Keen kept his gun trained on the smoking jacketed man, as he swirled a glass of brandy.
“They say rich men can buy anything they want, but it’s never enough, unless they are depriving someone else. If everyone has the latest gadget, it doesn’t matter how expensive it is. What matters to the rich man, is that he’s the only one to possess something. Then it is priceless.”
“Thanks for the philosophy lesson” said Keen. “Where is it?”
“You didn’t find it backstage then?” smiled the man.
“Just electronic gizmos” admitted Keen. “Your singer is good, and the electronics make her better. But she doesn’t have the Voice.”
“Of course not!” said the man, sipping from the glass. “She is a voice for the masses. Trading syllables for dollars.”
“Then where is it?”
“My love? Come here please.”
A moment later, a young man entered the room. He was elegantly dressed, and he went over to the older gentleman.
Keen tensed.
“This man here,” he pointed at Keen, “wants to take your voice. Sing for him.”
Two shots rang out.