"Then some old-fashioned beer?"
He smiled. "Yes, I like beer."
I escorted him to the bar and assisted him in his arduous climb onto a stool.
"John," I ventured after he'd taken an experimental sip, "where have you been hiding? A guy like you should be playing every night."
John yawned. "Just got here. Figured I might need some money so I went to the union. Then I worked on my plan."
"Then you need a job. How about playing with us steady? We like your style a lot."
He made a long, low humming sound which I interpreted as an expression of intense concentration. "I don't know," he finally drawled.
"It'd be a steady job, John." Inspiration struck me. "And listen, I have an apartment. It's got everything, solar shower, automatic chef, 'copter landing—if we ever get a 'copter. Plenty of room there for two people. You can stay with me and it won't cost you a cent. And we'll even pay you over union wages."
His watery gaze wandered lazily to the bar mirror, down to the glittering array of bottles and then out to the dance floor.
He yawned again and spoke slowly, as if each word were a leaden weight cast reluctantly from his tongue: