At close to two, Helena called to say she’d talked Lars into signing out the bingo mikes and amplifiers from Frank down to the club. Baldy was going to meet everybody at the gazebo around 5:30, 6:00. A surge of heat swung through Leo’s stomach and down his legs. He went into the kitchen and got a Coke from the fridge. Outside the screen door the day was sunlit, the sky above the pines blue. When he picked up the bottle opener his hand was shaking. The last time he felt close to this nervous was wrestling season last year, the day of semifinals against the Springfield Sprockets. The Woodies won the meet, and GP had taken his man down in seventeen seconds, but Leo ended up losing to a short weight lifter who smelled like mustard and milk. And it wasn’t just the show; it was the army too, starting tomorrow, early.

In the parlor Jim and Ryder were talking about what to wear. Ryder said nothing fancy was his choice; work pants and a clean shirt. But Jim sat on his guitar stool shaking his head.

“This is new music for these people. We should look like gentlemen up there.”

“Horseshit, Jimmy. Let the blues do the talking. What’s Young Buddy want to wear?”

“Just my harps.”

“That’s it.” Ryder laughed. “We’ll wear our damn birthday suits.”

“We’re not celebrating a birthday,” Jim said. “We’re giving this one a sendoff, and I don’t think a tie will kill you.”

“Aw hell, .shame me into it.”

Jim looked at his watch and said they had a couple of hours till setup, did they want to do one more run-through of the show? Or else nap, shower, and get dressed?

“You forgot the third task, Jimmy,” Ryder unbuckled his harp harness and set it on the floor. “Sittin’ on johnny for the jitter poops.”

Friday afternoons were always busy, but when the 6:00 girl punched in, Allie switched stations with her so she could keep working the corner booth with the window view of Thompson Green. Leo was out there under the gazebo with his father and thin harmonica teacher. A big bald man was walking backwards over the grass, uncoiling wire to a generator out behind the Fremont Theater. Beatrice’s cheap-looking woman friend was taping blue crepe paper and balloons on all six posts under the gazebo roof, and Leo and his father were pulling a huge speaker from the open trunk of a car parked up by the steps. Leo wore a white shirt, that striped tie from his suit, and dark pants. Allie was looking for the members of his band, but didn’t see anyone else.

“Hello, Allison. May we sit?”