THE MURKY SPOTLIGHT LOVED DAVI Brasil. He had a soulful gaze and dark curls, a wide frame that might grow pudgy with age but was underfed now and poked out his clothes in sharp angles. His hip bones held up his trousers; his rib cage jutted against his white tank top. His songs were not hoarse and wrenching, not like what Ray had just played for me, but their pleasant pop cousin. And the way he carried his voice, the way he commanded center stage, he seemed like a star. Another star from the same Brasil family. I wondered what their parents were like.

Ray stood beside me, sipping at his usual grapefruit juice. I ordered a cola to stay awake. I finished it in three cloying swallows. Then we watched. Ray seemed content to listen to the band, though he sometimes glanced around to measure the crowd, which was filling the club’s first floor but not its balconies, and the merch table, stacked with T-shirts no one was buying. Davi was still building his fan base. Someone was taking a risk on him.

Whatever Ray was thinking now, I suspected he wouldn’t tell me. This was how it would have been, working with him. My interview with the actress tomorrow—what a simple affair by comparison. It would be my own gig, start to finish. The actress would want the publicity, and so she would give me what I needed. Gilot would be with us in spirit, bringing the luster of a life well lived. There would be a tasty lunch, sparkling water with a twist of lime. Our common enterprise as clear as sunlight.

Davi had three bandmates, all guitarists, and they didn’t stop strumming until the oldest one set down his instrument with a definitive thunk at the end of a long song. Heavyset and bearded, he rose first, swabbing his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief, and then headed backstage. Davi and the others waited through most of their applause before following.

“Now,” Ray said and grabbed my elbow, steering me toward the back of the stage, where a muscular bald man blocked the narrow corridor beyond. Ray gave a nod to the man, who blinked but did not stop us from edging past him and heading down the paneled hall to a door. I looked at Ray, and he gave a little shrug, as if to say, What did you expect? I know what I’m doing.

Ray made one sharp knock, and after a moment the bearded bandmate poked his head out.

“Naw, man, no,” he said, waving Ray off. “Come back after.”

“Can’t do that,” Ray said. “We need to talk to him now.”

The bearded guy retreated, and he said something to Davi in rapid Portuguese. Davi’s retort was loud, and they argued for a while. Finally, the bandmate heaved a sigh and turned away, leaving the door unguarded. Ray pushed in, and I followed.