Page 42 of Lost Love on 6th Street

I tried to give up on the mystery. Tried to have Eleanor give up on it, too.

But I can’t.

That picture from ’93 still prompts so many questions.

She performed at The Lone Star. Played guitar. A solo act, if I’m to believe Bobby’s notes are correct.

Would it be possible that Baxter might know something?

It’s worth a shot. Besides, it would give me a reason to reach out to Eleanor that isn’t just me trying to make conversation, so she doesn’t forget about me.

I give the bartender a nod and point at the end of the bar. “Two of what he’s having,” I mouth.

She gives me a quick nod before pouring off two straight club sodas.

No wonder the guy looks good. He doesn’t even drink.

Then again, he’s over fifty and it is a Wednesday. Could take a note from his book.

I take the club sodas and head down to the end of the bar, posting up beside Baxter. He glances up at me and gives me a polite smile before returning his gaze to the band.

“They’re good, huh?” I say.

“Yeah, smooth stuff.”

“Thinking about running their tracks?” I ask.

He does a double take in my direction, realizing he’s been recognized, then smiles sadly. “I’d like to. Would people listen?” He shrugs. “Radio ain’t what it used to be.”

“Hear that.” I hold out the straight club soda to him. “Name’s Wyatt. Grew up listening to you.”

Skip appraises the club soda before taking it. “Nice to meet you, Wyatt. Working tonight?”

I smile, glancing at the band. The singer is a flamboyant woman with a flat-black Cordobés hat, a lacy top, and high-waisted pants that are embroidered with bright-colored flowers. She’s a show woman and the people are eating her up. “You can tell?”

“A tailored suit in a club like this?” he says with a raised eyebrow.

I chuckle, looking down at the pinstripe blue I’ve chosen for tonight and carefully adjust the silver bolo around my neck. “Caught me.”

“They’re good,” Skip says. “Too bad you can’t get them on a bigger stage. She deserves it.”

“I agree,” I say. “You still accept demos like you did in the old days?”

Skip huffs out a disdainful laugh. “Not since everyone and their mother has access to SoundCloud.”

I remember the calls on the then up-and-coming radio station. “Send us your wild and your weird! Send us your Austin!”

For a while, Skip’s station was straight up Austin. Local only, unless out-of-towners were promoting a show. Now, it’s modern alternative. Sneaks in something new to the ear every now and then, but it’s not the same.

“But I have no doubt their manager will corner me after the show. As he is known to do . . .” Skip says, eyeing the manager as he takes a sip of club soda.

I take the opportunity to pull out my phone. “Could I ask you a question? Since you’ve been around for a while?”

“Watch it kid,” Skip says wryly.

“I mean that with all due respect, sir,” I correct.

The audience erupts in applause. I hadn’t even realized they’d finished their last song. Skip leans back on the bar, focusing on the band as they shuffle around before the next song of their set, not bothering to clap. “What is it, Wyatt?” he finally asks.

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