“Respectfully,” Sly Boy said, “that doesn’t sound like a carefully considered plan. I think you’re being impetuous.”

“I’m done working with garbage.”

Warm applause as the band wrapped their improv. The singer applauded, too, then whispered into the mic that they had one more number. She nodded to the drummer, who counted them in. Kitty listened for a moment, then wet her lips on the Cognac and grabbed her board.

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” she said. “But I’m done.”

“Work here,” Sly Boy said, spreading his hands. His cuff links flashed in the soft lighting. “Gracie says she wants fewer hours, so I’m going to need another emcee—you know, someone to introduce the talent, ad lib with the audience. I’d be prepared to give you a shot.”

“Hmm. And this won’t be that thing,” Kitty said, “where I start emceeing, then I do a couple of runs to help you out, then a couple more, and the next thing I know, I’m back to slinging glass for East Hollywood lowlifes?”

“This won’t be that thing. I might get you to bartend a couple of shifts a week, since you’ll be on the payroll, and a pretty face working the bar is never a bad thing.” A lighter expression touched Sly Boy’s face. “There’s only one catch.”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got to like jazz.”

“I do like jazz.”

“All right, then.” Sly Boy raised his glass. Kitty raised hers. They touched, nodded, and sipped to seal the deal. “Start on Monday. It’s a slower night. You can learn the ropes.”

“Thank you,” Kitty said.

“You’ll be good for this place.”

The band hit a crescendo and came out of it swinging. Sly Boy finished his Cognac, said good night to Kitty, then retreated to his office. Kitty watched him go, idly spinning a wheel on her skateboard. He was unlawful, crooked, and cowardly, too. But he’d also offered his hand—shown generosity. Despite his shortcomings, Kitty thought he wasn’t such a bad guy.

Kitty was wrong.

5
Rock Steady

A heat haze blanketed L.A., shimmering from the hills to the ocean. Beyond this, the sky was a scuffed blue, punched through the center by a fat, angry sun. Phone in one hand, water bottle in the other, Kitty jogged around her neighborhood, a three-mile circuit, culminating in the hill that led to her apartment.

Luke was reversing out of his driveway, soul music floating from the Caliber’s speakers. Not Lisa Hayes, Kitty noted. This was old soul, the kind her nana listened to. Luke saw her and turned it down.

“Hey, Kitty.” He dropped the transmission into park—blocking half the street—and motioned her over. “Got your phone?”

“Yeah.” It was still in her hand. She held it up.

“Okay. Take this number down.”