Well, Sam couldn’t argue with them. He wanted Willie too.
Nearby, Vincente Rivera, Milo Uccelo, and Jack Cavanack wore varied expressions of boredom, now shading into disgust. They also wore red leather and fringes. Cavanack was smoking.
Sam broke his thoughts, looked pleadingly at the drummer. “Look, Jack, can’t you get rid of that stuff? All I need now is for some overzealous security guard to come sniffing back here and bust you.”
Cavanack glanced up and smiled broadly. “Just killin’ some time, Sam. Till your buddy-boy Willie gets here. // he gets here.”
The agent grimaced, looked absently at Rivera.
“If I were you, Sam, I’d have me a fast set of
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WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . ..
wheels standing by. Because if we sit here much longer, that crowd’s going to get ugly. And I sure as hell am not going to be the one who has to go out there and explain things to ’em.”
“Right on,” Uccelo concurred. “This ain’t no recording-studio jam session.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Sam cried. “If that son-of-a-bitch forces- me to have the gate refunded … 1”
“Hey, isn’t that him?” broke in Rivera suddenly, standing up and pointing. Sam whirled.
Sure enough, a familiar gangling figure was loping toward them, escorted by a pair of security fuzz. Cavanack had enough presence of mind to pitch his smoke under a hunk of scenery from some long-dead play. Sam halted the singer with a hand on each shoulder.
“Don’t do things like this to an old man, Willie. I can’t take it anymore. Listen to them out there! They’re ready for you. Ready and primed. Now go out there and—”