W here’d you say you’re from?” asked the man from Igor’s label, offering Tito an open bottle of beer.
“New Jersey,” said Tito, who hadn’t. When they’d reached the rehearsal space, he’d phoned Garreth and told him the job was done, but that he thought he should stay off the street tonight. He hadn’t mentioned the helicopter, but he’d had a feeling that Garreth knew.
He accepted the beer, pressing the cold bottle against his forehead. He’d enjoyed playing. The Guerreros had come, briefly, at the end.
“Amazing,” said the label man. “Is that where your family’s from?”
“New York,” said Tito.
“Right,” said the A&R man, and sipped his own beer. “Amazing.”