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He regarded his plush surroundings through the haze of his standard weekday hangover. Duff was a music journalist by trade, and of a type that was vanishing into extinction. Which was to say he drank frequently and well, was friendly enough with his weed dealer to have read and offered notes on his screenplay, wore a full mustache, and possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of rock music and its forebear, rhythm and blues. He was sitting gingerly in a beautifully upholstered chair with blue and cream stripes in a suite at the Waldorf Astoria, his husky 6’3’’ frame threatening the collapse of the beautiful piece of furniture and his self-esteem at any moment. He awaited a living legend. Stacey Shaw was a former fashion model and actress who in the 60’s and 70’s had served as one of the preeminent muses in rock and roll, having dated a succession of musicians astounding for their exploits and musical quality. Now in her 70’s, she was in town for the premier of a documentary she was featured in entitled, The Ones They Wrote About. She strode in to the room and nodded at her attractive young assistant—the one who had let Duff in to the suite, and who had promptly ignored him in favor of her Instagram feed once he sat down. Stacey was more petite than he expected, but still striking enough to warrant a stammer, even in her golden years. The dark hair which had once come down to her back was gone, and in its place was a tasteful silver bob, plus the same gorgeous eyes great men had drunk from. He stood carefully and extended his hairy, paw-like hand towards her for a gentle shake. After settling back in his chair with his phone set to record, he gave her his winningest smile. But before he could launch into his first question she interjected. “Could you give us a moment Erin?” Stacey asked with a smile to her assistant, as Erin excused herself. As the door clicked shut, she added, “This is off the record…” Duff nodded slowly and turned off his phone as if this was a regular occurrence for him, particularly at a press junket. She continued, “Did you know that I requested you for this piece specifically?” Her voice was so lovely and dignified, English accent and all. But there was something off about how this was starting. “No, I didn’t,” Duff replied pleasantly. She regarded him directly, “I read your piece that you wrote last year about Albert Cunning. It was good. Quite good in fact.” Duff nodded slowly, trying to understand where this conversation was going. Albert Cunning was Duff’s favorite band. From the late 60’s through the mid-70’s, they had been one of the biggest in the world—not quite on the level of The Beatles or The Rolling Stones or Led Zeppelin—but firmly ensconced on the tier below along with Fleetwood Mac and The Who. Until one snowy night while staying at a country estate to discuss their future together, when a terrible fire broke out which took the lives of two of the four band members, cementing their place in rock history. The piece in question was a reflection on the enduring legacy of the band, and the growing number of fans who flocked to England every year to commemorate the night of the fire. Duff knew what Stacey had lost on that horrible night. Her relationship with Albert Cunning front man Nick Winter was the stuff of legend. She crossed her legs and laid back against the couch cushion, considering him closely for several moments. “I was there that night, you know.” “The night of the fire?” She nodded. A more seasoned reporter might have followed up with a probing question, but Duff was not used to dealing with matters of import, and could only muster a furrowed brow and a concerned look on his kind, mustachioed face, which had been compared to John Goodman’s for its handsome features sitting atop an extra-large frame. Although he was technically a journalist, he had never been in this type of situation before: in a room with a person about to share sensitive or potentially even incriminating information, and so he let her sit and think, hoping she would offer more. As she looked out of the window along Park Avenue to collect herself, Duff thought to himself how beautiful and fascinating she looked—not despite but because of the lines which now ran across her face. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m bringing this up? Especially when we’re supposed to be talking about my love life, and who was better in bed and all of that lucrative nonsense?” Duff’s gift had always been his sincerity, cultivated after years of trying (and usually failing) to be the son his father wanted him to be, and so he offered her the modest truth. “Honestly Stacey I just want to get to know you better.” She softened a bit at that, and let out a long sigh. As he waited, he saw tears forming in her eyes, until finally she decided something internally within herself and shook her head. “I never said anything because that night was so horrifying…and because I’m still not sure what happened, even after all these years.” She wiped away her tears before continuing, looking at him once more with conviction, “And now I’m making it your job to find out.” Duff blinked, and felt his love handles press against the wood frame of the chair as his body tensed. “I’m not the sleuth you apparently think I am,” he began with a modest smile. She asked incredulously. “You are a reporter at The New York Times are you not?” “Technically…” But not for long, he thought to himself sadly. She smiled mercifully. “I’ve known many great men Mr. Duffy who were anything but. Perhaps your modesty is evidence of the authentic article.”

Gwen sat on her daughter's twin bed, staring at herself in a mirror they'd attached to the back of the door. It refracted the room's ambient light and gave the illusion of space. It also multiplied the flower decals Sophie had stuck on the walls and the Janice Joplin poster above her bed. Their realtor had called it a one-bedroom, but they all knew that was a lie. It was really a studio with a walk-in closet. But Gwen had been desperate to leave the Victorian townhome she'd shared with Jeremy down in Grammercy Park, and this place was the first thing she found. In hindsight, the signs of infidelity were everywhere--on Jeremy's fragrant coat, in Jeremy's smile--but Gwen was blind to them. For a while, her eye had not been on Jeremy at all but on the country at large. She had reported on the riots in Omaha the previous spring, when violence erupted after George Wallace announced his run for the presidency. By June, the riots had reached Newark, leaving twenty-six dead. And, somewhere in there, she had traveled to New Orleans to cover District Attorney Jim Garrison's investigation of President Kennedy's assassination. Garrison was convinced, along with a growing number of others, that Oswald did not kill Kennedy despite the Warren Commission's claims. Her eye was on these stories, not Jeremy. And she wrote in a blind heat, too, against deadlines that made conventional time irrelevant. At the Associated Press, it was always news-time somewhere. Sophie, her fifteen-year-old daughter, had gone to an anti-war march that morning, and Gwen had let her go. Recently, she had begun missing school and hanging out with the college kids up at Columbia. Gwen thought maybe it was a way to cope with the family's breakup, which Gwen had not yet fully explained, in part because Sophie had not challenged Gwen's lie that they had fought about Gwen's job. And Gwen, also to her surprise, found herself loathe to tell Sophie the truth. Not to protect Jeremy so much as to protect her daughter, which might actually amount to the same thing. Gwen made a cross-eyed face in the mirror, laughed at herself, and finally stood up. She found her sneakers, grabbed her purse, and left the apartment. On the landing, she lit a cigarette and headed down the stairs, because the elevator was impossibly slow. Sophie had been cooking their meals ever since they left Jeremy. Simple things, like Campbells chicken soup and a salad, or burgers on English muffins. Sometimes, they ordered a peperoni pizza or Chinese. But today, Gwen's conscience bit at her, and she planned to have dinner on the table when Sophie returned from the march. The day was sunny but cold. Gwen turned left on 101st Street, wanting to avoid the protesters. She stepped on something that oozed out from beneath her foot. The sanitation worker's strike had ended, but remains were everywhere, spilling out from trash cans: dirty diapers, chewed lamb chops, scattered green peas, cigarette butts. Paper plates skidded down the sidewalks carrying soggy pizza crusts that look like bloated fingers. At 74th Street, Gwen dodged several honking yellow cabs to cross Broadway. A young mother wearing a velvet equestrian hat careened past her pushing a huge blue stroller. An old woman using a grocery cart as a walker passed by, her head a pink cactus of jumbo curlers. A closer look revealed that her fuzzy pink coat was actually a bathrobe. Beneath Fairway's awning, someone who looked like Seiji Ozawa carefully chose apples from an outdoor bin. Suddenly, the famous conductor turned, and his shiny black hair swept across his shoulders as he flashed her a sweet, boyish smile. Gwen caught up with the protestors heading up Broadway half an hour later. College kids held hand-drawn signs that read, "Hell, No, We Won't Go!" and "What For? Stop the War!" Black students protested both the war and oppression: "Give money to the ghettos, not the war machine!" They were loud but not violent. She didn't see Sophie anywhere. By this point, her arms strained under the weight of two heavy grocery bags. Gwen skirted around the edge of the crowd for the final sprint home, took the stairs two at a time, and unlocked the door just as the phone began to ring. She dropped the groceries in the doorway and ran to pick up the phone. "Mom?" she heard her daughter's fretful voice. "Mom, I need you to pick me up." "Why? Where are you?" I just passed the march. I thought you were with them." There was a brief pause. Then Sophie said, "I'm in jail."