Chapter 8: Off the Table

Hank found me at breakfast with a folded piece of paper.

He sat down across from me in the hotel restaurant, put the paper beside my eggs, and said nothing until I read it.

It was an email from Loud Ink's office, printed at the front desk.

At the top, my boss had typed one line.

It said: "Label VP requested Maggie Doyle's file, payroll, home address, and cell. Sent yesterday at 4:10 p.m."

"She asked for my address," I said.

"Yes."

"Why would she want my address?"

"I've been in this business thirty-four years." Hank rubbed his gray ponytail. "When someone asks where you live, it's so they can find your mother."

I put down my fork.

"She doesn't get to do that."

"No."

"What do I do?"

"You eat your eggs," he said. "Then you let the rest of us be mad for you."

Jude arrived with his hair wet and a black coffee, and I told him everything in one breath.

He didn't swear.

He set the coffee down very slowly.

Then he stood up, and I grabbed his sleeve.

"Wait. Let me."

"Maggie."

"You tore up her paper. I want to say the next thing myself."

He looked at my hand on his arm.

Then he sat back down, and a muscle jumped in his jaw.

"Okay," he said.

The band came in then, all four of them in a stumbling parade.

The drummer, a huge quiet man with a beard to his chest, laid a guitar pick on my napkin.

It was gold and worn thin.

"This is yours," he said.

He nodded at Jude.