October 2, 2018. Mr. Collier, do you know of any reason why Sam would have your name, address and phone number, printed by hand on a piece of paper he carried in his wallet? His name was Sam Train. He was an ex rock singer, sometimes film producer and full-time party-going bachelor playboy. And right now, in Room 120 of a cheap motel off a southern California highway, he was dead at sixty-three. In the 1980's they belonged to a southern California band called Wild Wahoonies. All but one of them came from privileged families; the bass player was an indigenous fisherman from New South Wales. They wrote one hit song and had three groupie girls dancing onstage, one who sang backup with the band. By the time they were finding their audience, a disastrous unforeseen event broke up the band. Through the years they stayed close, one moved to Seattle, one drifted in and out of the lives of the others, most lived and played in Malibu. Over decades of joy and turbulence, shared or concealed, none of them completely broke free of the others. October 3, 2018. Sam Train? Never! I don't believe it, Lyle. Do you? Does Phyllis? After all that drama with Elvie and everything, and Sam's the one who does himself in? How did Sam die? He was found shot in the head inside a locked motel room. We're waiting for the coroner's report. October 19, 2018. Phyllis Train was burying a son today. Of her surroundings and companions, only the California sun chose not to care. October 4, 2018. Meeting those beautiful leonine eyes with his, he told her. She put both hands around her glass and looked down into her drink. Why? she asked. There it was. The unanswerable question.