HE LOOKED at his left hand, at the three stubs of fingers which rose, like unspread mushrooms, from his knuckles, touched the scar-tissue around them with his other hand, and he laughed. He rose from the studio couch and crossed the wide room to the cheval glass, to stare at his face, to stand back and look critically at his shoulders, his profile. He grunted in satisfaction and went to the telephone in the bedroom. “Three four four,” he said. His voice was resonant, well suited to the cast of his solid chin and his wide mouth. “Nick? This is Sam Horton. Oh, fine. Sure, I’ll be able to play again. The doc says I was lucky. A broken wrist usually heals pretty stiff, but this one won’t. No—don’t worry. Hm? About six weeks. Positively… Gold? Thanks Nick, but I’ll get along. No, don’t worry—I’ll yell if I need any. Thanks, though. Yeah, I’ll drop by every once in a while. I was in there a couple days ago. Where did you find that three-chord bubblehead you have on guitar?
