“Ordinarily I’d say that’s reaching, but maybe not.” She recapped her conversation with Jervis Wenderhole. Decker had been sitting for around twenty minutes, taking notes and talking theories, when he was interrupted by a small, dark-complexioned man banging on his window. The chap was middle-aged with slicked black hair, and dressed completely in yellow. Even his croc boots had been dyed deep gold.

“Hold on, Marge.” Decker rolled down the window.

“You have to move right away,” the man yelled out in accented English. Out came Decker’s badge. “I don’t care if you’re the president, you have to move!”

Bossy dude, but he was in the right. Decker said, “One minute—”

“One minute!” The man screamed. “You’ve had twenty!”

“You’ve been timing me?”

“You bet your—…you need to move! I have a very important client coming any moment. This is a big space and he has a Phantom Rolls-Royce.”

Decker told Marge, “I have to call you back. I have to move. I’m blocking a space for a very important customer—”

“Client.”

“Excuse me. Client.” He hung up the cell and started the motor. “Sorry. You’re right. This is your space and you’re entitled to it.”

“That’s okay.” The man calmed down. “That’s okay.” As Decker was about to pull out, the little yellow gnome held up his hand. “Hold on.” He ran into the store and came back with a bag. “My new aftershave. No hard feelings. I just need the space. Besides, it’s smart business. Who knows? Maybe someday you’ll be rich and you’ll be a very important client.”

EKERLING’S FORMER OFFICE room had been reduced to a generic couch, a bare coffee table, a couple of club chairs, a clear desk, and a filing cabinet. The shelves, however, were still triple stacked with CDs, but gone were the multitude of cardboard boxes and with them, probably any evidence that Ekerling had worked with Travis Martel.

Marilyn sat on the couch, her legs crossed with the right one extending up and down at the knee like the arm of a railroad crossing. She had a cigarette in one hand and a Coke Zero in the other, periodically flicking ashes into the pop-top opening. The blue-eyed blonde looked fetching in black latex jeans and a scoop-necked tee. “I’m taking over Primo’s clients.”

“I didn’t know you were a producer.” Decker had settled opposite her in a chair.

“I’m not. I’m talking about being an agent. I can probably do it as well as anyone else, considering the client list.” She shook her head. “Poor Primo was a good guy, but he didn’t exactly burn up the airways with success stories.”

Decker pointed to the bookshelves. “He seems to have amassed a lot of CDs.”