“I guarantee to get you out of this sump heap, anyway.” He sat back, concealing his anticipation with the ease of long practice. “What do you say, Willie?”
Only sound the greasy tinkle of the bottle tapping rhythmically against the wooden bench. It was empty and so was the rhythm.
Then, “Sure, why not? At least somebody else can
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fight with the owners for drink money. Stupid bastards, think they all know music . . . Yeah, sure, you can be my agent. What’d you say your name was?”
“Parker,” Sam repeated patiently. “Samuel Parker.”
“Okay, Samuel Parker. Deal. Manitou help you.”
“Fine,” said Sam, reaching into his vest. “Now if you’ll just sign here, and he—” Whitehorse was shaking his head.
“Huh-uh. No contracts, no papers. If I want to quit, I up and quit. Just like that.”
“Where does that leave me?” prompted Sam.
“In hell for all I care. I could give a damn. That’s a problem for the Great Spirit, not me. Take it or screw it.”
Sam sighed. “I’ll take it. Now that that’s done with,” he stood and extracted a fresh cigar, “what’s the first thing Ijcaa do for you, to seal our agreement?”
Whitehorse hungrily sucked the last recalcitrant drops from the glass. He gazed at it moodily, hefting it by the neck. When he threw it into the far wall it shattered in a crystalline shower of quick brilliance and cheap wind chimes.
“Get me another bottle.”
m.
Without even seeing the hovel Whitehorse was living in, Sam offered the singer the use of his own apartment. Whitehorse refused, but he didn’t like riding the bus. So he accepted Sam’s offer of a ride home.