"I doubt it," I said, looking around the room. "Tell me: have you ever written down your music and submitted it to a publisher?"
That one earned me an even sharper look. "Why?" he countered suspiciously. "You a scout for someone?"
I shook my head, the dire warnings screaming a little louder for attention. _No pushing, no suggesting, no altering_, were the strict time-observer rules, and I was currently in peril of shredding all three of them. "I just wondered."
"Sure," he said, his music taking on a tinge of anger. Clearly, he didn't believe me. "You think I haven't noticed you hanging around?"
Uh-oh. "You must have a good memory for faces," I said, deciding to go with the innocent approach. "I've only been around here the past week or so."
"_And_ you were at Jack's Tap the week I was playing there," he retorted. "_And_ at Otto's the week and a half I was over there. Let me guess: you're scouting greater Pittsburgh for the perfect beer."
I winced. So he _had_ spotted me, at least for part of the month and a half I'd been dogging his heels across Allegheny County. So much for my professional expertise. "Okay, you got me," I conceded, dropping quickly to backup position. "But there's nothing sinister about it. I just happen to like your music, that's all."
"Enough to follow me around?"
"Enough even to put up with this," I said, lifting my glass slightly.
"And what, you haven't got a home to go to?"
I shrugged. "Like you, I've got a lot of time on my hands."
He played for another minute without speaking. I listened to the music, searching it for clues as to what he was thinking or feeling. But all I could hear was more of the neutral barroom filler. "There's no point in trying to sell any of this stuff," he said at last. "So if you were going to ask, don't."