“What do you want me to do, Sam?” Whitehorse asked.
“Well, Willie, I want to find out if you four are compatible, soundwise. If you are, I’d like to work you together into a group.” Uccelo hit a sour note on his bass and snorted derisively.
“Willie, that’s-Drivin’ Jack Cavanack on skins, Milo Uccelo on bass, and Vincente Rivera on harmonica, organ, Moog, and just about everything else you can imagine. Boys, Willie Whitehorse.”
Sam had seen more instant camaraderie among a group of pallbearers.
“All right, Sam, we all know what we play, man,” said Cavanack boredly. “Let’s get this over with, huh? I got a plane to catch.”
“Sure Jack, sure!” smiled Parker hurriedly. Cavanack turned his indifferent gaze on Whitehorse.
“What you want to play, man?”
“I only play my own stuff,” Willie replied with equal indifference. “You can follow me.if you like.”
“Now look here, man . . . !” began Cavanack, rising to his full six-five and glowering over his cylindrical zoo.
187
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . ..
“Please, Jack!” Sam pleaded, waving his arms. “It’s just for a few minutes. Be the big man for a few minutes, huh?” He smiled desperately.
“Okay, Sam,” Cavanack agreed warningly. “But you ask a lot, man.” He sat down. Willie set his guitar in his arms with that smooth cradling motion.
“Hey, brother,” interrupted Uccelo, “don’t you want to tune up?”
Eyes of smoked ice fixed on the bass player, just above tight lips.
“I’m not your brother, Uccelo . . . and I’m always in tune.”
“Sure, Willie,” Sam all but begged. “Go ahead and play something, willya?”