The guy has a rather silly Jamaican accent.
I'm Dwayne.
Lauren Blackwell. I was hoping you could help me.
I'll do my best. What can I do for you?
So, what is this place?
This? This is a music agency. We manage bands, do promotions, things like that. You know? Well, by 'we', I really mean 'me'.
You do this all by yourself?
Yep. One man operation, that's me.
What sort of music do you manage?
Mostly jazz and reggae. Nobody famous. Most small timers have trouble getting their foot in the door. Getting gigs in small clubs, helping with recording sessions, you know. The basic stuff that musicians don't want to deal with.
You're open late.
Really? Yeah, I suppose I am. I learned to work musician hours, you know. You play a gig at night and have a problem, you want someone to call.
Your clients have lots of problems, do they?
Don't get me started.
I'm looking for a sax player.
Well, I can definitely help you there. You looking for a stand-in? Or something more long-term?
Oh, no, sorry, I'm not with a band. I'm looking for a specific sax player.
Well, if he's a client of mine, I can help you. What's his name?
That's the problem. I don't know. But he's in a photograph that your company took.
Really? Can I see it?
Sure, I've got a copy right here.
Oh yah, I remember those guys! The C-Sharps.
That was the band's name?
Yah, I used to manage them.
You used to manage them... but not anymore?
Nah, been about... eight? Ten years? Time flies, you know.
Does the name Cecil Sharpe ring any bell?
You know, the name does sound familiar. But... ah, I'm so awful with names, you know. Is he part of a band?
Maybe. He plays piano at Johnny Ivory's.
Ah, I deal with them all the time. But that's not where I heard the name. Hm, this is going to bug me all night.
What can you tell me about the C-Sharps?
Oh, they were strictly lounge jazz, you know? But I saw them doing more. They really gelled, you know? In-tune with eachother. And that lady had a voice like velvet.
What happened to them?
Dunno. They disappeared. Got them a few gigs and cut a record, and that was it. They moved on or just broke up. It happens, you know?
Thanks for the help, I might be back later.
No problem.
And now for... clue connecting!
Cecil Sharpe. The C-Sharps.
Cute. Real cute.
Let's confront C with our new blackmail material.
Hey C.
Were you in a band called The C-Sharps?
Suddenly he stopped being smug.
... what makes you think that?
Oh, just the names. C-Sharps. Cecil Sharpe. It's a pretty strong coincidence, wouldn't you say?
Yeah, I guess.
So, what's your answer?
No.
Cock is lying. But we need more evidence. How about we visit our good ol' jazzman ghost?
The hell?
Oh boy. We've got company.
Great. Some crazy old hag who bears a striking resemblance to ZE WITCH OF ZE WILDS in Dragon Age.
Pardon?
CAN'T YOU SEE?
See WHAT, lady?
The whole of the world! Connections! Patterns! Pulsing with life... everywhere?
@_@ !!!!!
Oh, great. One of New York's finest crazies. Do something about this old bat, will you?
Look, I'm a bit busy right now. I don't have time for this.
FOOL! LIAR! Can't you SEE?
Um...
Useless.
Only in New York.
With that out of the way, we can question the spirit.
Get. Off. The. STAGE! What's wrong with you? Get outta here! *saxophone uppercut*
Well, that was pointless.
Guess we can ask Dwayne another question.
Cecil Sharpe... C Sharps... YES! I knew I heard that name somewhere. Oh yah, he was the band leader. A genius on the piano.
Yup, that's our man for sure.
I want to talk to you about the C Sharps.
I said...
I know what you said. And I know that you're lying. So shut the hell up and listen (stop the lies, start the truth). I spoke to your old manager, he confirmed who you are.
You spoke to Dwayne?
Yes, I did.
That... FINE! You got me. Yes, I used to run a band called The C Sharps. It was a rotten time in my life, and I'd just as soon forget it. Why are you stirring up these old ashes, huh?
I have my reasons.
Yeah, sure you do.
About that sax player... He's in that photo behind you, so I know he was with the C Sharps and that you knew him.
What... what is this? You from that damn magazine?
Magazine?
The New Yorker. You a reporter?
No. So who is he?
You just don't quit, do you? You wanna know so badly? Fine. His name is Isaac Brown. You happy now?
Ecstatic.
What can you tell me about Isaac Brown?
Him? He's a bum. A drunk. A lowlife. A nobody. He's also dead.
How did he die?
Someone strangled him to death with his bare hands. Isaac must have squealed like a pig.
You don't seem very upset by this.
No, but... last time someone asked about Isaac, it was some reporter from The New Yorker. He came along, asked his questions. Then BAM! Isaac's dead.
Really?
Yeah. So forgive me if I don't take kindly to pushy questions.
Who was the reporter?
Oh, I dunno. Mitchell something. Slow talker, drove me crazy.
You think he killed Isaac?
I just play the piano. I don't THINK anything (because you're a nigger
). Especially not the past. Whoever did Isaac, the son of a bitch had it coming. So please, just get outta here.
And get outta there she did.
Back to the HQ, let's google the New Yorker.
Yup, there's a listing for The New Yorker. Their main office is in midtown.
Thank you for calling The New Yorker. How can I help you?
Hello, yes. I'm trying to reach a reporter named Mitchell.
Well, let's see now... Mitchell... Mitchell... We have a Joseph Mitchell on staff. Is that him?
I guess it's worth a try. Is he in?
Yes, he is. Hold please
Some time passes, nobody answers.
He's not answering. Maybe I should go up there in person.
It's Assistant Director Skinner!
Are you mr Mitchell?
I sure am.
My name is Lauren Blackwell.
Well, do come in miss Blackwell.
I was hoping you could help me.
Well, I'll do what I can. What is this regarding? Are you a reporter, or...?
No, I'm just doing some research.
I see. You're a student?
More a student of life.
Aren't we all. So what can I do for you, miss Blackwell?
So, how long have you been working here?
Do you always ask such personal questions?
I'm just curious about the sort of work you do.
I write about people, miss Blackwell.
What people?
Not the famous sort. Just... ordinary people, like you and me.
Ordinary people... like me.
You find that amusing?
Oh, not at all.
So, tell me about yourself, mr Mitchell.
I beg your pardon?
Tell me about yourself.
Yes, I heard you. I hope you didn't come here simply to interview ME. I'm afraid I'd make a poor interview subject.
I'd like to talk about Isaac Brown.
Ah, Isaac. You knew Isaac?
Well, sort of. I'm looking into his death.
Really? That was almost five years ago. Why the sudden interest?
Let's just say that I have a personal interest in clearing it up. Anything else you can tell me about Isaac? Why'd you want to write about him?
I... don't want to get too in-depth. Out of respect, you understand? I was drawn to him for the same reasons I'm drawn to everybody I write about. I felt he had a story that would reach people. Enrich them. Perhaps learn from.
Really?
Miss Blackwell, spend some time talking to the poor and downtrodden. Walk down the Bowery and speak to the half-wits and have-nots. In one hour, you'll learn more than from a lifetime of schooling.
So what WAS Isaac's story? I know he played in a band called The C Sharps, and then obviously something went wrong. What was it?
Listen, you tried asking mr Sharpe?
Yes, he's not talking.
I don't blame him. He's probably just feeling guilty.
Guilty? Why?
He has his reasons.
Could you, oh, I don't know, tell me what those reasons are.
I can't do that.
Of course he can't.
Mr Mitchell, I need to know what happened.
Listen, I don't like this. I don't feel comfortable talking to people without their consent. I won't say anymore about Isaac or his sister.
Got you, sucker.
Sister?
Sister?
I... Please, I'm not going to say anymore.
Who was Isaac's sister?
I told you. Not another word.
I'd like to read your piece about Isaac.
Ah, well, I'm afraid I can't help you there. I never published it.
You didn't?
No, it seemed in... bad taste.
Since when do reporters care about bad taste?
Since when do reporters care about bad taste?
Ahh, you don't have a high opinion of journalists, do you?
Well, you hear things...
Oh, don't worry about it. I'm well aware of the stereotype. I've written about deceased persons before, when I felt it was in the public's interest. But Isaac... well, I felt the dead should have some peace.
If you felt his story could reach people. Enrich them, as you say, why didn't you publish the story?
Listen, miss Blackwell. Isaac didn't just die. He was murdered. Someone reached around his neck and strangled the life out of him. That puts a bit of a damper on the story I wanted to tell.
So nobody will hear the story?
No. All my notes on him have been destroyed. Isaac's story might not have reached the people, but it reached me. Maybe that's enough.
Well, I think that's all for now.
Allright. You have a good night now.
