Chapter Fifteen
Drums and Spoons
As you get older, your face becomes a road map.
Danny lived in a house with no cats or dogs, just mice droppings. I went there once for a drumming lesson and decided we would meet at mine in the future. I was seriously suspicious about the tea . . . the mug . . . along with whatever I was sitting on . . . not to mention the smell.
I didn’t ask either. I suspected Danny, by the look of his home, had lost the art of smelling years ago.
He wasn’t a bad old bloke—when he was off the drink—but obviously not good enough to, you know, clean up.
He must have been about seventy or more, with the cough of a miner who had spent a lifetime on roll-ups. He was thin, like a wet cat, with hair stuck to his skull fine enough to see his skull beneath and a chin whiske
