Sing for Their Supper - 9

Lady Roma looked at Sam, obviously considering his question, then shook her head. "I'm pretty much a loner and way too old."

"You're not," Jolie protested.

"Don't argue with me, kiddo," Lady Roma told her. "Up here"—she tapped her forehead—"I'm ancient. I've been on the streets since I was twenty. I thank you all for your offer, but…no."

"Can we at least sing with you again, when you're here?" Sam asked.

"You bet." She took the can from the piano top, handing it to him. "Don't forget to take this."

Sam counted out the money, giving her half of it. When she protested, he said, "You're the one the people were listening to. We were just back-up."

"If you say so." Lady Roma smiled, stood—after the guys had moved off the bench—and hugged him. "You all take care, you hear me. I'm sure we'll run into each other again." With that, she headed off the plaza.

"Damn, I wish she'd said yes," Jolie said.

"Yeah. For sure." Sam watched her walk away. "Maybe next time." He put his guitar back in the case, after splitting the money they'd made between the three of them. "Let's head back downtown and wow the throngs with our talent."

Mace grinned. "That, we can do."

*****

Ricky watched the group leave the plaza, wishing he'd had the nerve to join them. "Not that I have anything to add to what they do," he said under his breath.

He waved one of the thin newspapers he was holding, trying to catch the attention of people walking by. "Only a dollar, and half the money goes to the rescue mission."

A man stopped, asking, "And the rest?"

"I get to keep it." Ricky tried for a winning smile. "It's better than me flying a sign saying I'm homeless and hungry."

It took the man a second to figure out what he meant. Then he took a dollar from his pocket, handed it to Ricky, and told him, "Keep the paper. Sell it to someone else and make an extra fifty cents."

Ricky thanked him, tucking the dollar into his pocket next to the five others he'd already collected. Not bad, for this early in the day. Probably because of the crowd watching those guys perform. Again, he wished he could join up with them but his real skills, what he had of them, were in dancing. He'd actually taken a couple of classes in high school, until his father had made him stop because he didn't want his son looking like a fag.

That had been the final straw. Ricky had run away a week later—not as much because he'd had to quit the class, but because he was gay, although his father didn't know. Ricky had figured it would come out sooner or later if he stuck around, so he'd gotten out of the house and the town where he'd grown up.

Now he was selling papers on the street, sleeping wherever he could find a safe place and dreaming that one day he'd be able to do what he really wanted—dance.