“Did Mr. Thompson have a first name?”

“Jim. He acted like we was friends.”

“How’d you get here?”

“Drove.”

“By yourself?”

He nodded.

“Anyone know about this besides you?”

“Naw.”

He walked over to a window where you could see the statue of Lee on his pillar. A streetcar lapped him. Clanking bell. Gears changing. You could only see the back of Lee.

“What’d they promise you, kid?”

“ALIAS.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Tavarius.”

“I like that better.”

“Whatever.”

I smiled.

“I got a business card they gave me.”

I shook my head. “Won’t do any good. Were any of these construction crews here when you came in?”

“No.”

“Didn’t see anyone else in this building except Mr. Thompson and this secretary? Who was she?”

“I don’t know. She was just always runnin’ around and answering phones and interruptin’ his meeting with calls from Britney Spears and shit,” he said, dropping his head.

“So how did it work?” I found a huge paint bucket to sit on and nodded to its mate by the window. He seemed pretty embarrassed. He prided himself on being smart and quick-witted. It was his job. He was a rapper.

Basically, this guy said he represented a ton of celebrities and boasted a long list of phony clients that included everyone from B. B. King to the Nevilles. He even had eight-by-ten photos of clients hanging above the secretary’s desk both times ALIAS visited the office. Once for the hook. The second was the yank.

He told ALIAS long stories about his clients losing millions to their record companies – a common and unfortunately all-too-often-true tale of the recording business – and that he wanted to protect him.