He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straight from heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but he was money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was—whoops!...
nately, was conducted over the bar and accompanied by a generous guzzling of beer. Fat Boy, Hammer-Head and I watched from a table. Knowing John as we did, a silent prayer was in our eyes.
"This is the first time he's talked to anybody," Fat Boy breathed. "I--I'm scared.
"Nothing can happen," I said, optimistically. "This'll be good publicity."
John murmured something. The reporter, a paunchy, balding man, scribbled furiously in his notebook.
John yawned, muttered something else. The reporter continued to scribble.
John sipped beer. His eyes brightened, and he began to talk more rapidly.
The reporter frowned, stopped writing, and studied John curiously.
John finished his first beer, started on his second. His eyes were wild, and he was talking more and more rapidly.
"He's doing it," Hammer-Head groaned. "He's telling him!"
I rose swiftly. "We better get over there. We should have known better--"
We were too late. The repo
The jazz combo's replacement bass player certainly knew his music, but he had a peculiar obsession. He was looking for the hole that would take him away from Marsport and back home.
An amusing little riff of a story with some quirky characters