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WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . . .
and James and Lombardo to tantalize the little man slightly.
And right at the finish there was something that frightened him just a little. It went away fast and he forgot it soon enough, for now. As he watched Willie Whitehorse, for just the shortest odd second there was no guitar in those thin arms, no guitar but instead a vapory gray outline. Like one of those things everyone sees out of the corner of their eyes and aren’t there at all when they turn to look at them. A funny outline that had four legs and a tail, in those arms. Four legs, a tail, sharp pointed ears, long snout clustered with coconut-pale teeth, and two tiny eye pits of red-orange that burned like wax matches.
Beer and bad lighting, of course, and Sam Parker forgot it quick.
After a while the musicians and applause drifted away and the stage lights followed. Sam sat staring at the empty place for a few minutes, thinking. Then he tapped his vest pocket, heard the faint rustle of the blank contract he always carried there. He liked to joke about it, his “soul” contract. If the Devil ever presented Sam with an offer for same, he wanted to be ready for him. Know better what he was getting and Satan might try to back out of the deal.
“Another beer, sir?” Sam blinked and looked around. The waiter was back at his side, as sleepy and tired as before.
“What?”
“Would you care for another drink, sir?”
“No. No thanks.” Sam shoved back his chair and stood. He handed the kid a five-dollar bill.
“I’ll get your change, sir.”