“That’s all right,” said Parker thankfully. “A bottle will be fine.” The waiter vanished.
You couldn’t rightly say the stage lights came on. Rather, the section of club that served for performing became slightly less stygian than the rest. Then the band—he used the term advisedly—moseyed out on stage.
With the possible exception of the lead guitar, they were as sad-looking a group as he’d ever seen. Lead guitar, bass, drums, and yes, it had to be, a xylophone, for God’s sake! He almost smiled. Maybe the quiet evening would present him with a chuckle to go with his good beer.
Sam Parker, if you haven’t guessed by now, was an agent. Not undercover, but theatrical, which was
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WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . ..
harder on body and soul. One of a multitude of busy ants, forever scrounging the ashcans of talent. Occasionally an ant died. Then he was casually dismembered by his fellows and carried into the hill to be eaten. Sam had come close a few times, but so far he was still intact and out among the scavengers. He was very observant, was Sam. So he didn’t miss the unmistakable aura of expectancy that had settled over the audience. For this schlock group? This skeletal collection of insensate clods? Something didn’t smell right. He found himself getting just a teensy bit excited.
Well, the drummer killed that when he started things. Sam resisted the melodramatic gesture of putting hands over ears. It was no worse than the performing pups. But if this kid had a real rhythm in his body he was preserving it for his death throes.