said the makeup artist. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”“Is it that obvious?” said Warren. “Just relax and be yourself. You’ll do just fine.”“Thanks,” he answered, closing his eyes. He tried to put his mind at ease, to settle his nerves, by pretending he was elsewhere. He thought back to New Orleans, to playing his sax in a club not unlike this one. He could picture the scene in his mind, and when he breathed in deeply he could almost taste the stale smoke wafting in curls past the bright white beams of the stage lights. He was sixteen years old, recruited to play with a local blues band. He’d been nervous then, too, under the scrutiny of an inebriated crowd, but when he started to play all of his worries evaporated, carried away by the sounds of the music.Warren opened his eyes to find himself still sitting in a chair beside the set, waiting for his turn before the camera. What began as a bit of fun was suddenly imbued with tremendous pressure. If he could somehow convince them that he belonged here, he might actually turn his life around. Behind the cameras, Kaplan cupped his hands around his mouth and gave a shout. “Find your places people!”“Go get ‘em killer,”
