“Ought to lay off that stuff,” Sam commented, keeping his tone carefully neutral. Whitehorse swayed, laughed a little wildly.
‘”Hunk I’m drunk, don’t you?”
“No—” began Sam.
“Well, I’m not! Most Indians drink, mister agent Parker. Not ’cause they like this rot. Not that. They drink ’cause most of what they were was ripped away from them by the white man’s world before they got born. Liquor blurs over all the empty spaces a little. All those dark wide holes that were once full of beautiful things. And the worse thing is, Parker, that you don’t really know what they were, those things. Just a big nothingness feeling that they aren’t there anymore.
184
Wolfstroker
“No, I’m not drunk, Parker. When I’m drinking I’m sober. I’m only drunk when I’m playing.”
Sam slowed and pulled into the curb. He didn’t offer to come up. They weren’t in Beverly Hills. It took the singer three tries to get the door open.
Sara leaned over from the wheel, looking out. “Remember, Willie. The studio tomorrow. Sure you can find it?”
Whitehorse swayed, turned to face the agent. He held the guitar to him like a mute child. “I’ll find it.” It was hard to tell whether he was laughing or crying. “Man, I’m an Indian! I can find my way to anywhere, don’t you know that? Yeah, I’ll get there, if I can make it up the stairs.” He put his hand to his mouth, blew out.
“Woo, woo, w—!” The third war whoop expired prematurely, subsumed in wracking cough. Sam turned away, embarrassed.
“I’ll be there. I’ll be there.”
IV.
Three young men stood in the concrete womb of the studio and stared impatiently at the white walls, their instruments, and Sam Parker. Sam transferred his gaze to his innocent watch and tried not to let them see how worried he was. He’d told Whitehorse ten o’clock. It was now twelve thirty and the trio was not in good humor.