Austin, Texas
1975
1:10 A.M.
Creed Mason shut the guitar case on his Fender Stratocaster and secured the latches. Feeling the sweat-drenched satin plastered to his skin, he unbuttoned the flashy purple shirt, took it off, and reached for the stack of clean white towels placed there for a band members.
Backstage smelled of stale beer and sweat, whiskey and perfume, smoke from store-bought cigarettes and hand-rolled joints. He could still hear the hum of the crowd filing out the Armadillo World Headquarters, the hottest music venue in Austin, Texas. Laughter erupted among the musicians backstage, punctured by profanity, the clinking of bottles, the squeals of starstruck women, and someone banging on an acoustic guitar.
He toweled off and reached for the spare denim shirt he had brought along with him, but before he could put it on, he heard her voice behind him.
"Damn, Creed, what happened to you there?" A well-known, oft-used Austin groupie, she called herself Shine.
He winced a little at the intrusion of her cool fingers touching the scar on his lower back. He pulled the shirt on before she could see the much-worse exit-wound scar in front. "Shot in 'Nam," he said, buttoning up the shirt as he turned to face her.
"Oh . . . " She stared glassy-eyed, beautiful even if she was wasted. "Great show tonight." She stared glassy-eyed, beautiful even if she was wasted. "Great show tonight." She smiled, long blond hair falling all over her tie-dyed tank top.
"Thanks, Shine." He was relieved to see Willie approaching. "Excuse me. Gotta get paid." He grabbed the brim of his felt Silver Belly Stetson and slapped it onto his head with familiarity, simultaneously raking his brown hair back behind his ears. The hat fit so well that he could scarcely feel it on his head. An East Texas version version of the cowboy hat, he had seen its like worn by cattlemen, farmers, loggers, and deputy sheriffs when he was growing up in the Piney Woods near the Louisiana border.
