The song was one of the musician’s lesser-known early numbers that predated his Fleetwood Mac days, and the fingers of Harry’s right hand instinctively plucked air in perfect time with the warbling guitar notes that stretched and retracted like warm taffy.
There were only two medications that had the least affect on the constant throbbing in his frontal lobe. And because the whiskey bottle had run dry two hours before, the music was currently the only treatment option at his disposal.
Harry let the blues seep into his pores and managed to relax his neck muscles enough to allow his eyelids to slide shut when a sharp rap sounded on the passenger window. Harry’s index finger went from picking out an imaginary ‘e’ sharp to caressing the smooth, cool metal of the .38s trigger without any conscious decision on his part.