Sam levitated a sigh from the vicinity of his ulcer and patted his face. Tomorrow Willie probably wouldn’t -even remember what he’d said tonight. Sam picked up the balled letter and shoved it into a pocket. Then he walked into the wings and settled down to enjoy the show.
Willie ignored the crowd and picked up his waiting guitar. He turned it over and over in his hands, ran them sensuously up and down fhe shiny, spotless instrument. He was smiling at something.
“Play, dammit,” Sam hissed, fearful for a moment the singer might do something stupid like chuck it into the audience.
But it was okay. Willie put the strap over his head. He snuggled the guitar firm to his slim body and started to play.
Hush-dead silence greeted the first note. It was all wrong, that first note. It was too deep, too strong, too bad. It woke dark shapes that hid in the back of the mind, woke insect legs that creepy-crawl at night under bedsheets. It made the hair rise on the back of Sam’s neck. Willie held it, choked it, wouldn’t let it die. It wavered, floated, and finally drifted away crying from its mother the amplifier.
Willie’s fingers began to move. A tune emerged from the guitar, a low, ponderous, mephitic melody the like of which Sam had never heard before. It had granite weight and the patience of blowing sand in it, and it came straight from Hell.
Blank-eyed, Milo joined in, his perfectly picked bass a black brother to Wiliie’s guitar. Drivin’ Jack grunted and kissed his drums; thunder walked the stage. Ri-