“He has no uncle. Next time spend five minutes doing a little research instead of watching quilting videos or whatever the fuck it is you do all day.”

She trembled, and her chest was heaving. “How did you find out about him, Mr. Paulsen?”

“By reading the goddamn news, Luba. It’s not that hard. This is the idiot that worked on that Annie Linden case.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Paulsen, I—I—I—”

“You’re not gonna cry now, Luba, are you?”

“No, Mr. Paulsen, I—I thought that he—” But she started heaving and sobbing and, bam, Paulsen grabbed her roughly, gave her a hard, cruel shake.

I stood and said, “Take it easy, what the fuck.”

“You sit down and zip it.”

Luba looked at me, her mouth trembling. “Please—you caused enough trouble already.”

“You can go now, Luba.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kipler,” she said, still shaking with sobs. “I’m sorry, Mr. Paulsen.”

Rog opened the door, and she was about to scurry out with her head bowed, but Kipler said, “Wait a minute, babe, wait a minute.”

“Yes, Mr. Kipler.” Luba dried her eyes with the corner of her silk blouse sleeve and waited for instructions. Rog went nice-nice, petted her bony shoulder.

“No hard feelings, okay? You know we have to be careful.”

“I understand, Mr. Paulsen.”

“Call Jim back in here. Let’s get this snoopy little bitch off the premises.”

The door shut behind her.

“You’re outta here, sonny boy.” Rog winked.

I kept my eye on the closed door. Luba came back with Jim, the organic Jack LaLanne from hell.

She said, “Mr. Paulsen would like you to escort this young man off the premises.”

LaLanne said, “Up—now, dipshit.”

I said, “Fuck you.”

“Ha!” Kip said. “Will you listen to this prick?”

I said, “The Daily Telegraph—they came to you.”

LaLanne exchanged a glance with Rog, who gave a single cold nod.

LaLanne said, “Get up or I snap your neck.”

I was already in the process of getting up, but he shoulder-pinched me anyway and I crinkled like a Cheeto—he had incredible strength for a silverback. His grip tightened around my collarbone. “Let’s go.”

He pushed me to the door, but then Rog said, “Wait a sec, hold on. I gotta know something. Hold it. Just who sent you here?”

I stared back, silent.

Kip said, “How ’bout we make a deal? You tell us who told you to come here, and we won’t shoot you in the head and bury you behind the rec building.”

“Go to hell,” I spat out.

They burst out laughing, the three of them.

“The balls on this kid!” Kip said from his seat. “We should hire him.”

LaLanne grabbed me by both elbows as Rog encroached on me. “Come on now, snoopy dog-dog. Who told you to look into all this Daily Telegraph horseshit?”

“Nobody,” I said. “Your mother.”

Rog rolled his eyes, unfazed. “Well, who told you ’bout Fountain Grove?”

“Nobody, no one.”

I wriggled and LaLanne gave me one hard shake—my arms practically popped out of their sockets. I said, “Let go of me,” which he didn’t. Then I angled to the bosses: “They came to you, with Cinnamon Persky and a test pressing. Maybe Marj sent them—your old comrade, Marjorie Hirsch Persky. Were you gonna put the record out or play it or what?”

Kip stepped to me. “Play it? Is this a nut job—‘play it.’ Play it where? The Daily Telegraph, the shittiest group in the history of recorded music. Who sent you here?”

I said, “Nobody,” and Rog smacked me once hard—the side of my face lit up like a gas fireplace.

Kip shook his head—good cop mode. “Roger, please—what is the fuss here?” Then, to me: “Yes, The Daily Telegraph. We heard them, as a favor to Marj—she said her daughter’s managing this group, they got a record, we said great, tell her to come by, play us a few tracks. But we didn’t see it, you dig. We passed, sent ’em packing.”

“So you do remember them,” I said, my face still on fire.

“What’s to remember?” Kip said, “I quote liked it unquote, but—”

“No, no,” Rog said, “I thought it was okay, you said—”

“Well, you said, okay, they’re fun but it’s throwback.”

“And you said the singer was—”

Kip shrugged. “The singer didn’t have it.”

Rog snickered. “Whatever the hell it is, he did not possess it.”

“You remember them,” I repeated. “And you remember Cinnamon.”

But Rog was furious—he’d overheated and been called out. Through clenched teeth: “Now what the hell is it you’re trying to find out?”