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popular—niche concept. She was a struggling writer, and he underpaid her for helping with the scripts. They shared the same middle class upbringing, had similar politics, and fit together in a quirky sort of way, like Sonny and Cher or Bert and Ernie. She could never quite find the right simile for their marriage, and maybe that was the problem.
    Whatever the attraction, the partnership worked. Until they had children. That Mark Kornacky would be such a spectacular failure as a parent never occurred to her. That it would take child number three for her to begin to notice was her own spectacular failure. By the time baby number four was born, Andy knew it was time to stop. Sadly for everyone concerned, it would take another seven years of his drinking, cheating, and self-indulgent spending for her to take the kids and get out. After that, her ex-husband was rarely seen in the vicinity of his offspring, and they began referring to him as their ‘ex-father.’
    “I do feel bad,” Andy finally confessed to the corn-fed minister-in-waiting.
    “And your kids must feel bad, too, right?” Harley suggested.
    “I’m sure they do. But their dad was more of a myth than an actual presence, so it’s always been hard to know how to feel about him.”
    Harley nodded, seeming a little less clueless than he usually looked. “Well, maybe they’ll get a better feel for that when they see his will,” he said.
    “Huh?” Andy grunted, dimly.
    “You know, his last will and testament. Often absent parents make up for their emotional negligence through their estate.”
    Emotional negligence? Where on earth did a mind like Harley Davidson’s have to go to find that many syllables? She was tempted to ask to meet his ventriloquist but was afraid he wouldn’t get the joke—and then was terrified he might.
    “Aunt Andy?” he prompted.
    “I’m thinking,” she finally said.
    “About what?”
    “About why nobody thought to mention a will, especially Tilda.”
    “ I thought to mention it,” Harley pointed out.
    “Yes, that’s the other thing I’m thinking,” she said, standing up and pulling the keys out of her purse. “Harley, I don’t get you. I don’t get you at all.”

Chapter 3
    Elvis Impersonators
    Located on the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Western Avenue, the Wiltern Theater passes for what is an historic building in the City of Angels. That is, it was built in the 1930s. Originally home to vaudeville acts, the Art Deco structure is named for what was once the busiest intersection in the world, just the kind of thing Angelinos would find it necessary to brag about. It seats nearly 2000 people, and Harley Davidson had never seen or imagined anything like it.
    “Whoa,” he murmured, prayer-like, as Andy, Mitch, and his girlfriend, Melissa—the family called her ‘The Impresario’—all took their seats. “I guess Ian’s pretty famous. I mean, if he plays here.”
    “The band’s pretty famous,” Andy told him. “Ian is just one of the musicians and back-up singers.”
    “You know it’s a girl band,” added The Impresario, who was dressed in elegant black spiderweb tights, a leather skirt, and cowboy boots. Harley knew cowboy boots, and he’d never seen a pair like hers in Omaha. “The critics are calling them the pioneers of a new genre.”
    “What’s a genre?’ Harley asked.
    “A style. Or category,” said Andy.
    Harley gnawed on this for a moment. “Oh. You mean the ‘Girls with Grits’ style?”
    “No, that’s the name of the band,” The Impresario corrected. “Their record label calls their style Country Candy .”
    “Oh,” repeated Harley, very slowly. “I get it.”
    Mitch looked at his junior cousin and smirked. “No, you don’t, Harley.”
    Harley looked back at the older man quizzically and opened his creamy blue eyes so they were fully visible. “Yes, I do. It’s country music, only it’s sweet, right?” Harley observed.
    “Exactly,” pronounced The Impresario. “Pay