Frank Collins wore a dark gray suit and tie, was about Sam’s age, had blue eyes, plump cheeks, no chin, a brown briefcase, and much more hair than Sam. For the latter Sam disliked him on sight.
“Sit down, Collins, but don’t make yourself at home.” The psychologist settled into the chair opposite the desk.
“You’re Sam Parker?”
“Unless my mother lied to me. You really a Ph.D?”
Collins had an ingratiating smile. “I like to think of myself as somewhat more than three letters and two periods.” He steepled his fingers, grew serious. “I’m very interested in a young man you represent named Willie Whitehorse.”
“Who isn’t?” Sam acknowledged. He caressed a box. “Cigar?”
“No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”
“Too bad for you.” Sam lit his own, puffed contentedly. From Havana by way of London. Another little luxury. “You’re not endearing yourself to me, Collins. What’s your angle? Why are you interested in Willie?”
“For the past ten years I have been especially interested in all the parapsychological aspects of rock music, Mr. Parker.”
“That’s certainly very interesting,” nodded Sam. “Suppose you tell me what that is in English, so I can get interested too.”
“Perhaps if I explain exactly what it is about rock that has intrigued me—”
“Sure,” Sam said, glancing pointedly at the clock on his desk. “Only don’t take too long, huh?”
Collins smiled again in a faintly superior way and
194
Wolfstroker
began earnestly, “Have you ever noticed the power certain rock performers have over their audiences?”
Sam wasn’t impressed. “Naturally. Only the top people have it. Though I don’t know exactly as I’d call it ‘power,'”