“How sad for you.”
“That’s an opinion others share,” Sam agreed. “Sometimes I feel that way myself. You Willie White-horse?”
Barely audible around sips of raw sad whiskey. “Yeah.”
“You’re an Indian?”
That produced the first reply above a mumble. Whitehorse opened his eyes aU the way (how black
181
WITH FIOENDS LIKE THESE . . .
they were!) and glared at the agent. Sam squirmed a little. They seemed to back up to naked space.
“You’re a Jew, aren’t you?”
“I am,” replied Sam, unperturbed.
“Parker your real name?”
“No. My folks changed it when I was small.”
The singer shook a little. It might have been laughter. It was probably the liquor.
“Well, Whitehorse is my real name, and my folks didn’t go and change it! And I’m not about to.” His gaze was unsteady but defiant. “Guess that makes me just a cut or two above you, don’t it?”
Folding his hands over his tummy, Sam replied quietly, “If it pleases you to look at it that way.”
The eyes glittered a moment longer. Then they closed tight, like wrung-out washrags, and turned away.
“God damn you,” Whitehorse hissed. “Oh, God damn you!”
Pause; quiet. “You got an agent, Willie?”
“No.” With satisfaction, “Can’t stand ’em.”
“I’m not surprised. Most of us are pretty obnoxious.”
“And you’re different, I suppose?” he sneered.
“I think so. You may come to think so. You know what I think, Willie? You’ve got talent. A lot of talent.” When there was no reply to that, Sam continued:
“I’d like to handle you. I think you could be a big star. The biggest, maybe. Get you some respectable sidemen, put together a decent band. Like a chance to work with some guys who can play more than chopsticks, Willie?” Still no reaction. But no rejection, either. Encouraged, Sam plunged on: