The moment he stepped onto the balcony, Bolo immediately clicked into motion, smooth and professional. He trotted down the staircase without so much as breaking into a sweat or wrinkling his formal waiter’s uniform.
Down in the cantina the ill-experienced band had gathered on the stage for another morning of discordant practice. The music squawked like the wild chickens outside; the brass and drums and guitars sounded like a car accident. Luckily, Yaquita was not in sight to snarl at every mistake, nor were there any (conscious) customers to hear.
The chubby manager sat behind the bar doing accounts; both of his buttocks sagged off the sides of a small metal stool. The earplugs he had taken to wearing during the band’s practice sessions worked wonders for his concentration. He bit his li
