As she rides by

it in my general direction, and started on another form or contract or whatever it was. I looked at the one she was done with.
    “AGAC/the songwriters’ guild, POPULAR SONGWRITER’S CONTRACT,” it said at the top. Then it got complicated, as if the normally unintelligible legalese doublespeak had been translated into Urdu, then back into legalese again. I could read the figures, though, and noted such tidbits as the copyright ran for thirty-five years, the composers got five cents for each pianoforte copy sold, fifty percent of what the publisher collected from electrical transcription, which I took to mean recording, and two cents for a local radio station performance.
    “Er,” I said. “Sorry to interrupt, but what’s a publisher to do, if anything?”
    “Advances you as little money as possible hoping you’re going to make him a million,” Annie said without looking up. She tossed another sheet of paper my way.
    “How?”
    She sighed, and started on another lengthy document. “For his advance he gets a piece of your action.”
    “How big?”
    She sighed again. “Very briefly,” she said. “Say you write a song.” She peered up at me. “Unlikely, in your case, but let’s pretend. Miraculously, it gets recorded. Equally miraculously, it gets airtime. Beyond all hope or reason, you even manage to sell a few platters. From this, you make money. A few pennies from each radio play. A few bucks from a TV play. Maybe a quarter from each record sold. Sell the rights to the movies or some soap company and you make a lot of money. Then, being a paid-up member in either ASCAP or BMI, which are nonprofit collection agencies that monitor all radio stations and TV channels and the like to make sure their members get paid every time one of their songs is played, you automatically share in some other goodies. Muzak pays a yearly fee. So do airlines. So do roller-skating rinks. So does anyone with a license to play music in a public place. Into the kitty they go. Take jukeboxes.”
    “You take them,” I said. “Unless they’re playing ‘Sophisticated Lady.’ Or maybe the Andrews Sisters.”
    “OK, forget jukeboxes,” she said, running one finger rapidly down a long list of sums. “Song books. Sheet music. Money can be made, my large friend.”
    “So I’ve just been hearing.”
    “Half of all income your masterpiece earns is yours, by law. The other half, called the Publishing, can be split up, and usually is, between you and the aforementioned publisher who has advanced you some pathetic sum. The split could be fifty/fifty, or seventy-five/ twenty-five in either side’s favor, or whatever. If, staggeringly, some megastar wants to record your masterpiece, he, she, it, or the manager thereof, will want to get his hands on as much of that publishing fifty percent as he can; and you, being I hope, no fool, will let him have it, all of it, legal or not, if necessary, because you are going to make enough anyway. Here ends the first, and last, lesson.”
    “Thank you very much, m’am,” I said humbly. “That clears that up.”
    “As for this junk,” she said, waving a dismissive hand, “all it tells me is exactly what I would have expected it to, at first glance, and I bet after a month’s glance, too. Only noticeable thing is, whenever possible, Jonesy’s given the artist the break; he must be nuts.” She gathered up the papers, stacked them neatly, and tucked them back in their folder. “So if you’re looking for evidence to have Jonesy up for grand larceny in this bunch, forget it.”
    “Exactly what your dear hubby said,” I said. “So you don’t think getting some hotshot CPA to look them over would help?”
    “Darling, I am a hotshot CPA,” Annie said sweetly. “Among other things, like a deadly poker player, a devoted housewife and mother of two, and a part-time breeder of pedigree huskies.”
    “No kidding?” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ve got a dog, a beauty; I think he’s part husky.”
    “What part?” Annie asked, pouring herself out some more vitamins. “His voice,” I said. And with that, I gathered up my belongings, thanked Annie, and took my leave.

Chapter Four

    There’ll be a beautiful, bored, blond gringa who’s lookin’ for a change of pace,
    And she’ll say, “Vamos, amigos!” and they’ll all drive away.

    J ust like king and I did; him standing up with his chin on my shoulder, me figuring I’d got pretty much what I’d expected out of the