by David Haynes
He touched the top of the Seeburg again, felt years of grease, grime and other body fluids under his fingernails. Psycho Slater’s Pit was the type of the place where bodily fluids formed the major part of the internal decoration. The color, viscosity and even blood group were unimportant, as long as they left a covering of some sort, that was all that mattered.
He pulled a dirty rag from the table and wiped the cracked, glazed screen. The word ‘STEREOPHONIC’ shone through clearly in black letters. Below that, the cards announced the 45s just waiting to be played. The print was faded and unreadable but there were eighty records inside and that allowed for one hundred and sixty selections. He could see the dark circular outline of a record on the deck and beneath that were the rest of the 45s. At the bottom of the unit, two large panels labeled ‘Channel 1’ and ‘Channel 2’ announced that this was not just any ordinary jukebox; this could play Bobbie Darin in stereo.
The Seeburg had about as much chrome on it as a 1957 Chevy and once the pits and damage were cleaned out of it, the box would hum just as sweetly. He couldn’t wait to hand it over.
He pulled his notebook, or bible as John Donovan referred to it, from his back pocket and thumbed to the right page. He had thirty or forty of these little books filed away in the safe in his bedroom. They held information, research, notes and locations about each of his finds, going all the way back over the last twenty-five years.
Donovan had checked it, then checked it again and then Wilson had checked it himself in Slater’s Pit, but it was the most important part of the jukebox: the serial number plate on the back. He read the numbers and then double-checked them in his book. It was a match. He had the right one.
*
Four days later the jukebox was gone, flying first class all the way to San Diego to be reunited with the man whose job it had been to tap out the serial number and screw it to the back. Serial number 481253, production number fourteen. He had wanted the jukebox that carried that number and that number alone. That was in 1959, when Frankie Avalon and ‘Venus’ were conquering the world. Wilson had made sure a copy of the 45 was on the turntable.
He poured some coffee and looked out onto the garden. New England in the fall was a beautiful sight but once it was over, which it soon would be, it was like someone had turned out the lights. And that was exactly how he felt at that moment. Dull. Finding the jukebox had been a challenge, a welcome distraction, but now it was over there was a void. And if it wasn’t filled with work, something else might crawl in there. Something that had a cork, or a screw-top; something that liked to leave a nasty headache and an even wider void behind.
“Any more in that pot?”
He turned, jumping a little, and watched Donovan walk across the kitchen yawning and scratching his crotch. He was wearing just a pair of shorts.
“Jesus, John!”
“Sorry, man, didn’t mean to scare you.” Donovan took a cup from the cupboard and helped himself to coffee. “Some party,” he added and sipped his drink.
“Christ, put some clothes on, would you?” Wilson shook his head. It was not uncommon for Donovan to spend the night if they had been working late, but coming into the kitchen half-naked was a new one.
“Morning!” A girl Wilson recognized as a relative walked into the kitchen, took a cup and helped herself to coffee. She was wearing Donovan’s shirt. It came down to mid-thigh. She smiled at Wilson.
“Morning,” he muttered and then resisted the urge to yell at Donovan.
“Great party, Uncle Frank,” she said and then walked back out of the kitchen.
Donovan was wincing when Wilson looked at him.
“Sorry?” Donovan said.
“She’s... she’s my niece, damn it. What the hell? And for God’s sake, John, how old is she?”
Donovan held his finger in the air. “Oh now come on, shouldn’t you know how old your relatives are? What about her birthday?”
“You ass,” Wilson replied.
“Now strictly speaking, she’s not really your niece. She’s... well I’m not exactly sure what she is. She’s one of your cousin’s cousins. What does that make her?” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“A relative? One of my family? Pick one. She can’t be more than...” Wilson said.
“She’s twenty-five,” Donovan interrupted.
Wilson wanted to yell something but he couldn’t think of anything. “What am I going to tell her dad?”
Donovan put his cup down. “Do you even know who her dad is, Frank? Don’t sweat it, we didn’t do anything anyway.” He paused and then winced again as if a thread of recollection had just returned. “Well, that’s not exactly true. I mean...”
Wilson held his hand out, palm up. “I don’t want to know.” He put his cup in the dishwasher. “I do not want to know.”
Donovan poured himself another coffee and then started to sit at the kitchen table.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Donovan looked up with a shocked expression. “I’m going to tell you about the job I mentioned yesterday.”
“Not with your balls hanging out, you’re not. Get some clothes on first.”
Donovan winked. “Too much man for you, boss?” He stood up.
“Get out,” Wilson hissed, and then just before Donovan left the room added “Give her some breakfast and take her home, please.”
“Your niece, you mean?”
Wilson grabbed a towel and threw it at him. Donovan was already gone.
*
An hour later Donovan walked in as if the house were his own. In some respects he treated it more like a home than Wilson did. He left his crap everywhere and expected someone else to clean up after him. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed two sodas.
“She got home safely?” Wilson asked, looking over the top of his newspaper like his dad used to.
Donovan popped the cap on a bottle and pushed it over the table to Wilson. He twisted the other and took a long drink.
“Sure she did. Contrary to what you might think, I’m a gentleman where matters of love are concerned.”
Wilson tutted and lowered his eyes. “Bullshit.” But he knew Donovan was actually speaking the truth. He knew him and his folks well enough to know how he’d been raised and it wasn’t to show disrespect to anyone. They had to earn respect if they wanted it, but common courtesy came free of charge with Donovan. Usually.
Donovan laughed. “What’s next then, boss? We still looking for that Croce’s Soda sign for Mr Wilmot? I’ve got a couple of leads on it.”
Wilson put the paper down. “I thought you had something?”
Donovan stood up. “Can I smell bacon?”
Wilson nodded toward the stove. “In the pan.”
Donovan was across the kitchen in a flash, reaching into the griddle with his hands. He stuffed three rashers into his mouth and wiped his chin.
“Oh yeah, right, I don’t know about it now. It was all a bit vague and second-hand. Could be something, could be nothing.” He checked his watch. “He’ll be here in a minute anyway.”
“Who will?” said Wilson.
Donovan grabbed another rasher and stuffed it into his mouth. “The guy.”
“What guy? What are you talking about?”
“The guy with the job.”
Wilson stood up. “Jesus, John. What’s the matter with you?”
Donovan licked his lips and then rubbed his hands down his jeans. “Hey, don’t get your knickers in a twist. Just some guy that contacted us on the website, asked a few...”
“What website?”
“Our website. The one I set up last year.”
Wilson nodded. He vaguely recalled Donovan mentioning it but he had never seen it for himself. “Oh.”
“You’ve never even looked at it, have you?” Donovan walked over. “Do you even know how to use the computer?”
“Jerk,” was all Wilson could think of to say. He knew how to use the computer just fine. He’d just forgotten about t
he website.
Donovan sat down opposite, picking bacon from between his teeth. After a few silent moments, Wilson gave in. “So, what does this guy want us for?”
“No idea,” replied Donovan. “He never said.”
“Oh for God’s sake. Are you still drunk? It’s like getting trying to get blood from a stone. What did he say then?”
“Just asked what our...” Donovan leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. “How did he phrase it? He asked what our latitude was.”
“Latitude? I assumed he didn’t mean geographically.”
“No, but I told him that anyway. He wanted to know how diverse a find we would be willing to consider.” Donovan stopped and shrugged. “Told you it was vague.” He raised his eyebrows.
“Vague doesn’t come close, does it?”
Donovan stood up. “Got us both interested though, hasn’t it?”
Wilson nodded. “What time are we expecting him?”
Donovan checked his watch again. “Now.”
Wilson took his cup and plate to the sink and dropped them in. Donovan was right, it could be something but could just as easily be nothing. Time would tell, but the lack of detail was intriguing.
“He’s here,” shouted Donovan from the hallway. “And he’s driving an E-Class Merc.”
Wilson rinsed his hands, dried them on a clean towel and walked into the hallway. He stood beside Donovan and looked out onto the front yard. “Some money there,” he said.
A second later, a man climbed out of the black car. He straightened and looked up at the house. He was dressed in a dark suit, with shiny black shoes. His hair was a dark, steel gray. The car suited him. Or he suited it. An attorney maybe? An executive or someone in finance, they were the careers that Wilson picked out as the visitor walked up the steps to the house.
Before he could knock, Donovan pulled the door open. “Mr Pace?”
That was something Wilson could have done with knowing beforehand.
Pace offered his hand to Donovan first. “Mr Wilson?”
Donovan released his hand and shook his head. “No, this is Frank Wilson. The boss. I’m his associate, John Donovan.”
Associate? thought Wilson, taking Pace’s hand. He didn’t think he had ever heard Donovan call himself that before.
The gray hair had made Pace look older from a distance, but close up Wilson could see he was in the same age bracket as himself. Only he looked better on it. A faint smell of aftershave drifted off him. Something expensive.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr Wilson. My name is Richard Pace, I spoke with your associate on the telephone and I’m afraid I was a little oblique.”
He pumped Wilson’s hand. His grip was firm but not aggressive; a man well-practiced in making introductions.
“Nice car,” said Donovan.
Pace smiled. “Thank you.”
There was no false modesty, no self-satisfied grin, just the simplest form of gratitude. There was not only money here, there was dignity. Class.
“Would you like coffee?” Wilson motioned Pace into the living room.
“No, thank you. I’m trying to cut down.”
Pace walked confidently into the room, glancing left and right, and stood beside an armchair. Wilson couldn’t remember the last time anyone had used it. He waited beside it until Wilson realized the man was waiting for an invitation to sit.
“Please,” Wilson said.
He took the sofa, Donovan sitting next to him. “So what can we do for you, Mr Pace? As you said, you were a little unclear about what it was you needed.” He glanced at Donovan. “Vague, I think was the term my associate used.”
“As good a word as any,” said Pace. “Deliberately so.” He crossed his legs. Even his socks looked immaculate. Wilson was conscious, but not embarrassed, that both he and Donovan were in t-shirts and jeans. His own t-shirt had the cover of Blondie’s ‘Parallel Lines’ album on it. He didn’t know for sure what Donovan was wearing but if form was true, it would be inappropriate and possibly crude.
Pace paused for a few seconds, as if considering whether he should say another word. It was uncomfortable.
“It’s a strange request I have and when you hear it you’ll understand why I was deliberately vague. You may ask me to leave. I sincerely hope you don’t, but I hope you will at least hear me out.”
“Mr Pace,” started Wilson. “We’ve had requests that might surprise you. From the bizarre to the dangerous to the outright illegal, we’ve heard it all. I’m pretty sure that whatever it is you’d like us to find, we can give it a good shot.”
As his reputation had grown over the years, so had the variety of requests made of him. It had been a long time since he heard anything new and he felt a strange excitement brewing in his belly.
Pace simply sat there looking at them both, allowing the silence to stretch. It felt extremely uncomfortable. When Donovan finally spoke it was a relief. Until he heard the content of his comment.
“Frank’s right. We’ve had all sorts of crazies.” He nudged Wilson’s arm. “Remember that guy who hired us to find a magazine?” Donovan leaned forward, as if he were about to divulge a national secret. “A special interest magazine, if you get my drift? His ex-wife had appeared in it back in the Seventies. Really gross stuff. Man, I don’t think...”
Wilson nudged him back. “What my colleague is trying to say, Mr Pace, is that you just need to tell us what it is you’d like us to look for and we’ll take care of the rest.”
“There’s nothing we can’t find,” Donovan chipped in.
Pace nodded and straightened his tie. “Have you ever failed?”
The magazine job Donovan mentioned hadn’t been a failure. He’d found it, alright. It was everything after the finding that turned bad. The worst kind of bad.
“Never,” Wilson answered.
“Never? That’s a bold claim.”
“True, though.” said Donovan.
The trace of a smile tickled the deep lines at the corners of Pace’s mouth. He took a deep breath, straightened his tie again and let the air out of his lungs.
“I want you to find a soul.” His shoulders dropped as if he had been steeling himself for the effort of speaking the words.
Wilson glanced at Donovan. His mouth had dropped open, he appeared to be waiting for a punchline – something funny.
“Excuse me?” Wilson said, leaning forward. Had he misheard?
Pace bit his bottom lip, a momentary lessening of his cool demeanor. He put his hands together like a child about to pray. The position showed the absence of a wedding ring.
“I would like you to find my mother’s soul,” he said and then uncrossed his legs and leaned forward like Donovan.
“Someone has taken it from her. Someone has stolen it.”
3
It was Wilson’s turn to wait for a punchline now. This had all the markings of one of Donovan’s stupid pranks. Like the time he paid for a stripper to come and pretend she needed Wilson to help look for her virginity.
He turned and looked at his friend, expecting to see that big silly grin of his. Instead, Donovan’s face was a crumpled and confused frown. He looked back at Pace, still waiting for someone to play ba-dum tshh on the drum and cymbals. It didn’t come.
“Mr Pace, I’m not sure we’re... I’m not sure we can help you.” It crossed his mind that Pace might actually be ill. He needed to tread carefully. “We find objects, items that are rare and possibly unique, we’re not...”
“Mediums? Psychics? I know what you are, Mr Wilson, what you both are. Paying money to people who pretend to be something they’re not has been an expensive and depressing lesson.” He paused, swallowed hard and then continued.
“What can possibly be more unique than a soul? I’ve looked on your website, I’ve checked your references. I don’t believe you’re the type of men who thrive on finding books, war paraphernalia, antique chairs or even vintage pornography. You want a challenge. You want to be stimulated, provok
ed by the story of what it is you’re searching for.”
Wilson scratched his cheek, felt a spiky line of bristles under his fingers. Pace was right about what got him out of bed in the morning. If it weren’t for the whole soul thing, it might be possible to believe the man was a good judge of character. And sane.
“When you say ‘soul’,” Donovan started, coming out of his trance, “you’re not being ambiguous, vague or oblique are you? You actually mean the thing that’s supposedly inside us all?” He spoke slowly, as if he were gathering his thoughts.
Pace nodded. “What makes us unique, our essence.”
Donovan nodded as if he understood not only the answer but Pace’s request.
“I’m not here for a metaphysical or theological discussion, gentlemen, and I am most certainly not recently escaped from an institution, which is what your expressions suggest. What I am is determined. I’m unwilling to listen to doctors who know nothing. My mother has lost something and I would like you to find it.”
He made it sound so simple, so plausible. To Pace it was a request as straightforward and effortless as ordering coffee.
“But, Mr Pace, it really isn’t that simple,” said Donovan, shaking his head. “This isn’t...”
“Locked-in Syndrome. You know about that don’t you, Mr Wilson?”
There it was. There was the sting in the tail.
Wilson stood up. “What? What did you say?”
“Your mother suffered it, didn’t she? Only then, they didn’t know what it was. They said she was a vegetable, they said there was no hope and that the kindest thing to do was to turn off the ventilator.”
