Sam put an arm out. “Hold it, s—pal. I got enough change. I’m rolling in change. Just tell me how to get to the dressing room.”
The waiter licked his lips, eyed the faded green paper. “Won’t be anyone there, ‘cept maybe White-horse. His first name’s Willie.” The bill vanished into a shirt, to be replaced by directions,
180
Wolfstroker
n.
He hadn’t really expected to find a dressing room in this dump, but damned if there wasn’t one. As if unconsciously aware of the incongruity, it partly compensated by having no door.
Someone sat inside on a bench in front of a chest of drawers that had seen good days before the last world war. There was a mirror above it. An electric guitar lay across the chest, like an Aztec maiden readied for sacrifice. Sam hesitated at the entrance, rapped on the inside of the wall.
“Can I come in?” The singer turned and Sam saw the bottle, near empty.
“Can’t keep you out,’* muttered the figure, finishing a long swallow. He choked, wiped his lips with the back of a wrist. This was bad, but it didn’t stop Sam.
“Yes you can. Just tell me to and I won’t come in.”
The singer seemed ready for another swallow, paused, and vested a flicker of interest on Sam. It disappeared before anyone might see it.
“Come in or get lost, as it pleases you. Makes no difference to me.”
Sam walked in, sat down in the single wicker chair, facing the singer’s back.
“I’ll be short and to the point. I’m an agent.”
A slight smile touched the corners of the singer’s mouth as he turned slowly. There was no humor in it.