I stood up and aimed some of the bread pieces carefully so that a small weak-looking duck got some of the spoils too. ‘I always make sure the little duck gets fed too,’ a voice behind me announced. ‘I’m sure he or she is actually better fed than the rest!’ I turned to see a man perhaps in his late 30’s or early 40’s standing a few yards away also with a bag of bread. He had short dark spiky hair. His complexion was pale but pleasing. He had piercing blue eyes, was wearing jeans, Doc Martin boots and an old fashioned duffle coat. He looked like someone who had also dressed for warmth rather than glamour and so I smiled at him. ‘He looks so small and pathetic though,’ I replied. ‘Surely he must miss out normally.’ ‘I feed him or her every time I am here. Must have a fast metabolism.’ ‘A bit like me,’ I returned. ‘I can work my way through some nosh and seem to stay the same.’ ‘Yes you are small too,’ he smiled. ‘Perhaps I should feed you up too.’ ‘I am fine, ‘I replied. ‘I expect that. They would get know her for what she was.The Dealmaker's Devil-woman."So I guess I should start with my name like everyone else has," I said into the mike. My voice was flat; my soul removing itself from the places it was not needed."You would know me as David. But my guitar and the music gave me another name a long time ago." I touched the strings and they sang agreement that David was not our name. Dacia's hips had been waiting for that first touch and swayed in counterpoint. The audience leaned forward as the Devil-woman called them. Their eyes watched her, but their souls opened for my guitar, the music, and me.I pulled the timer out of my pocket, set it for fifteen minutes, and put it beside my foot. It was longer than everyone else had taken, but they would not stop me. No one ever had."I was in the bayou; still a teen, barely a man." The strings danced in memory of being younger. "I played a backwater club, a roadhouse built of smoke and blues. Hope had never been a part of.
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