EQMM, May 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I could go along with you on Jimmy Chamberlain for drums,” Tenpenny was saying, waggling his hand back and forth, “'cause I'm a big Smashing Pumpkins fan and it gives John Bonham's name a little rest. But Flea on bass? Clashing styles, man. I mean, I give Flea his props—” he extended both hands and bowed toward the board—"and I love me some Chili Peppers, but with Chamberlain I'd have to go with Les Claypool..."

  He glanced in my direction, then started to turn back. But something made him do a double take. It might have been the grin installed on my face, wide as a Honda's front grille, or maybe it was the feverish glint in my eye.

  "What's up? You bag a find?” he said.

  "You tell me,” I said, still unable to get the grin under control. I held the record out by its edges.

  Tenpenny stared and Bliss actually gasped.

  "Deleted tracks?” Tenpenny asked, his voice cracking.

  "Don't know,” I said. “Gotta go play it to find out."

  I moved to the front bay window where we have a turntable setup and the whole group fell into step behind me. Suddenly I had an entourage.

  Everyone was murmuring as I settled the needle ever so gently into the groove. The intro to one of the deleted tracks, “Rocks and Gravel,” started in and the group fell into a stunned silence.

  "Un-friggin'-believable,” Tenpenny whispered. It was funk-band day and he had a Kangol hat snugged down backwards on his head. He snatched it off and held it over his heart.

  * * * *

  Two days later, my find was a hot topic on the Internet loop and everyone who came in wanted to touch my hand so my luck would rub off on them. I'd had an offer of three thousand for the album on the first day and it was up to thirty-five hundred today. I was prepared to hold out for more.

  I was working in the tiny office I've carved out in the back of the store as Black Sabbath played through the store's system. It was D.J.'s turn to pick the music and we were having a metal morning. I'm not normally a huge metal fan, but I was doing a little refined head-banging as I worked. I thought nothing could spoil my mood—until I looked up to see Hank and Alma in the store.

  D. J. spoke to them briefly, then came and stuck his head in my doorway. My brain was whirring, trying to think of what they could be doing here—and dreading the answer. Still, I tried to convince myself maybe they'd happened to choose my shop at random to try to sell the rest of Hank's records.

  "Some folks out here want to see you,” D. J. said, tapping his fingers against the doorframe.

  "Me?” I asked. “They asked specifically for me?"

  "Yeah,” D. J. said, frowning.

  I squinted through a slit in the blinds. Hank was wearing a cast on his arm he hadn't had at the garage sale and his face was bruised and scraped along one of his jaws. Alma had a blustery look on her face that was enough to give me a facial tic.

  "Okay, when you say they asked for me, do you mean they asked for the owner?” I asked.

  "No, I mean they asked for you, Session Seabolt,” D. J. answered, cocking his head to one side. “What's going on? You want me to get rid of them?"

  "No, I'll talk to them,” I said, wondering how they'd found me. I'd paid cash for the records and I hadn't told them my name or that I owned a record store. I came out from behind my desk and mentally prepared for battle as I walked toward them. It was probably as I'd first feared. Miss Thang had discovered the value of the Freewheelin' record and wanted to fight over it. Well, let her give it her best shot.

  "Hello,” I said pleasantly. “May I help you with something?"

  "You were at our garage sale Saturday,” Alma said, her voice accusing.

  "Yes, I believe I was,” I allowed.

  "You bought something from us that wasn't supposed to be sold and we want it back,” she said, narrowing her eyes at me.

  "Well,” I said, and gave a fake regretful sigh, “if you'll remember your sign—” I stretched out the words, turning to swipe at the wall behind me as she'd done the day of the sale—"NO CHECKS, NO HAGGLING, NO RETURNS, ALL SALES FINAL. Your rule, not mine."

  "What my wife is trying to say,” Hank began, a pained expression on his face, “is we made a mistake. We sold you something that wasn't ours to sell. See, we've been storing some things for Alma's nephew and it had been so long—well, we just figured he was never coming back for the stuff, but the thing is, he did."

  "I'm sorry,” I said, puzzled about how the records he'd waxed all nostalgic about all of a sudden got to belong to someone else. Kind of like Alma's mama's bowl, I thought wryly. “But, again, not my problem,” I said, turning up both palms. I turned to go, but Alma reached out and grabbed my arm, yanking me back a step. For a skinny woman she was surprisingly strong.

  I looked down at the arm she was clutching and said through clenched teeth, “D.J., call Officer Medlin and let him know we've got a problem. He's usually just a couple of doors down at the Thai place having his lunch right about now."

  "No, don't,” Hank said, waving his good hand as if erasing the request. “There's no problem.” He put the hand on Alma's shoulder and squeezed.

  She practically threw my own arm at me and turned to walk away. “This ain't over, missy,” she said, jabbing a bony finger at me before she slammed out the door.

  "She's upset, is all,” Hank said. “Her nephew is in a big ol’ uproar about this."

  I frowned. “He didn't do that to you, did he?” I asked, pointing to the cast. “This?” Hank asked, lifting the sling in my direction. “Oh no, ‘course not. I fell off the ladder,” he said. But he didn't meet my eyes. “Thing is, I'd be willing to pay you twice what you paid if we can just buy it back."

  "Two whole dollars?” I exclaimed, huffing a laugh. “I think we both know that's not going to happen."

  "Two dollars?” Hank said, looking at me with a frown. “No, seventy. You paid ten for each of the speakers and fifteen for the receiver, right? That's all I need back, the turntable was mine, but I'll buy that back too if you want. Whatever it takes.” He glanced anxiously toward the door as if Alma might come storming back in.

  Now it was my turn to look confused. “It's the stereo you want back?” I asked, trying to stifle a nervous laugh.

  "Yes,” Hank answered, tilting his head to one side and squinting at me. “What did you think we were after?"

  "Could have been that chipped soap dish, for all I knew,” I said, nearly giddy with relief.

  "Well, no. Darnell's crazy, but he's not that crazy,” Hank said. “But he's dead set on getting his stereo back.” Hank's hand went to his jaw to probe the bruise. “All this is my fault. I should have realized he'd come looking for his things when he got out. I shouldn't have let Alma put the thing out for the garage sale, but she insisted."

  "When he got out of where? The military?” I asked, hope riding on each word.

  "The pen,” Hank said, then squeezed his lips hard together and gave his head a little shake. “Eight to ten, possession with intent to distribute—and assaulting the arresting officer. That boy's got a temper, been trouble every day of his sorry life. He's the black sheep of the family.” Hank gave me a rueful smile. “And with that family,” he said, jerking his head toward the door, “that's saying something."

  "Look,” I said, “I'd sell it back to you, but I don't have it. I gave it away. And hey, how did you get my name, and how did you know where I—work?” I asked, trying to keep from glancing up the stairs toward my apartment.

  He shrugged. “Used to work for the DMV. I remember license plates—occupational hazard, I guess. Noticed yours when I was putting the stuff in your vehicle."

  I wanted to tell him I've got a memory quirk too—a weird imprint trigger where a song playing will make me remember scenes of my life with disturbing clarity—sometimes more real in memory than they seemed as they were actually happening to me. But I resisted the impulse.

  "The thing is, I really need to get that stereo back,” Hank went on, his hand again going to his bruised jaw. �
�Could you tell me who it was you gave it to? Maybe they'll sell it back to me?"

  We'd fired up that stereo the night I brought it home and after two minutes everybody was making a face like a bad smell had come into the room and begging me to yank the plug. The sound was flat. The bass was anemic and the treble sounded like Yoko with a head cold.

  But Bliss had liked the old speaker cabinets and thought maybe she could get her sometime boyfriend Terrance to put some new speakers in. He was still in the probationary period as a boyfriend and he was always looking for ways to make points with her. So she'd taken the old amp and speakers and I'd kept the turntable.

  But I wasn't about to tell Hank that. Not with the recently released Darnell out there all ticked off and wanting it back. “Let's do it this way,” I told him. “I'll get up with them and ask if they're interested in selling it back to you. Best I can do."

  "Sure, ‘course,” Hank said, tapping his good hand on the countertop. “Listen, tell ‘em I'll give ‘em two hundred for it, okay?"

  "Two hundred?” I blurted.

  Hank held up a hand. “I know. It's not worth it. Probably not worth what you paid for it. It's junk. Thing is, with Darnell, what's his is his, and this is his junk."

  I took Hank's phone number and told him I'd be in touch. He thanked me and headed out, leaving me with one last beseeching look.

  "When is Bliss coming in?” I asked D.J., who was standing slack-jawed beside the counter. He stared at me blankly for a moment.

  "Not till tomorrow,” he said finally. “She's got finals coming up and she's studying. Wasn't very happy about it, though, said she needed the hours."

  "That's okay,” I said. “I think she just made herself a quick two hundred dollars."

  * * * *

  I was diligent about locking up that night, though I was painfully aware of how inadequate my locks were. The back door didn't even have a deadbolt. It gave me the willies. Despite what Hank said about how he got his injuries, I put it on Darnell.

  Daddy and his bandmates were off playing the Oldies Circuit, so they were no help. And in a stroke of bad timing, Dave was off on one of his rambles. He has a habit of disappearing occasionally. He'll be gone a few days, then just show up again without a word about where he's been. I don't know why I put up with it, but that's just Dave, and I must think he's worth it.

  Even after I fell asleep, some part of me stayed vigilant, and at a few minutes after two A.M. my eyes popped open. My heart had gotten a head start and was already beating a “Wipe Out” drum solo in my chest. There were muffled scuffling noises downstairs.

  I reached for the phone, cursing myself for putting off installing an alarm system. I dialed 911 and whispered to the dispatcher that I had a break-in. She said a car was on the way and told me to stay put.

  Great advice. But then a thought occurred to me. The Freewheelin' album was down there. What if this wasn't about Darnell and his stereo? What if it was about the record? Everyone around knew I had it. It had been blabbed all over town. I knew, because I myself had done a good deal of the blabbing. What was the point of having bragging rights if you didn't brag? The thought of someone trying to rip that off infuriated me.

  If I could figure out where the noise was coming from, I could slip down the stairs, dart into my office, and scurry back up with the record. Yeah, dumb, I know, but scared and furious is a bad combination. I had a fantasy of going all Rambo on whoever it was, but that's hard to pull off in pink-striped pajama bottoms and a Hansons T-shirt.

  I took my faithful Louisville slugger and crept across the floor, my bare feet avoiding the boards that squeaked. I eased open the door and listened. Nothing. I could see a few records strewn about on the floor and the anger welled in me again. I started down the stairs, stepping over one I knew groaned. I was feeling pretty good about my stealth skills when a low voice rumbling out of the darkness made my heart stop cold.

  "If I move, you're not going to try to knock me in the head with that damn bat of yours, are you, Session?"

  "Dave?” I croaked.

  "Yeah,” he said. “Hey."

  I flipped on the light switch and looked around. Aside from the records on the floor, everything looked fine. “When did you get back and what the hell are you doing? You scared me half to death. I thought somebody broke in."

  "Well, to answer your questions in order: ‘Bout an hour ago. Trying to catch ‘em. Sorry. And they did,” Dave said. “They bolted when I came up the stairs. Went out the back door. Any money in the till?"

  "No,” I said. “I went to the bank this afternoon. That's not what they were after anyway.” I hurried to my office and breathed a sigh of relief when I found the album still there.

  I told Dave about the record and about Darnell and his confounded stereo. He gave a low whistle. “You been busy,” he said, and surveyed the store. “This was pretty half-hearted. Who knows, might not have anything to do with either of those things. Might've been just kids up to mischief.” He shrugged. “Wouldn't be the first time. When the cops get here, let's not be burdening them with all this info, okay? Least not till we know what's what."

  I nodded. Though Dave had friends in the Raleigh PD, he didn't like involving them in his business unless it was necessary. I felt the same way.

  "Dave?” I said.

  "Yeah?"

  "Glad you're back,” I said as my knees went weak and I plopped down gracelessly on a stair.

  "Yeah,” he said.

  * * * *

  The next morning I was putting the displaced records back into the bins when I looked up to see a man out on the sidewalk approaching Bliss as she neared the door of the shop.

  I didn't like the looks of him. He had tattoos, which I grant you is no abnormality these days—Bliss has an impressive array of body art herself. But these looked peculiar, amateurish. And he had a paleness that I realized with sickening insight could only be described as jailhouse pallor.

  He motioned toward the store and Bliss shook her head no. He stepped closer to her, scowling, and she held up a hand and backed away quickly, heading for our door.

  I stiffened, expecting him to follow, but he stood still, staring stonily at Bliss's retreating figure. I shivered, despite the balmy May temps.

  "Was that man bothering you?” I asked as she entered.

  "Who?” Bliss asked, then turned in the direction of my nod. “Oh, that guy. No. He's sort of sketchy, but he just wanted to know if we sell used sound equipment. I told him no, but it was like he didn't believe me or something.” She shrugged.

  I didn't want to alarm Bliss, but I was now very eager to get Darnell's precious stereo back to him, having just seen him up too close and personal.

  I told Bliss the deal and she was elated at the prospect of the mini-windfall, but said she'd have to get the stereo back from Terrance, who'd already taken it to his place to work on it.

  It was midmorning before she arrived with the cursed thing in the back of her ancient Ranchero Wagon. I called Hank and he said he'd be over in a jiffy to pick it up. I never heard a man sound so relieved.

  "These speakers are heavier than they ought to be,” Dave said, as he set them down in the corner of my office.

  "Solid wood, maybe?” I ventured. “They're old."

  "Nah, still too heavy,” he said, pulling a pocketknife out of his jeans.

  "Don't mess with those,” I protested as he started to pry at the backing. “We've had enough trouble over them."

  "Got a delicate touch, they'll never know.” He manipulated the knife along the back and pulled the chipboard out at the corner, just enough to peek in. “Well-l-l, that explains it,” he said slowly.

  I groaned, fearful of what new hex was about to be visited on me.

  He moved his head back so I could see inside. The entire cabinet was stuffed with little zip bags of something white and powdery. “Holy Mother,” I said. "What have we gotten in the middle of?"

  "Smack dab in the middle of—no pun intended,” Da
ve answered.

  "What should we do? Call the cops?” I asked, my words coming fast and my brain stripping a gear as I tried to consider everything at once.

  "You think your garage-sale folks are in on this?” he asked.

  "No, not Hank.” I flinched. “God, I hope not. I really like the guy. But Alma,” I began, then tried for objectivity. “No, not her either. Not that there's anything righteous about her. But why would they have sold it to me if they'd known?"

  "Yeah, on the other hand, they're awfully keen on getting it back,” Dave said. “But let's say they're innocent as lambs. If we call the cops now, it just comes back on them,” Dave said. “How do they prove this was Darnell's? For that matter, how do we prove where you got the thing? Got a receipt?"

  "Yeah, right,” I said. “It was a garage sale, Dave."

  He nodded. “That's what I'm saying. Possession's nine-tenths of the law—good and bad."

  He stood up and stared at the floor for a moment, working his ever-present chewing gum. “Okay, here's how we're going to do this,” he said finally. “Hank will come to pick this thing up. I'll follow till he passes it off. Once Darnell gets the thing into his hands I'll call a cop buddy of mine and tip him off. That'll give Hank a chance to get clear."

  "But what if they don't get Darnell? What if he finds out we've dropped the dime on him?” I said, my voice rising. “He's a scary-lookin’ dude, Dave."

  "Where you want him?” Dave asked. “Back behind bars, or out on your street following Bliss around, maybe hopped up on what's in there?"

  "Good point,” I conceded.

  * * * *

  Hank was falling all over himself thanking me for getting the stereo back. He counted out the two hundred dollars, the cast making clumsy work of fishing the bills out of his wallet.