Imagine a winter night, 1970-71, coming across the Key Bridge as the city lights come on. I'd driven with my lady from sleepy Lexington, Virginia, to Georgetown--M Street, to be specific. I parked the old P 1800 in a neighborhood nearby, and we walked down to the Cellar Door, paid the modest cover, and found a front table. After the gray, cold evening the warmth of the crowded room was welcome, the scotch was good without being expensive, and the Adderley brothers were playing. It doesn't get much better than that in the sublunary world.The group lost no time warming up--this was the combo with Joe Zawinul on keyboards, and they were tight. After a couple of songs, Cannonball began to digress as he explained how the next number came to be composed. A woman near the back, speech slightly slurred but volume unimpaired, yelled out, "Hey, fat man, shut up and play some music." She seemed to be part of a sizable group, and we were between her and the bandstand. I had seen the Cellar Door staff show hecklers the door on past visits--they were serious guys. I began looking for an escape route as the place got deathly silent.I had underestimated the calm showmanship of Julian Adderley. He took a step toward his antagonist, folded his hands across his ample belly, and said without the least hint of malice, "Madam, dalliance is the privilege of the artist." Then he played a sweet, funky ballad with no more interruptions. As far as I know, the heckler got to stay for the whole show, but I didn't hear her again. Adderley's early death was a real loss to the history of jazz. In music or argument, he made his point gracefully and with good humor.