Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [33]
For a few moments I thought about it, but ten dollars was too much money to give me when I only knew three songs. I held up five fingers.
“You want fifty dollars?” Vernon asked incredulously.
I shook my head and snapped out five fingers.
“You're a pretty weird cat.” Vernon laughed. “Not only do you not sing, you're honest. Five bucks a night it is, Frank. But I'll tell Dick James to clean out his kitty between his sets, and any tips you get on the breaks belong to you. You'll pick up a few extra bucks, anyway.”
I nodded, shook hands with my employer and returned my guitar to its case.
“Come in about eight thirty, Frank,” Vernon concluded the interview, “and I'll introduce you to the James Boys.”
I returned to the hotel and stretched out on my bed for a nap. Although I had taken a lower figure than the ten he offered, I still felt a little uneasy. After Lee Vernon heard me playing the same songs all evening he wouldn't be too happy about it. But during the days, maybe I could make up a few more. If so, I could ask for a raise to ten. The immediate problem was remedied. I could pay my room rent of three dollars a day, and eat on the other two until I could work my way out of the hole with an ingenious plan of some kind.
A few minutes later I was asleep.
7
The James Boys were very good. If Lee Vernon was paying them eight hundred dollars a week, they were worth every cent of it.
I sat at the end of the bar where I could take in the entire room, enjoying the music and the singing, and the antics of the patrons at various tables. Not many of the couples danced. It wasn't the smallness of the floor that prevented them from getting to their feet, it was just that the James Boys were more amusing to watch than they were to dance to. They wore red Western shirts with white piping on the collars and cuffs, but they didn't restrict their playing to Western music. They seemed to be equally at home with calypso and rock 'n' roll. Each of the boys, in turn, sang into the microphone, and they all had good voices.
Dick James was at the microphone, and his face had a mournful expression. He said, “It is now my sad duty to inform you, ladies and gentlemen, that for the next twenty minutes we will be absent from the stand.”
He held up a hand to silence the murmurs of disappointment. “We don't want to go. Honest! It's just that we can't afford to drink here. We have to go down the street to a little place where the drinks are cheaper. And I might add,” he said disingenuously, “unwatered!”
A very small ripple of laughter went through the room. Perhaps the patrons of the Chez Vernon thought their drinks were watered.
“But during our brief absence, the management has obtained for your listening pleasure, at great expense, one of the world's greatest guitarists! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Frank Mansfield!”
I had been so engrossed in watching and listening, and drinking a steady procession of beers, I hadn't realized how quickly the time had passed. To a burst of enthusiastic applause, led by the four James Boys, I threaded my way through the close-packed tables to the stand. As I sat down in a chair on the stand and removed my guitar from its case, Dick James lowered the microphone level with my waist.
“Good luck, Frank,” he said, and followed the other members of the group into the hallway leading to the dressing room. I was in shirt sleeves, but wore my hat. I wished that I could have gone with them, picked up my coat in the dressing room, and made a getaway through the back door to the alley. In anticipation of fresh entertainment, the audience was fairly quiet. I felt like every eye was on me as I sat under the baby spot on the small, triangular stand.
I delayed as long as I could, well aware