“If I may be frank . . .”

“Of course,” said Dave, thinking how different this was from a conversation with Eric Chapman.

“You look like an average pop group who had the good luck to get your hands on a Hank Remington song. People think the song was great, not you. We live in a small world—a few record companies, a handful of tour promoters, two television shows—and everyone thinks the same. I can’t sell you to any of them.”

Dave swallowed. He had not expected Batchelor to be this candid. He tried not to show his disappointment. “We were lucky to get a Hank Remington song,” he admitted. “But we’re not an average pop group. We have a first-class rhythm section and a virtuoso lead guitarist, and we look good, too.”

“Then you have to prove to people that you’re not one-hit wonders.”

“I know. But with no recording contract and no big gigs I’m not sure how we do that.”

“You need another great song. Can you get another from Hank Remington?”

Dave shook his head. “Hank doesn’t write songs for other people. ‘Love Is It’ was a one-off, a ballad that the Kords didn’t want to record.”

“Perhaps he could write another ballad.” Batchelor spread his hands in a who-knows gesture. “I’m not creative, that’s why I’m an agent, but I know enough to realize that Hank is a prodigy.”

“Well . . .” Dave looked at Evie. “I suppose I could ask him.”

Batchelor said breezily: “What harm could it do?”

Evie shrugged. “I don’t mind,” she said.

“All right, then,” said Dave.

Batchelor stood up and put out his hand to shake. “Good luck,” he said.

As they left the building, Dave said to Evie: “Can we go and see Hank now?”

“I’ve got some shopping to do,” Evie said. “I told him I’d see him tonight.”

“This is really important, Evie. My whole life is in ruins.”

“All right,” she said. “My car’s around the corner.”

They drove to Chelsea in Evie’s Sunbeam Alpine. Dave chewed his lip. Batchelor had done him the favor of being brutally honest. But Batchelor did not believe in Plum Nellie’s talent—just Hank Remington’s. All the same, if Dave could get just one more good song from Hank, the group would be back on course.

What was he going to say?

Hi, Hank, got any more ballads? That was too casual.

Hank, I’m in a fix. Too needy.

Our record company made a real mistake releasing ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll.’ But we could rescue the situation—with a little help from you. Dave did not like any of these approaches, mainly because he hated to beg.

But he would do it.

Hank had an apartment by the river. Evie led the way into a big old house and up in a creaking elevator. She spent most nights here now. She opened the apartment door with her own key. “Hank!” she called out. “It’s only me.”

Dave walked in behind her. There was a hallway with a splashy modern painting. They passed a gleaming kitchen and looked into a living room with a grand piano. No one was there.