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Informationen zum Autor Yolanda Joe is the bestselling author of several novels including My Fine Lady, The Hatwearer's Lesson, and Hit Time. A former television and radio producer, she is the author of two mysteries under the pen name Ardella Garland. A graduate of Yale University and the Columbia University School of Journalism, she lives in Chicago. She teaches writing at the City Colleges of Chicago. Klappentext Georgia Barnett's live broadcast during an outdoor charity event isn't the only thing making news. Her report is interrupted by a grim discovery: floating in Lake Michigan is the body of Fab Weaver, head of Hit Time Records, one of the most renowned and cutthroat companies on Chicago's Record Row. When suspicion falls on Jimmy Flamingo, a close family friend and down-on-his-luck blues guitarist, Georgia and her twin sister Peaches, nightclub owner and blues singer extraordinaire, quickly get on the case.While hunting for evidence that will clear Jimmy, Georgia, Peaches, and Georgia's handsome love interest, Detective Doug Eckart, uncover a history of incredible artistry and devastating exploitation in the Chicago music business. Their investigation transports them into a bygone era, when Chicago was the hub of the African-American music scene and Record Row was even more prominent than Motown, giving the world such legends as Etta James and Curtis Mayfield. But while their songs ruled the airwaves and sold millions, many R&B artists of that era -- including Flamingo -- never made millions. As Georgia continues her search for the truth, the legacy of this inequity becomes shockingly apparent.Clever, fast-paced, and endlessly absorbing, Hit Time is a roller-coaster ride of a mystery and an eye-opening look at a controversial slice of America's musical past. Chapter One Like a fish out of water, I watched this dead body sag in the hands of those who hauled it out of Lake Michigan. The deceased had on black pants, a red-and-black-checkered jacket with big flap pockets. In those pockets were bricks soaked clean from being in the water. Had this man figured that he could weigh himself down with a few bricks, hoping that their weight and the weight of his desire for death would be enough to sink him? If the dude was going for suicide, he rang the bell and won the prize. If a killer was trying to hide the deed, the mark was badly missed. This body had found its way near shore. The who and the how of it was a puzzle for cops and journalists to figure out. I was struck by the man's hands: green, next to frigid blue, next to bruised red. Without question I was eyeballing the combination quilt work of death and water. The damage those two bad boys can do together on the human flesh is more than a notion. And this stiff wasn't a young cat either; he had gray hair, cut close, and brown age spots speckled his thick neck and sloping chin. His white skin was stained a sickly yellow. The skin, that's the first thing that takes a major hit when you die. The skin. Gives up the ghost like it ain't nothing. Turning flat. Stiff. Hardly showing signs that there was ever any life at all. My favorite cameraman, Zeke Rouster, was standing behind me getting a pan shot from the victim's head to his toes. Zeke then did a squat and grunted so loud I almost laughed. His jelly stomach went from three months pregnant to six; a sistah wouldah cracked on him if the situation wasn't so doggone grave. One of the detectives rolled the victim on his side and water sloshed out of his ear. Zeke was a film fiend, panning and zooming, catching close-ups and cutaway shots of the club members still huddled together in awe of the tragedy playing out before them. "It's not pretty is it, Zeke?" "Never is, Georgia," he said, flipping on the camera's overhead light. Zeke grunted again as he stood up, then took a swing at a stubborn section of w...
