Phantom Banjo Read Online Free PDF Page B

yellowed
from nicotine, he looked more like a particularly nervous banker
himself, Lettie decided. But she and her husband were the last ones
to judge by appearances.
    Mic looked more like a Scottish folksinger
than Hy did. With his first name and his freckled face and red
hair, he was often mistaken for a kid of Irish or Scottish lineage
whose mother had married a Mexican. In fact, the Chaves name, which
dated in Texas from before the Alamo, was pure European Spanish and
Mic, whose full name was Miguel Alejandro, was the heir to
generations of Texas's aristocratic Spanish heritage—no money, but
plenty of pedigree. But now he talked as rapidly and
enthusiastically as the most verbose Celt, swapping Hy yarn for
yarn.
    Lettie was the shy, seemingly aloof, intense
one of the pair, the more compulsively creative. And who knew where
she'd gotten that from? Well, her mom had been a dancer when she
was younger. Lettie had seen the pictures. But ever since she could
remember, Gus had worked as a barmaid. At least she was finally out
of the oil fields, able to indulge her lifelong ambition to get the
hell out of West Texas now that her little girl was secure with
Mic. She'd moved her cats and her shoe collection to a little
rental house in Tacoma and tended bar across the street from the
place where Craig Lee's Triumph Music cooperative held open mikes.
The pickers all came in to the bar to jam after the open mike shut
down, and to be spoiled by Gussie. Even the Seattle city slickers
who thought Texans were all oil-rig bums and hicks had thawed to
Gussie's West Texas drawl and down-home warmth. And Gussie had
adopted Washington and especially the musicians as matter-of-factly
as she took in stray cats.
    Which was how Lettie and Mic got acquainted
with Craig and had gotten drafted as "roadies" for Hy to bring him
across the border for the Triumph Concert that would kick off his
cross-country tour.
    "And then there was Roger in this foolish
puce spandex jogging suit—" Hy was saying as they drew up to the
customs window. It was late, so the lines weren't too bad, but
they'd already swapped three stories and Hy had sung them a piece
of his new song while they waited.
    "Where are you going?" the customs man
asked.
    "Tacoma," Mic said.
    "Where you coming from?"
    "Vancouver."
    "Place of residence?"
    "Amarillo, Texas, for us," Mic said,
indicating Lettie with a wag of his fingers.
    "Aberdeen, Scotland," Hy said, and handed
over his passport for inspection.
    "Your business in Tacoma?"
    "We're visiting my wife's mom," Mic said.
"And we're taking this gentleman to a concert he's performing."
    The customs man ran his flashlight across
Hy's passport and peered at it more closely, then flashed the beam
inside the car, where it picked out the guitars sitting in under
the hatchback. "Will you pull in over there by that white line,
sir, and you and your passengers get out of the vehicle and enter
this building through that door?"
    "Yes, sir," Mic said, and as he pulled away,
he rolled his eyes at Lettie in the rearview mirror. Oh, well,
they'd expected a little hassle since Hy was neither American nor
Canadian. They were unprepared, however, when a uniformed man with
a lug wrench and crowbar demanded the keys to the car and began
popping hubcaps.
    "Had some problems tonight, have you?" Mic
asked the customs official behind the desk casually.
    The man ignored the question. "Which of you
is Hyslop MacDonald?"
    "That would be me," Hy said.
    "We'll need to retain your passport for a
while, sir. Meanwhile, if you and the other gentleman would step
into that cubicle and remove your clothing and hand it out. And
you, ma'am, if you'll use that other cubicle and do the same."
    "What's the problem, officer?" Mic asked,
although he doubted that it would do any good and would probably
make the customs people nastier.
    "The problem, sir, is that you're attempting
to assist a known political subversive and probable drug trafficker
into the United States."
    Mic