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our drink yet.”
    Vicky smiled. “Sure. We always keep our promises, don’t we, Julia?”
    We’re going to Jack Kipling’s apartment , was all I could think. I tried to quell my jitters as the men gave Rick a hard time about his getaway driving.
    Five minutes later we pulled up in front of a big gray building. Jack and Sammy spoke to the doormen as we crossed a slick-looking lobby. The elevator whooshed up to the penthouse and Jack pushed through the front door. When it opened onto a vast loft, I realized he must own the entire floor. Running along the wall was the biggest collection of albums I’d ever seen. Reels of tape spilled off the ends of shelves, and guitars were scattered throughout on stands, on chairs, and propped against furniture.
    Sammy swept his arm toward a couch and chairs grouped around a long glass-topped coffee table covered with empty bottles, shot glasses, newspapers, and overflowing ashtrays. “You gals make yourselves comfortable and tell me what you want to drink.” He grabbed a couple of ashtrays and dumped them into a wastebasket.
    “I’ll switch to white wine if you have it,” Vicky said.
    “A beer would be great.” Nervous and not ready to sit yet, I walked over to the shelves. “Wow, look at all your records.” Jack stood nearby as I scanned the stacks of albums, some of which looked very old.
    “Pick out something,” he said.
    Carefully I withdrew a 45 in a faded wrapper; “Long Distance Moan.” I’d only ever heard two of Blind Lemon Jefferson’s songs. “Could we play this?”
    “You dig Jefferson?” Jack asked, seeming surprised.
    “I like just about any blues. Especially from the twenties and thirties.”
    “I’ll put it on. This one really takes me back.”
    Enormous speakers were placed strategically around the room, enveloping us in sound. The record was crackly, but that only enhanced the effect. I sat in one of the armchairs and let the mournful cadences wash over me. Sammy handed me a beer and sat next to Vicky on the couch. Jack sank into a chair cattycorner to mine, long legs extended, one boot keeping time. The song ended on a single plaintive note.
    “D’you know Gatemouth?” Jack asked, going over to the turntable. “I bet you’d like him. Or I could play some Charlie Patton.”
    “Sure, if it’s not too much trouble. I love this stuff, but my friends are more into The Voidoids. Or Throbbing Gristle.”
    “No trouble at all,” he replied with a hint of a smile. He put the music on, then grabbed an empty paper cup and went to the window, where a moth was frantically fluttering. He deftly clapped the cup over it and slid his hand between the pane and lip. “We’ll let him go later,” he said, covering it loosely with a lid.
    Jack sprawled back in his chair. I risked a peek at him; hair splayed around his shoulders, eyelashes dark above sculpted cheekbones. He’s even better-looking in person than in photographs , I thought. Halfway through the record, he turned the volume down.
    “How did you get into the blues?” he asked. “Most girls your age would be just weaning themselves off of disco.”
    I laughed. “I admit I got down to ‘Last Dance’ a few times in college. But my dad played blues and country for me from the time I was small. The blues make every other kind of music seem a little … tepid, don’t you think?”
    “Yeah. Definitely tepid.” He took a swig of whiskey.
    “How did you first get into it?” I ventured to ask. The Floor had done their bluesiest album a number of years ago; it was my favorite, but I wasn’t going to mention that. I didn’t want to come across like those slobbering groupies at the bar.
    “I hung out with some older kids in secondary school, and they collected American records. The first time I heard Robert Johnson, I was gobsmacked. That’s what got me started down this long, twisted road. You know the saying, ‘The blues are the easiest music to learn, but the hardest to play.’”
    Jack