“Cinnamon? A name like that I think I’d remember.”

“Wait a minute.” Kip sat up. “You don’t mean Barbara Minsky—teen reporter girl that was on the show. Rog, you remember the Minsky dame—the little blonde with the glasses.”

“Pinksy, Minsky,” Rog said, “never heard of ’em.”

“Cynthia Persky’s mom was actually on your show,” I said. “She—”

“Sonny.” Kip pointed at me, cool guy style. “From sixty-three to eighty-three—whole city’s on our show.”

“Whole town’s our best friend.”

Kip turned to Rog, went DJ indignant. “I can’t believe you don’t remember Barb Minsky, teen town reporter—on the beat. Kid’s one of these high school journalists, but legit—we did a little feature, come on.”

Rog went all-out exasperation. “Stanley, how many guests, how many hangers-on—” Then, to me: “In ’65, Time magazine runs a list, the twenty most famous people in the world. You’re looking at number seven and eight right here.”

“Seven and eight,” Kip said, going into a Cheshire grin. “But who’s seven and who’s eight?”

“I’m seven,” Rog said flatly, the annoyed straight man. “You, my friend, are number eight.”

“Wait just one minute, Buster Brown…”

They had locked into each other on some well-tread material; it was tough to get out from under the memory lane act. But also—they spoke about the past in a kind of eternal present, to the point where it seemed like the past itself didn’t even really matter to these guys, not like you’d think. The only thing that mattered was the show, here and now and forever.

Agitated, I pressed on. “Cinnamon Persky—her mom, Marjorie Hirsch, was definitely on your show. I heard it on YouTube, she—she did the pickup lines.”

Blank faces—too blank.

“Anyway, Marjorie’s daughter Cinnamon had a boyfriend in a garage band. Called The Daily Telegraph. They made a record.”

Kip leaned toward me for one last labor-intensive explanation: “Kid. Everybody was in a band.”

“Everybody shows up with wax.”

“Evvv-rybody thinks they’re the next Rolling Stones.”

“Yeah, but the band I’m talking about,” I interrupted in a burst of frustration, “The Daily Telegraph—two of them were killed. In ’83.”

“Killed?” Rog went affronted.

“Maybe you saw it in the papers. Supposedly a drug deal went bad, a—”

“We didn’t know from drug deals.”

“Didn’t need to—in those days? Sharing was caring.”

“Just like the sex.”

“That’s right—Let’s burn one. Make love. Let’s connect.”

“There was no paralysis by analysis, you dig?”

I nodded but I didn’t dig, didn’t dig at all. They were doing anything they could to pull off topic. Moreover, I was unentertained, and it was probably written all over my face. I made one last turn of the radio dial.

“So you guys are sure you don’t remember a Cinnamon Persky, or a Marjorie Hirsch, or a band called The Daily Telegraph?”

They shrugged in unison—I sighed. “Anyway, it’s not important. The main thing is it’s great to see Marty in such good—”

“Oh, relax with the Uncle Marty bullshit, kid.” Rog stood and shook almond dust off his salmon slacks. “Is this kid a bad liar or what?”

I said, “What do you mean?” My face went hot.

Kip said, “We know who you are, asshole.”

“That’s right,” Rog said. “Don’t know what you’re looking for—but we sure as shit know who you are.”

“I told you, my uncle—”

“Uncle shmuncle. We looked you up, nerd. Your only uncle has been dead for seven years. You’re a cheapo investigator-for-hire looking to dig up some dirt.”

Kip scratched his belly with satisfaction. “How stupid do you think we are, anyway?”

“Stupid? No, it’s just that—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Kipler blurted. “Call Luba in here, let’s get this shit over with.”

Rog opened the door and waved the secretary in. “Luba. Get in here, please.”

“Is everything okay?” She stood before them in a cream cardigan, gray hair pinned back tight, her ebullient smile flat with duty—but the dark eyes gave off nervous.

“You know who this young man is?”

“Yes, Mr. Paulsen,” she said. “His name is Adam Zantz. I’ve got his driver’s license on file.”

“That’s not what I mean. Do you know what this schmuck does?”

She went ashen.

“You did look him up, Luba.”

She nodded. “He works for Lyft. He also wrote some songs; they’re registered with ASCAP but they…” She shot me a sympathetic look. “They didn’t chart. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

“I don’t care about that,” Rog said. “This idiot is a low-rent detective, and he just spent the last half hour trying to grill us about some ludicrous BS.”

“But I checked the bureau, the—”

“He has no investigator’s license, Luba. He’s a sneaky little rodent.”

“But Mr. Gladstone in Treehouse 32 is his uncle, he—”