Millions for a Song by André Vanasse Page B

details: where you went, who you met up with, people you mentioned your songs to, anyone you might have shown them to, including your own parents. We have to go over everything with a fine tooth comb.”
    For the next three hours, we wear ourselves out raking through our memories. We remember everything: from the most beautiful to the most insignificant. It’s surprising to see how, as a group, we’re able to piece together our past. We laugh at times, just about cry at others. But the end results are far from spectacular.
    Going by the expression on Mr. Biron’s face, I think the only lifeline out of this mess is that one small boy … the boy no one remembers! Let’s hope we manage to find him, otherwise … good-bye, fame and fortune.

A Cry in the Night
    five
    I feel like smashing everything to bits, knowing we still haven’t got our hands on that little brat with the recorder! The most maddening part is that almost everyone who was there remembers seeing him, but no one can say who he is! He’s a mystery, a ghost, an alien!
    It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Tom Paradis must have bribed the kid. As soon as our show was through, the brat probably hurried out to hand over the recorder.
    How can we prove the songs belong to us if we can’t find him? Without his testimony, we’re done for. It’ll be impossible to catch Tom Paradis out or turn the heat up enough to get him to confess. But oh, how I’d love to be the one controlling the flame!
    For three days now, I’ve refused to see anyone. My mom’s worried, but I can’t bring myself to tell her that our inexperience has cost us everything, including our claim to all our songs.
    Tom Paradis certainly played us. He siphoned everything he could off us. Squeezed every last drop from our imagination. We were his little robots. Doing all his work for him. We produced songs that he then turned around and sold in Europe. He used us. Now that he’s got everything he wants from us, we’re history. No more contracts. No more shows.
    Seeing as it looks like we’ll never get our hands on the little brat who recorded our songs, we’ve lost all interest in making music. How can we play the very songs that were stolen from us? We’ve lost our voice and, with it, a part of our lives ...
    The days go by and the bad news keeps trickling in. Mr. Biron went to Ottawa to the Department of Consumer and Corporate Affairs, and his theory proved to be correct.
    Tom Paradis has, in fact, registered all our songs under his name. He’s done the same with dozens of other songs, too, so we’re not the only ones he’s ripped off. Not that that matters. Did anyone else have a song covered by U2 ?
    What hurts most is hearing “Live in the Dark” non-stop on radio and TV . It’s enough to make me sick. The song’s a big hit in Canada and the States.
    It’s practically a given that “Live in the Dark” will end up spanning continents. The song will travel from Japan to Australia, from France to Italy, from Holland to Hungary. A world tour at our expense, dammit! We’d have made a fortune, according to Mr. Biron.
    Needless to say, he’s gone over everything with a fine tooth comb. He wants another meeting with us. He’s offered to negotiate rights for us from here on in. For a ten per cent commission on our earnings.
    He knows he’s sitting on a gold mine, if only he can unmask Tom Paradis. Between you and me, he really seems to relish the thought. He’s giving it all he’s got. He’s even had Tom Paradis followed. He’s had pictures taken of his two kids. All for nothing. Étienne and Nicolas, ten and eleven, don’t match the description of the boy who showed up for our basement show.
    Mr. Biron is exceedingly frustrated. He was sure Tom Paradis used his own kids to do his dirty work. He was wrong, and he’s taking it hard. He says Tom