This time he saw it twice.
Once it was somewhere in the middle, and once again at the end. Sam saw or thought he saw the steel-silvery outline with the sulfurous sight that burned, burned, bulked in the protective arms of Willie White-horse.
They finished perfectly together, the last note dying a lingering, unwilling death. Sam blinked, looked at his watch.
They’d been playing nonstop for twenty-two minutes.
His shirt was soaked opaque under both arms, and if you’d asked him he’d have insisted he hadn’t moved a muscle the whole time. Except maybe in his throat.
Willie calmly unhooked his guitar and walked over to where Sam stood.
“When you want me to play a place, call me, mis-“ter agent.” He slammed the door behind him.
That seemed to shatter the spell that had settled shroudlike over the studio. The musicians crowded around Sam, but no one shook his hand, no one pounded his back. They were solemn, but it was an excited solemn. That was the way Jack Cavanack looked at Sam.
“I gotta apologize, man. Count me in but excuse me now. I gotta go cancel that Seattle gig.”
“Thanks, Jack. I’m glad.” Sam had a thought. “Wait, hold up, Jack. This a solo?”
189
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . ..
“Yeah. They back me with some locals, I play for awhile. It’s a good club, Sam.”
“Okay, tell your guy he’s getting a whole group for the price of a solo and to dump the college band boys,” Sam said rapidly. “Tell him you’re bringing your own people.”
“Okay, Sam,” agreed Cavanack, hand on the studio door. “Anything you say.”