pepito's eyes went wide. "I should have you shot. This is all too important. We can't let McCarthy and his cronies destroy the revolution."

"You going to kill us?" Big Moe asked. Pepito shook his head.

Hopper said, "I don't want to, but I don't know if I have any choice."

From behind them, the Colonel said, "Put down that gun, Hopper." He stood in the doorway holding a pearl-handled Colt .45 Peacemaker.

Eat Moe said, "This room is starting to get a bit crowded."

Little Moe said, "How did you get in here?" He pointed toward the way they had come in, past the two Cuban soldiers.

"Back door," the Colonel said.

Little Moe whacked Know Moe on the arm. "Why didn't we think of that?"

"Shut up," the Colonel said.

"Where's your partner?" Hopper asked.

"I'm not going to answer that."

"I knew he wouldn't," Little Moe said.

The Colonel motioned with the gun for the Moes to move aside. "You boys did well. Now it's time to let the professionals finish up."

Big Moe stepped between Hopper and the Colonel.

"Move aside, boy. I have a job to do."

Big Moe didn't budge.

"I'll go through you to get to him."

Big Moe said, "You can't stop what we saw tonight. You can kill me, the other Moes"—"Hey!" Little Moe said—"Hopper, Pepito"—"Hey!" Pepito said—"but it won't matter. You can't kill ideas. This music is like a virus. If it doesn't come from Cuba then it'll come from somewhere else. What you saw out there is going to spread. The whole country is going to catch that attitude. You know what I see? No more whites-only restrooms or segregated lunch counters. No more Jim Crow. No more back of the bus for you, boy. All because of some bar chords and a four-four beat. And there's nothing McCarthy can do about it."

"Not if I can help it," the Colonel said. He swung the gun to face Pepito.

Hopper yelled, "No!" Eat Moe, closest to the CIA agent, grabbed the first thing that came to his hand, a half-full rum bottle, and swung. The bottle bounced off the Colonel's head without breaking. Rum splashed. The Colonel pulled his trigger. Hopper fired. Pepito screamed. Smoke and noise filled the room. When it cleared, Know Moe, who had been next to Pepito, lay on the floor, shot in the chest. The Colonel lay in the hall, his brains splattered against the wall behind him.

"Damn," Little Moe said, looking at the Colonel. Eat Moe crossed himself.

"I'm sorry," Hopper said.

"What now," Big Moe said. He held the Colonel's gun on Hopper. In his fist, it seemed to vanish. Little Moe knelt, tending to Know Moe.

"Are you going to kill me now?" Hopper asked, without fear, challenging.

"He's dead," Little Moe said.

The gun began to shake in Big Moe's grip. He looked down at his bandmate's body, and Hopper stepped forward. Big Moe swung the gun so that it almost touched Hopper's chest. A tear ran down his cheek onto his shirt. "My friend is dead," he said.

"It happens. I'm sorry. Politics is a dangerous business."

Big Moe jabbed the gun into Hopper's solar plexus. "I ought to do the same to you. All he ever wanted to do was make music and entertain people. He didn't want to be a spy. None of us did."

Pepito and the other three Moes raised their hands. Hopper stepped back. He was looking behind Big Moe. "Nobody else is going to die tonight. Give me the gun."

"Give him the gun," Little Moe said.

Big Moe glanced at the doorway. Four Cuban soldiers stood ready, their rifles pointed at him.

"Give him the gun," Little Moe said, an edge in his voice. Four-Eyed Moe nodded so vigorously that his glasses slipped to the end of his nose.

Big Moe lowered the gun. Hopper relaxed his guard. "You're a smart man." Big Moe pointed the gun at Hopper again. Little Moe said, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm thinking of something," Big Moe said.

"Well, think without pointing a gun at someone."

To Hopper, Big Moe said, "I have a proposition for you."

"There's four rifles pointed at the back of your head. You're not really in a position to be doing that."

"Hear me out. We need to get out of here, get home, and deal with this new music. It's going to change a lot of things. No one's going to want to hear 'Rootie Patootie' when they can hear him." Big Moe gestured with the gun toward Pepito. The Cuban musician jerked back in his seat. "And I don't see President McCarthy giving up. Which means we have to do something about Pepito." He pointed at Know Moe's body. "They could be brothers. Or second cousins at the very least."

Little Moe grew pale. "You mean …"

"I'm considering."

"Incredible," Eat Moe said.

"Would it work?" Four-Eyed Moe asked.

A smile grew across Hopper's face. The four Moes studied Know Moe and Pepito. "We're going to have to give him a haircut," Little Moe said.

"And put a few pounds on him," Eat Moe said.

"But I see where you're going," Four-Eyed Moe said, "and I like it."

"We could be on the vanguard of a new revolution. This is our music. It doesn't belong to McCarthy or Castro. And it doesn't belong to NBC, RCA, or any of those washed-out singers on the Sinatra Hour. We shouldn't let them get control of it. This is music for the masses, and it should belong to the masses."

"You're talking like a communist."

"I'm talking like a musician. And it's what Know would want."

"But how would it work? How do we get out of here?"

"Leave that to me," Hopper said.

Little Moe pushed him away, toward the trees. "Stop running your mouth and start running your feet. The army's after us!" From behind them came shouting and gunshots. Hopper's ruse worked. Before dawn the Hound Dog pulled away from Cuba. The kid never noticed that Know Moe didn't quite look the same as when he arrived almost two weeks earlier.

Back in the States, the kid's report said the Colonel was killed in the line of duty, protecting the Moes from enemy fire. His record reflected that he died a hero.

Rock and roll killed the Moes. After the release of Johnny Bueno's "Move Over Mozart" (b/w "Rockin' All Night"), no one cared for the Moes' brand of hopped-up rhythm and blues. They broke up soon after. The Moes didn't seem to mind. Know Moe moved to Europe and fell out of the public eye. Little Moe formed Jordan records and released some of the greatest cuts of the early rock-and-roll era. Four-Eyed Moe kept himself busy as Johnny Bueno's songwriter and manager as well as a studio man for Decade, Jordan, and Hi-Jinx. Big Moe wrote and produced rock and roll until the civil rights movement claimed all his time. Eat Moe became a restaurateur.

President McCarthy continued to fight communism until a winter storm in late 1957 knocked out all power to the greater Washington, D.C. area. He died of liver failure several days later. The kid never left the agency and spent time as a military advisor in Vietnam, Nicaragua, and Belfast. Fidel Castro is still in power despite the efforts of eight U.S. presidents. Nothing more is known about the agent named "Hopper."

The Moes' music was rediscovered in the mid-1970s and continues to be enjoyed by music fans worldwide. In response to a question about the eventual demise of the band that was known as Five Guys Named Moe, Big Moe is reported to have said, "Far be it from me to stand in the way of progress."