Chapter Nineteen
Bob
Sunday
In all the years Bob knew Dylan, he’d never asked for a real favor, so Bob was going to do something he’d normally rather get a root canal than do—hang out at a hipster café. But, if you wanted to find someone singing for their supper who’d be desperate enough for gigs to perform on Christmas, you had to hit the little bistros and coffee houses that hired live background music, usually some youngster with an acoustic guitar.
Didn’t have to go alone, though.
“Linc. It’s Bob. Busy?”
“Uh, not at the moment…”
“Good. You’re coming out with me.”
“Uh, why?” Lincoln sounded wary.
“Scouting talent. Pick you up in fifteen.” Bob ended the call and grabbed his keys.
Feminine laughter carried across their Mid-Century Modern living room. “You’re not reaching him in
