Chapter 14

Stanley casually walked into Chloe's office. He was wearing a pair of jeans and red T-shirt. Chloe thought he was the most casual man she'd ever met, especially one with millions in the bank. She stood up and walked around her desk to greet him. She was dressed in a black form-fitting dress, with black heels.

She extended her hand. "Stanley, I'm so glad you could make it. Please have a seat." Stanley smiled and sat down.

"Chloe, it's always a pleasure."

"How was your trip?" she asked, sitting down next to him. He leaned forward. "Do you vacation with your parents?" Chloe looked confused. "Ah, not since I was a kid. Why?"

"That's what my trip was. Vacation with my parents. It was their anniversary."

"Sounds nice," Chloe said.

"It was okay. I managed to hide out in my villa and get some work done. Which brings me to your email. I really like the shelter, and it sounds like they could use a lot of assistance."

Chloe grabbed a folder and opened it. "Yes, they've been struggling for quite some time. They had a huge donation that was given to them about a year ago, then for whatever reason, the person pulled the money back. No explanation. The money was just gone."

She handed Stanley the folder. He opened it and started going through the information. "So, tell me about this fundraiser. You briefly mentioned it in your email. Is it a dinner/dance thing or what?"

"Actually, no. It's an open mic." Stanley looked confused. "An open mic is where you just open the mic. People can get up and do whatever they'd like, sing, poetry, play instruments. Mostly you get poets, spoken word artists," Chloe said.

Stanley looked intrigued. "I like this idea. Where is it?" he asked.

Chloe smiled. "Actually, my good friend Zoe owns a restaurant called Zoe's Soul Food Kitchen, and it'll be there. She'll have an amazing menu and will be giving part of the receipts to the shelter, and they take everything at the door. They're going to charge a few dollars to get in. The performers won't get paid, so 100% of the door receipts will go to the shelter."

"How much are you planning to raise?" Stanley asked.

"Well, we don't have a set amount. Whatever we raise, it'll definitely help the shelter. Now, I can arrange a tour of the shelter this week or next week, whatever works for you. We can have media there and really play it up."

Stanley frowned. "No media yet. I want to talk more about this open mic. Who performs?" "Whoever has the courage to go up to the mic," she said. "So I could perform?" he asked.

Chloe had a look of shock on her face. "What do you do?"

Stanley raised his eyebrows. "I play a mean guitar. I was going to start my own rock band when I was a kid, but my parents wouldn't hear of it."

"Sure, call the guys. Tell them the band is getting back together," Chloe joked.

Stanley laughed. "That's good, Chloe." He leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. ���Okay, I'd like to see the shelter, and I'd like to donate to the open mic. What do you need?"

Chloe smiled. "I suggest we speak with Anna Gomez. She's the director of the shelter. She can provide a lot more detail. As for the open mic, how about lunch or dinner? You can taste the food, meet Zoe, see the restaurant, and we can see what happens."

"Perfect. Set it up!" Stanley said.

Chloe grabbed a notepad and jotted down some notes. She felt Stanley's eyes on her. She looked up and saw he was grinning at her.

She continued writing, then said, "So, I'm not sure of the date of the open mic. The marketing budget is a little tight. I know Anna and Zoe have been asking for newspapers for free ad space and were going to ask the local media to pick it up."

Stanley frowned. "I own a media company, Chloe. I think I can help spread the word." Chloe smiled. "Great. Let's say next week for the tour of both the shelter and the restaurant." "Sounds good," he said. He sat quietly for a moment, then continued. "Chloe, would you like to attend the open mic with me? As my guest?"

Chloe stopped writing. "Stanley, I'm flattered, but I don't date my clients."

"It's not a date. I need you there. You're my PR guru. Come as my guest, which isn't the same as a date." He smiled at her.

She sighed and said, "Okay, Stanley, as your guest. It should make for a fun night." "You have no idea," he said.

Sharon rolled over in bed. It was early. She reached for Keith, but he wasn't there. She sat up in bed and saw a note on the table that said, Gone running.

"Of course he's running. What else do you do at 6 am on a Saturday morning?"

She lay back down and pulled the covers over her head. They'd been married for 10 years. They met when she was doing a cover story on Doctors without Borders. Keith was a very successful surgeon and was a partner in a large surgical practice. They'd decided not to have children, as both of their careers were demanding.

Saturday morning, Keith woke up first. He stretched and looked over at his sleeping wife. She looked so peaceful, and he decided not to wake her. He slowly got out of bed and grabbed his jogging clothes. He ran almost every day, or when time allowed. He walked into the bathroom, changed his clothes, and headed downstairs. He grabbed his headphones, beeper, cell phone, fitbit, and headed out the door.

The morning was quiet. He checked his watch: 6:10 am. The neighborhood was still. He breathed in the morning air and stretched, then walked down the driveway and began his run. He passed several large mansion-style houses, similar to his own. He smiled to himself. He'd done well for a kid who grew up poor. He worked hard to get into college, then medical school. He was the first person in his family to go to college. He'd put himself through medical school and his surgical residency and was determined to be successful.

As he jogged, the sounds of Al Green played in his ears. He didn't even notice the police car he passed.

As he continued to jog, he thought about what Sharon had told him about Sylvia. He would support her in whatever she decided; he knew she'd be successful wherever she landed. She was a great editor. He didn't understand why she stayed and worked for a racist bitch like Sylvia, but he knew her career was important to her.

He was about a mile into his run when he noticed flashing lights behind him. He quickly looked over his shoulder to see a police car behind him, flashing its lights. He took off his headphones and stopped jogging. He wasn't sure if the car was going to pass him or the officers inside wanted to speak with him. It wasn't until the car stopped that he realized they wanted to speak with him. The police cruiser pulled up beside him and stopped, then the window of the driver's side door rolled down.

Keith spoke first. "Good morning, Officer, can I help you?" He was a little out of breath.

"What are you doing here?" the police officer asked.

"Jogging. I live nearby," Keith said.

The officer gave him a look of suspicion and continued. "Well, we've gotten some calls that a suspicious man is in the area. I'm going to need to see your ID." The officer put the cruiser in park and stepped out of the car. Keith looked at him and smiled.

"Well, I don't have any ID on me. Like I said, I'm jogging and didn't bring it with me. I live about a mile up the street." Keith pointed in the direction of his house.

"You live in this area? I doubt that. Put your hands on the car and spread your legs." Keith hesitated and said, "Look, I live just a mile down the road."

The police officer lunged at Keith and threw him onto the hood of the cruiser. He grabbed the back of his head and forced it down so his cheek was pressing hard on the hood. Keith began to struggle.

"Now stop resisting! I said stop!" the officer yelled.

Keith tried to speak but struggled with his words. "I…told…you…"

"There ain't nothin' you can tell me, boy. You in the wrong neighborhood. You out here

intimidating these good people."

"I live here!" Keith yelled.

The police officer didn't speak. Instead, he pressed his elbow hard into Keith's back. He then began to pat Keith down, searching him. He took the cell phone and beeper out of his pocket and placed them on the car.

"You have any weapons on you? I know y'all usually do." The officer threw the cell phone and pager on the hood of the car.

"What's the pager for? You a fuckin' drug dealer?"

Keith cried out in pain, but the officer didn't stop. He pushed down on Keith's back even harder.

Keith could feel the officer's breath on his neck.

"You move again, and we're gonna have us a problem. Now, what are you doing in this neighborhood?"

"I told you, I live just a mile down the road. I'm a surgeon." Keith was struggling with the words but managed to get them out.

"Shut the fuck up. Goddamn niggers. Y'all make me sick."

The officer grabbed his radio and called for backup. Keith tried to turn his head, but the officer applied more pressure to his back with his elbow.

"I doubt this is your 'hood, boy. You in the wrong place. You ain't no doctor either. Now, what are you doing in this neighborhood?"

Keith didn't answer. A second police cruiser pulled up behind them, and the officer got out of his car and walked over to Keith and the police officer. The first officer was out of breath.

He looked at the second officer and said, "Hey Bill, I found this guy running in the neighborhood. He says he lives here. He doesn't have any ID."

The second officer walked over to Keith. They made eye contact. Keith struggled a little trying to get the officer to ease up off his back. The second officer reacted and pulled his weapon. "Don't move. If you continue to resist, I'll shoot your monkey ass!"

Keith couldn't believe what was happening to him. He'd lived in his neighborhood for 5 years and never had any issues. All his neighbors seemed friendly, and there were never any disturbances. He'd even participated in a seminar for the police department about how to handle fractures and other trauma.

Keith didn't move; he froze. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his back and head hurt. A third cruiser pulled up, and the officer got out and approached.

The first officer said, "Sergeant, I found this boy running. He matches the description of the call that came out this morning."

The sergeant walked over to Keith. He looked at him, then spoke. "Dr. Eckerson?"

Keith looked at the sergeant. He recognized him from the seminar he'd given a few months earlier.

"Yes," Keith said.

The sergeant looked at both the officers and frowned. "Why have you pulled your service revolver on Dr. Eckerson, Officer Bennett? Holster it," he snapped. "Release him." The officer hesitated.

"I said let him go!" the sergeant yelled. The officer backed up and removed his elbow from

Keith's back. Keith stood up. He was in pain.

"Dr. Eckerson, I'm very sorry," the sergeant said.

"What the fuck? I was just jogging," Keith said. He was angry but controlled his voice. "I told the officer I lived about a mile down the road and was out jogging, but I guess niggers don't jog or live in good neighborhoods."

"Again, I'm sorry. Would you like to file a formal complaint?" the sergeant asked.

Keith stared at the first officer. He wanted to punch him, but he didn't. Instead, he slowly took his cell phone and beeper off the hood of the car. He made eye contact with the first officer but spoke to the sergeant.

"I've lived in this neighborhood for 5 years," Keith said.

"I'm very, very sorry, Dr. Eckerson. Officers Jones and Bennett are new to the force." "Well, you might want to better train your officers, Sergeant!" Keith said angrily. "I understand. I can write up a formal complaint."

"What the fuck good is that gonna do?" Keith yelled. "Can I go?"

"Yes, Dr. Eckerson, you're free to go," said the sergeant. "I really enjoyed the seminar you had a few months ago. The information came in handy. Again, I'm very sorry for any trouble this may have caused you."

"Your force is a fucking joke, Sergeant," Keith said. He stared at the first officer and began to jog toward his house.

By the time Keith got to the house, he was angry. He decided he wouldn't share the morning's events with Sharon. She was in the kitchen, making coffee.

"Nice run?"

"Yeah, it was okay."

"That's good. I'm making coffee. Do you want any breakfast?"

"No, I've lost my appetite."

"You okay, Keith?"

"Yeah, I'm good. I'm just going to jump in the shower." "You look pissed."

"No, I'm good. Are you sure you want to continue working for Sylvia? Especially now that you know how she feels toward people of color. Does she even know I'm Black?"

She thought for a moment. Sylvia had never met Keith and really didn't seem to care about any of her employees' families.

"No, she doesn't, Keith. I never mentioned it."

"So what, you're keeping it a secret?"

"No," she replied. "She never asked or seemed to care about her employees or their families." "Well, everyone in my practice knows you. They know my wife is white." He could feel the anger boiling up again.

"Do you want me to tell her?" Sharon replied, sensing Keith was getting angry. "You never cared before."

"I care now," he snapped back. "Are you afraid she'd fire you or look at you differently if she knew your husband was Black?"

"Do you think I give a fuck what she thinks? Seriously, Keith? What is this about? Are you trying to start an argument?" she said.

"I'm tired of racist motherfuckers. I'm tired of seeing it in the news and reading about it in the paper. At what time do we just simply get over this bullshit?" Keith was yelling.

She was surprised by his reaction. "Keith, where is this coming from? What happened?"

He looked at her. He knew everything that happened wasn't her fault. He took a deep breath and sat down at the kitchen table.

"At what point is race no longer the issue, Sharon?" he said, lowering his tone. "Why do Black men and women or any person of color have to face each day knowing they'll be judged solely on skin color? It's 2019, for Christ's sake. I guess the issue you have with Sylvia really bothered me more than I let on. I just want you, us, to be happy and live our lives. I knew when we got married that people would look at us, judge us, no matter what we did. Rich or poor, smart or dumb. I knew most people would just see black and white." He lowered his head. His back arched, and his head was pounding. "It's your decision, but I just had to let you know how I really feel."

Sharon walked over to him and kneeled in front of him, then put her hands on her face. "When I married you, it was because I love you. I didn't care about the race thing. I know it hasn't been easy for us. I know we get it from both sides, but I didn't care about any of that. I know we get looks from both Blacks and whites. Right now, I just need time to think. All I know is that I love you very much. If my staying with her makes you this upset, I'll give her my notice when she returns in a few weeks."

She gently kissed his lips. He looked at her. He loved her. He didn't mean to take out his frustrations on her.

"No. I know you'll make the right decision. That's why I married you. Sharon, you know I love you." He kissed her passionately and looked into her eyes, holding his gaze a long moment. "You want some company in that shower?" She smiled. "Always." He took her and led her upstairs.

Saturday morning, Tallulah slept in. She was exhausted from the back-to-back shifts on Friday. It was afternoon when she finally rose out of bed. She went into the kitchen and started to make coffee. Her phone buzzed. She looked at the number and didn't recognize it, but she answered anyway.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Tallulah?" the unfamiliar voice said.

"Yes, this is Tallulah. Who's this?"

"Hi, this is Pete from the record store. I told you I'd call about the Lily Duke record." "Yes, hi, Pete."

"I've got your record. It came in sooner than I thought. You can pick it up anytime. Now, I do have a question. Do you own a record player?"

She laughed. "I don't."

"Well," said Pete, "I can sell you one fairly cheap. It's not like they're flying off the shelves." "Great. Thank you, Pete. I'll come down today," she said.

"I'll be in the store until closing. We close at 9 pm," Pete replied.

"I can come by and get it in a few hours. Thank you for calling," Tallulah said.

"No problem. I'll be looking out for you," Pete said, then clicked off.

She walked into the bedroom, undressed, and hopped in the shower. She then stepped out and quickly dressed. Once dressed, she called Michael. He answered on the first ring.

"Hey T, what's up?"

"Just checking in. Did you finish the layout?"

"Late last night. I still think it's missing something. I was thinking of covering the jazz festival. Whatya think?"

"Yeah, you could do that. Cutting it a little close to the deadline, aren't you?" she remarked.

"Oh, look who's worried about deadlines." He laughed.

"So, I need a favor?"

"What's up?"

"Can I borrow your car? I'll bring it back tonight and put gas in it." "Yeah, I can meet you at the office in about an hour. Does that work?" "Yes. Thank you, Michael. I really appreciate it."

"Anytime. Besides, I know where you live and work." "Right. Okay, an hour. Do you want me to take you home?" "No, I got some other stuff to do," he said.

"Are you sure?" she asked, not wanting to leave him stranded.

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine," he said.

"Thank you. See you in an hour." She hung up.

She drove to the record store. When she entered, Pete was helping a customer. She wandered over to the hip-hop section and began to flip through the albums. Nas, Jay-Z, The Fat Boys, Big Daddy Kane, and Sugarhill Gang.

"Tallulah, I'll be right with you."

She turned and saw Pete go behind the counter and into the back. She then turned back to the albums and continued going through them; Slick Rick, The Beastie Boys, Run DMC, Wu Tang Clan, and LL Cool J.

She turned to see Pete walking toward her with the Lily Duke album.

"Here you go," he said, smiling. "I've also got that old record player. I figured you could just take it, seeing as how you only own one album. It's really not worth selling." He handed her the record. "I've got it over here on the counter."

"Thanks, Pete," she said and followed him to the counter. He pulled out a very old record player. "Now, I know she ain't much to look at, but I've gotten years off her."

It looked like a briefcase. Pete unhooked the locks on each side and opened the lid. She was surprised to see the record player.

"Wow," she said, "it is old."

"They don't make them like this anymore," Pete said. "The lid is the speaker. Just plug it in, and you're ready to go. I also changed the needle for you."

"Are you sure you want to give it away? Isn't it an antique or something?" she asked.

"It's yours." Pete smiled. "Consider it a gift." He closed the case.

"Thanks, Pete. Hey, I noticed you've got some great albums; jazz, hip hop," she said.

"I've got the best selection in town," Pete said with pride.

"Yes, you do."

"Now, this Lily Duke. I've never heard of her," he said.

"I don't think anyone has," she replied.

Tallulah grabbed the record and player and walked out of the store. She put the items in the car and called Marc.

"King and Queen Limo Service."

"Marc, it's me. I just picked up Lily's record. I'm heading home to listen to it. Do you want to come over?"

"Really? Yes, I'd like to hear it," he said.

"Okay, meet me in about an hour," she said and hung up the phone.

She drove the car back to the office, parked the car in the back, and walked around to the front door. She tried to open the door, but it was locked. She knocked; no answer. She dug through her purse and found her keys, unlocked the door, and let herself in. The office was quiet. She walked to Michael's office; the door was shut. Michael's door was never shut. She knocked. "Michael?" She knocked again. "Michael?"

She slowly opened the door and was surprised to see Michael sleeping on a cot.

"Michael?"

He slowly stirred, rolling over. He lay for a moment, then opened his eyes. "Oh shit, what time is it?"

"It's about 3:30. Okay, I have two questions. Why is there a cot in your office? And why are you asleep during the day? I wasn't even gone that long."

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah. Can you give me a moment?"

"Sure." She left the office and walked over to her desk. She set down her bag, then sat on the desk.

"Okay," she heard him yell.

She walked back into the office. He'd put on a shirt and a pair of jeans.

"So, you're sleeping here now?" she asked.

He looked at her. "Well, I kinda live here now."

"What? What do you mean, live here?"

"Tallulah, I just woke up. Give me a minute, okay? I need coffee." He walked out of the office and headed to the restroom. She followed.

"You still haven't answered my question." She stopped at the restroom door and waited until he came out.

"Well?" she said.

"Okay, okay. I couldn't afford to pay rent on the office and my apartment, so I gave up my

apartment about a month ago."

"A month ago?"

"Yes, Tallulah, a month ago."

"Michael, why didn't you say anything to me?" She followed him back into the office.

"And say what? The paper is barely holding on. Costs are up, and advertising down. I had to make a choice, so I did." He yawned and sat at his desk. "Oh Michael, I'm sorry. I didn't know it was this bad."

"I know, no one does. I'm trying to figure out what to do. It seems more people aren't reading the paper; they're online, getting their news from social media. It's hard to compete." She sat down. He continued. "You know this is my dream, so I'm trying to figure out a way to hold on to it." He frowned.

Tallulah could see the sadness in his face.

"You hungry? Let me buy you a late lunch."

"That would be good," he said. He opened his desk drawer and took out a washcloth, soap, toothbrush, and toothpaste. "Let me go wash up. I'll meet you outside."

He stood up and walked out of the office. As Tallulah stood outside to wait for Michael, she texted Marc.

T: Hey change of plan can we meet at 7 pm?

M: Sure, everything okay?

T: Yes. Something came up.

M: Okay. 7 pm

T: Bye

She took Michael to a small cafe not far from the newspaper offices. He ordered eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes, breakfast potatoes and coffee. They talked while they waited for their food. "So, what does this mean for the paper, Michael? I say this as a friend, not an employee." "Honestly, I don't know. I've been trying to figure that out."

The waitress came over, brought two coffee cups and a pot of coffee. Michael poured a cup. "Well, how can I help?"

"Tallulah, there's nothing you can do, unless you have a large stash of money I can have?"

"No", she said, pouring her coffee. "But so many people read BW. I don't understand."

"Well," he said slowly, "the printer increased their prices again, and over the past few months,

I've lost advertisers. Like I said, social media."

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault. You've been with me from the beginning, T. It's okay." He stirred his coffee, not looking up.

After a brief silence, she spoke. "I found Lily's record. You know, the homeless lady we were talking about?"

Michael looked interested. "Really? How does she sound?"

"I don't know yet. I'm meeting Marc at my place at 7 to listen to it."

He looked at her and grinned.

"It's not a date," she said sternly.

"Okay, whatever, not a date." He laughed. "But you and him alone, listening to some record, sittin' in front of the fireplace, drinking wine."

"Ha ha. I don't have a fireplace, so the joke is on you."

"I have 1500 in my savings. It's yours," Tallulah said sincerely.

He looked at her and smiled. "No, I don't need your money…yet. I'm still working with the printer on his cost."

"Hey Michael, have you ever thought of going digital? You know, a BW app?" she asked. "Funny you'd say that because it did cross my mind. That may be my next move. It's too bad. Who would've ever thought that paper would become a dinosaur?" "What about the offer you got from the major paper?"

"No, I would never sell to them." Michael took a drink of his coffee. "At least not then, but I don't think the offer still stands. They were acquired by some giant publisher, so who knows what'll happen to them?"

"Oh. Well, just a thought. If you lose the paper, what'll you do?" she asked. "Well, that's a good question. I try not to think about it. I guess I could write," he said.

"You're a good writer, Michael, but your skill is editing. You're one of the best editors I know." "Know many editors, do you?" he said.

"Well, a few, but you have a gift. I love working with you. You know that. I'm not trying to gas you up."

"I know," he said.

The waitress brought their food, and the two friends talked the late afternoon away.

"I'm stuffed," Michael said. "Thanks for letting me use your car. You know you can always crash at my place. It's small, but it's cozy."

"Well, the way my back feels, I may take you up on that. Are you serious?" "Of course. Mi casa es tu casa," she said. "Gracias," he replied.

"Well, I guess I'd better get back to the office – or rather, home."

"Michael, get your stuff and come crash with me. Not tonight, because of my no date, but tomorrow. At least there will be coffee in the morning." "Let me think about it. Okay?" he said.

The waitress brought the check. She reached in her bag to grab her wallet, then handed her credit card to the waitress. She looked over at Michael. He was staring out the window. He looked like a lost puppy.

"Go get your stuff and come to my apartment whenever you're ready. But not tonight, because I have no date. You can't keep living at the office," she said.

"I know, I know. I thank you for the offer. I would even think of crashing a no date. Let me give it some serious thought," he said.

Tallulah frantically ran around her apartment, quickly trying to straighten up before Marc arrived. She went into the bathroom and pulled her dreadlocks up on top of her hair, then smiled at herself in the mirror. Suddenly, she heard a knock at the door.

She looked at her reflection and said, "Okay, stay cool. You don't have to sleep with him. Stay cool."

She took some deep breaths and walked toward the door. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt. He held a pizza in his hands.

"I wasn't sure if you'd eaten or not," he said, walking over the threshold of the door. She smiled and closed the door behind him.

"Thanks! Just put it on the table," she said, pointing to the small kitchen table. He put the pizza down and looked around the small apartment.

"Nice place," he said.

"Thank you," she said.

Tallulah stood for a moment, watching his face as he surveyed her apartment. He seemed to look pleased.

"Have a seat," she said.

Marc walked over to the sofa and sat down. She sat next to him and pulled out a bag. "Okay, here's her record. It's strange. The cover is plain. Just a white lily, but there are 10 songs."

He took the record. The cover was black, with a single white lily. The title read "Lily". He turned it over. The back cover listed 10 songs. At the very bottom of the right-hand corner, it read, Recorded at Twilight Studio/Producer Owen Katz.

"Wow. She really recorded a record."

He looked around and laughed. "How are we going to play it?"

"Luckily, Pete looked out and gave me an old player. It's right beside you on the floor." He looked down to see a briefcase. He picked it up and set it on the coffee table.

"My uncle had one of these." He unlocked the latches and opened the case. "Now, this is old

school. We need to plug it in," he said.

"Behind the sofa," she said.

He plugged in the player, carefully removed the record from its jacket, and placed it on the turntable. He pushed "on", and the turntable spun around, then he gently picked up the needle and placed it on the record.

A soothing sound of horns played, gentle and easy. A piano joined, adding to the horns. Lily's voice came through the small record player. Her sound was sad and somber. She joined perfectly with the piano. It was beautiful. Her soulful tones reminded Tallulah of Anita Baker. Marc turned to her and said, "She was good."

Lily's voice filled the apartment. They listened, only speaking to comment on a song or her voice. As they reached the final song of the record, Tallulah got up and brought the pizza into the living room. She opened the box and grabbed a slice. He followed suit and grabbed a slice, too. As they ate, the song "Grandma" played on the record.

Tallulah listened for a moment and said, "I've heard this before. She was singing this song!" Marc listened for a moment and said, "I think I have, too." When the song ended, he carefully put the record back into the jacket cover.

"She really did it. She recorded a record, and she's good. Really good. What happened that she would stop singing? I mean, she could have been famous," Tallulah said. Her voice was full of frustration. She pierced her lips and sat back on the sofa. "I just don't get it. It doesn't make sense. And if you add in what Zoe said about her father and this Amanda person who stopped her from singing, it just doesn't add up."

"Did you ever stop to think maybe she's running from someone or something and doesn't want to be found?" Marc asked.

"Look, I know you're a reporter. A writer. You write stories about people. I get it. I just wonder if digging into Lily's life is a good idea."

She looked at him. "Wait, at first you all wanted to be involved, and now you're saying I'm digging into her life? Okay. What if we ask Lily if she'll tell her story? What if we can help her reboot her career?"

"So what now? You know someone in the music business?"

"No, but with social media and Chloe's help, we could create some buzz. I dunno, Marc. I'm not trying to hurt Lily. I want to help her. What if she agrees? We can show her the album. Play it for her. See what happens," she said.

He was quiet as he looked thoughtfully at her.

"Okay. Show her the record, see what she does," he said.

Michael sat in his office. He was watching Netflix on his laptop, drinking a beer. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"How long can I really fucking live here?" he said out loud.

He sat up and looked at the papers scattered around his desk. The ad for the benefit for the shelter caught his attention. He pulled out his cell phone and called Crazy Dave, his old college roommate.

Crazy Dave had done many things since leaving college. He was a skydiver instructor, worked on an Alaskan fishing boat, taught English as a second language, and now was a private investigator. Also, he didn't go by "Crazy Dave" anymore; he just wanted to be called "David".

Michael dialed David's number. He picked up on the 3rd ring.

"Mike, what's up, man!" Crazy Dave yelled into the phone.

"David, man, what's going on? I just thought I'd call to see what's up," he said. "I'm good. Business has been good, too."

"The private eye thing?" he said. "What's that's like?"

"It's never a dull fucking moment," Crazy Dave replied. They both laughed

"Hey, what do you charge?" he asked.

"You need someone investigated, Michael? Personal shit?" David asked.

"No, nothing like that. It's for a story. I need to find out some history. Can you do it?" David laughed. "Good. I thought maybe something was up. Sure, I can do it." "What'll it cost me?" Michael asked.

David thought for a moment. "You just looking for some background info? I don't have to chase anyone down?" he asked.

Michael replied, "Just background. All I have is a name. I don't have anything else." "Give it to me," David said.

"Lily Duke. I do know she made a record, probably in the sixties. I know where she is. I don't need you to find her or anything like that," he said. "So why not just ask her?" David said.

"David, isn't this what you do?" he said.

"Okay, okay. So if you just want info, I can do it as a favor to you. But if I gotta start chasing

people, that's something else. Deal?"

"Deal," Michael said.

"Text me if you get anything."

"You got it." David hung up.