Hummm, I thought again.
Awhile later I caught him eyeing my piano keyboard. "What's the
matter, John?"
He pointed.
"Oh, there," I said. "A cigarette fell out of my ashtray, burnt a hole
in the key. If The Eye sees it, he'll swear at me in seven languages."
"Even there," he said softly, "even there...."
There was no doubt about it. John Smith was peculiar, but he was the
best bass man this side of a musician's Nirvana.
It didn't take a genius to figure out our situation. Item one:
Goon-Face's countenance had evidenced an excellent imitation of
Mephistopheles before John began to play. Item two: Goon-Face had
beamed like a kitten with a quart of cream after John began to play.
Conclusion: If we wanted to keep eating, we'd have to persuade John
Smith to join our combo.
At intermission I said, "How about a drink, John? Maybe a shot of
wine-syrup?"
He shook his head.
"Then maybe a Venusian fizz?"
His grunt was negative.
"Then some old-fashioned beer?"