“Evan Crisp,” Win said, “is now working for Gabriel Wire. Do you know who that is?”

“Wire? Sure. His music is pure, one hundred percent, grade-A crap. Does Myron rep him?”

“No, his partner.”

“Lex something, right? Another no-talent.”

“Any clue why Crisp might be working for Gabriel Wire?”

Frank smiled with small teeth that looked like Tic Tacs. “In the old days, Gabriel Wire did it all. Blow, whores—but mostly gambling.”

Win arched an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“The favor?”

“Done.”

Nothing else said on that. Nothing else needed.

“Wire owed Herman big,” Frank said. “At one point—now I’m going back before he started the Howard Hughes act, what, fifteen, twenty years—his tab was more than half a million.”

Win considered that for a moment. “There are rumors that someone messed up Wire’s face.”

“Not Herman,” Frank said with a headshake. “He ain’t that stupid. Wire can’t sing a lick, but his smile could unsnap a bra from thirty paces. So no, Herman wouldn’t mess with the breadwinner.”

Outside the room and down the hall, a man screamed. The guard by the door did not move. Neither did Frank. The screaming continued, grew louder, and then it was cut off as though with a switch.

Win asked, “Do you have any thoughts on why Crisp would be working for Wire?”

“Oh, I doubt he’s working for Wire,” Frank said. “My bet? Crisp is there for Herman. He’s probably on the scene making sure Mr. Rock ’n’ Roll pays up.”

Win sat back, crossed his legs. “So you believe that your brother is still involved with Gabriel Wire then?”

“Why else would Crisp be watching him?”

“We thought that perhaps Evan Crisp had gone legit. Perhaps he took a cushy security job for a recluse.”

Frank smiled again. “Yeah, I can see how you might think that.”

“But I’m wrong?”