Rivera remained on the low stage. He was staring at his harmonica, turning it over and over in his hands as though he didn’t recognize it. Sam didn’t know much Spanish, but he could identify the musician’s mumbled “Madre de Dios, madre de Dios,” because he said it over and over. And other things, too. Rivera blew a few simple notes on the instrument. In the now quiet studio they sounded as lost as a paper plane in the Grand Canyon.
Uccelo walked over, looking concerned.
“Hey Sam, my hands are shaking, you know that? How about that?” He held them out. It was barely a flutter to Sam, just a hint of movement in the fingertips, but it obviously meant something strong to the bass player.
“Never had that happen to me, Sam. Ever.” He shook his head. “I never played that good before, either. Sam, I swear I never heard a sound like that in my life.”
The agent smiled, mopped his balding dome with a dirty handkerchief. “You think he’s good too, then?”
Uccelo gave him a funny look. “Good? They haven’t invented a word for what that fellow is.” He swallowed. “I don’t think you’ll understand this the way it’s meant, Sam, because you’re not a musician. But when we were moving .up there, really moving, it was better than making it, man.” He still looked troubled as he turned away to unhook his bass.
“Fll tell you this, though,” he added, working at the wires. “I’ll play bass for that man anytime, anywhere. For free, if I have to. But I won’t stay in a dark room with him.”
190
Wolfstroker
V.
Sam smiled sleepily as the 727 dropped through the clouds toward the Tacoma-Seattle airport. In a few hours he’d have a better idea of what he had. That he had something special he’d known since he’d heard that first guitar note back in the Going Higher. But just how special he couldn’t tell for sure … yet.