On the way Sam nearly blew it.
“You know,” he mused conversationally, “I’ve been thinking about ideas, presentation. Every group’s got to have a gimmick to make it these days.” . “Yeah,” muttered the singer indifferently, staring out the window. “Hey, I know,” he turned suddenly. “You’re probably thinking that Indians are pretty ‘in’ right now, huh?”
“Well, I was sort of considering—”
“You were thinking of maybe fixing me up in some-
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WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . ..
thing real authentic. Beads and buckskin, maybe, with a full war bonnet and moccasins. Call us ‘War Party’ or something? Hey, how about a handful of fake cigars, too?1*
“Not exactly that,” Sam countered, aware he’d somehow upset the singer. “There’s already a group with a similar name and—”
” ‘Come see the real Indian band play the sacred music of the Red Man as you’ve never heard it before. The new in, now powwow sound—that it, Parker? That’s pretty good, ain’t it, ‘powwow’?” His voice was getting close to a shout.
“Easy, easy,” said Sam placatingly, not looking into those volcanic orbs. They ate at something in him. “I didn’t mean anything like that.”
“No?” screamed Whitehorse. What bothered Sam wasn’t the kid’s violence. Darned if he didn’t seem to be almost crying. Abruptly the singer seemed to collapse in on himself.
“No. Maybe you didn’t. I’m sorry.” He put his head in his hands and rocked a little on the seat. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I’ve taken so much of that, that sickening, sticky, patronizing—” He coughed twice, violently the second time.