“Sorry, Sam, but Jack’s right. We all of us have got other things to do than wait around here. This is a favor from me to you, I know. But we been here for too many hours now, Sam. Offhand, I don’t think your wonder boy’s gonna show.”
He snapped open a small black case with red velvet guts and eased his harmonica therein.
“Please Vince . . . Jack, Milo. Give me a chance, willya? Hey, another ten minutes, that’s all I ask. Okay? Ten lousy minutes. I’m sure he’ll be here. He promised me he would.”
Rivera sighed, snapping the latch on the case. “Sam, I think you’ve been had.”
“He was had when he decided on joining his noble profession,” came a thin voice from the studio door. Sam spread a relieved grin from ear to ear, but inwardly he was seething.
“Willie!” It came out like a curse. “Knew you’d make it, fella!” Whitehorse walked past Sam, ignored the preferred palm.
186
Wolfstroker
“Sure, Sam. Promised.” The singer looked only slightly less haggard than he had the previous night.
He found a plug, started to hook himself into the ganglion of his guitar’s mechanical lungs, and talked while he worked:
“You know, Sara, I wasn’t going to come.”
Parker pretended not to hear as he closed the studio door.
“I was just going to leave you flat, go to Phoenix. Big joke. This whole thing,” and he took in the studio in a half-wave, “doesn’t appeal to me. Then I thought Grandfather, whatever he might think of this, wouldn’t like to hear I’d gone back on my word. So, what the hell,” he finished lamely.
Bless all grandfathers, prayed Parker silently. He felt like a man who’d just pulled an inside straight while hoping for a simple pair.