Webb guessed that the girl had not been with the guy for very long. Otherwise she would have known better than to show appreciation for anything another guy was doing, even if that other guy was a scruffy seventeen-year-old in a ratty Rolling Stones T-shirt.
Guys like her boyfriend didn’t like any kind of competition, and guys like her boyfriend generally didn’t like skinny musician types like Webb, whose hair was long enough to pull back in a ponytail.
She smiled at Webb. “That was cool,” she said. “Thanks.”
Webb kept his head down.
He wondered who the target would be: him or the drunk beside him. The drunk was a better bet. Much better—from the black-haired guy’s view—to pick on a drunk rather than a kid.
Webb thought of hitting the guitar strings hard, ripping into a wicked set of chords he’d come up with in a park in Toronto. Sure, a successful distraction would save him or the drunk, but someone would still have to pay. Someone very, very attractive.
So he remained silent and stared at the twenty-dollar bill as if it was a stick of dynamite in his open guitar case.
The drunk broke the silence.
“Hey,” he said, pointing at the twenty. “I should be a rock star too. Money and hot chicks.”
Inside, Webb groaned. The street bum had lit the fuse.
Webb leaned forward and set his guitar in the case.
Normally, he’d empty the change out first. He hated the thought of anything scratching his Gibson. But he wanted it in the case before he stood.
Webb made it to his feet as the black-haired guy reached down and yanked the homeless guy up by his collar. Webb kicked the lid closed and shoved the case down the sidewalk with his foot.
By then, the big black-haired guy had pushed the street bum up against the wall.
“Look, you piece of dog crap,” the black-haired guy hissed, “nobody talks about my girlfriend like that.”
The woman rushed up and put a hand on her boyfriend’s shoulder. “Brent.”
He whirled on her, and the look in his eyes was something Webb was familiar with. Not that a person ever gets used to a look like that.
“Shut up, Stephanie.”
“Hey!” Webb said, drawing the guy’s attention. A quick image hit him. A matador, waving a red cape at a dangerous bull. “The guy’s drunk. He barely has a clue what’s happening.”
“You shut up too,” Brent said. His tone said more than the words. Like he’d been hoping for an excuse to turn on Webb.
“Sure,” Webb said, raising his hands, palms up. “No problem.” A new image hit him: a dog showing its belly so that a bigger dog would leave it alone.
Webb looked over his shoulder at the people who’d been happy to listen to him busking. They were drifting away, uncomfortable and helpless.
“We’re all good, right?” Webb said to Brent. “This dude’s going to apologize, right?”
The street bum nodded. “Yeah, man. Didn’t mean no harm.”
Webb hoped it was enough to calm Brent down.
“All right then,” Brent said. “Next time I won’t be so nice about it.”
Brent put his arm around his girlfriend and walked her away.
Webb didn’t feel much like playing anymore. He opened the guitar case and took out the guitar, checking the bottom of it for scratches, hoping he hadn’t been too quick putting it in the case.
The guitar was good.
And there was the twenty, along with a handful of change.
He scooped it all up. The street bum was still there, a confused smile on his face.
“You hungry?” Webb asked as he put the Gibson back in the case.
“Always.”
Webb didn’t give the street bum the money. That would be like putting another bottle in his hands.
“Come with me,” Webb said. “I’ll buy you a burger somewhere.”