Written in Dead Wax (32 page)

I nodded. “If they installed some kind of microphone.”

“Man,” said Tinkler, glancing towards the bathroom, “your phone is seriously bugged.”

“But are you sure it’s the phone?” said Ree.

“No.” I could have checked it using the hardware we’d bought at the Spook Store—if I still had it. But I’d thrown it all away when I’d thought Nevada was dead. It had been just too painful to look at, so I’d simply thrown it all in the communal rubbish bin, thousands of pounds’ worth of electronics, rattling into oblivion.

Just then my email dinged. It was Alan at Jazz House getting back to me about my query. He’d checked the record and provided the two letters from the dead wax.

Ree watched over my shoulder as I took out my notebook and added the new information.

“What now?” said Tinkler.

“Now we go to the big record mart at Wembley.”

“You think you’ll find something there?”

“There will be at least two dealers who’re likely to have something for us. So we go see them tomorrow. And we go very carefully. We especially don’t mention anything about it on the contaminated phone.”

“What do we do with the contaminated phone?” said Tinkler.

Ree raised her hand. “I’ll put it somewhere safe. Until we think of a way of using it. Against them.”

“Carry the fight to the enemy. Nice.”

After dinner Ree settled down on the sofa and curled up, like a cat deciding it had found a place to sleep. “Sorry,” she yawned, “jet lag.”

* * *

The next morning I made real coffee. I’d discovered the trick for enjoying this every day. On waking you have a cup of instant to give yourself the energy to embark on the ordeal of making the real stuff. I’d just finished grinding the beans—always the most stressful part—when the doorbell rang.

I opened the door.

It was Nevada.

“Can I come in?” she said.

I couldn’t think or, for a moment, speak. I said, “Okay.”

She stepped past me. I smelled her perfume again and my heart started beating raggedly. I closed the door and turned to face her. I said, “Look—”

“Don’t say anything,” she said. “Just let me say my piece.”

“But—”

“Please.”

“But, listen—”

“No. You listen to me. Just listen.” She went into the kitchen and sat down. That had always been her favourite chair. She looked up at me. “A lot of the things you said in Japan were true. I did behave unforgivably.”

“Nevada—”

“Just listen, please. This isn’t easy. I know you should never forgive me for letting you think I was dead. But I just want to try and explain. I don’t want you to forgive me. I just want you to understand.” She looked at me. “Can you do that?”

“But, Nevada,” I said.

“Just listen. You have to try to understand what it was like. It was dark, and they were firing guns at us—remember?—and I was shit-scared, as who wouldn’t be. But I was chasing them. And they got away. They roared off into the night and I came back and found the whole place in flames. And you were gone. I thought you’d run out on me.” She looked at me. “I didn’t know you thought I was dead. It was only later that even occurred to me.” She looked down. “After I saw you in Japan, I phoned Hughie. To tell him, and to tell everyone, that I was still alive.”

She looked at me again, and there was anger in her eyes now. “And I also wanted to know why he told you I was dead. Do you know what he said? He said he saw me lying in the ditch and it just looked to him like they’d shot me and I was done for. Well, he certainly didn’t stick around to find out, did he? I was out of that ditch in about two seconds flat. But good old Hughie already had the idea firmly fixed in his mind, such as it is.”

She reached over and took my hand. “So thanks to him, you thought I was dead and I thought you’d run out on me. I was in a state of shock. I retrieved the record and the cover, what was left of them, and I walked to the station and I caught the first train back to London. All the way there I thought I was going to come back to you, to confront you, to see what had happened. But when I got to London I just kept going, to Heathrow, and there was a flight just getting ready to board. For Japan.” She gazed up into my eyes. “Everything just fell into place, as if that was the way it was meant to happen.”

“Listen,” I said, “I’ve got to tell you—”

“Not yet. Just let me finish. I flew back with the fragments of the record in my bag and I knew that the mission was over and we’d failed. And I knew that all I’d done was bring danger into your life. I’d nearly got you killed. It didn’t seem right to go back to you, because it might just put you in danger again. I didn’t want to do that.” She squeezed my hand.

“You see,” she said. “I just thought you’d be safer without me.”

She looked up as the bedroom door opened. Nevada fell silent and watched as Ree walked into the kitchen. She was wearing one of my baggy, oversized t-shirts.

As it happened, it was one that Nevada had been fond of wearing.

Ree came over and kissed me and put her arm around my shoulder.

Nevada stared at us. “I didn’t know you had company,” she said slowly.

“I tried to tell you,” I said.

“That’s right. I suppose you did.”

Ree sat down and poured herself a cup of coffee, taking her time. The air in the kitchen crackled with tension, like static electricity before a storm.

The front door opened and a familiar voice called, “Hey there, hep cats!” Footsteps approached down the hall and the same voice said, “The door was open so I just—”

Stinky came into the kitchen and froze. He looked at Nevada, then at Ree, then at me, then at Ree again. Ree looked at me and said, “Friend of yours, Chef?”

“Stinky,” I said. “This isn’t a good time.”

I walked Stinky back into the hall. He immediately began speaking in a low, urgent, confidential tone. “Listen, Chef,” he said. “Why don’t we go out some time? Bring your girls and I’ll bring mine. We can double date. Or quadruple date. Or actually quintuple date because I’ll bring three girls.”

“Stinky, please.” I urged him out the door and felt my entire body relax as he finally left and I closed the door behind him. But you almost had to admire the way he had instantly picked up on the nickname. In his need to be in with the in-crowd, Stinky was always the first with a new piece of slang or catchphrase.

I went back into the kitchen. “You managed to get rid of him?” said Nevada.

“Stinky had to hurry off to phone an escort service.”

Ree drained her coffee and stood up. “You guys can finish your talk. I’ll get dressed and go out and have a cigarette.”

“You smoke?” said Nevada.

“Yeah.”

“And your face is so beautifully unlined, for a smoker. That’s so unusual. But then, there’s plenty of time.”

“Plenty of time for all sorts of things,” said Ree, and she went into my bedroom. As the door closed Nevada looked at me.

“You slept with her?”

Was there any point in denying it, or dissembling? “Ah,” I stammered. “Yes?”

“Is she good in bed?”

“What?”

“Is she?”

“Please, Nevada.”

“Better than me?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“As good?”

“No.”

She stared towards the bedroom. “Well, at least I know she’s lousy in the sack.”

“I didn’t say that,” I said. She glared at me.

“What, then?”

“Things were better with you because I loved you.”

She looked at me. “So you don’t love her?”

I shrugged. “I’ve only just met her.”

“Well, give it time. Plenty of time for all sorts of things,” she quoted. She stood up. “I suppose I’d better be off.” Then she paused. “I almost forgot. Here’s a souvenir for you.” She took it out of her bag and set it on the counter. It was the scorched cover of
Easy Come, Easy Go
and the melted misshapen piece of vinyl.

“Good luck,” she said. “With everything.” She went out and the door closed behind her and she was gone.

* * *

Ree and I travelled to the record mart in Wembley separately. I went in a taxi with Clean Head and Ree got a cab driven by Clean Head’s friend. They both took great pains to avoid being followed, and were in radio contact with each other all the way. So we reached the exhibition centre with a clean bill of health.

I was familiar with the floor plan of the record mart from previous visits and I knew all the shortcuts. As we made our way through the crowd, a skinny guy in frosted denim with a large badge that identified him as the official event photographer stalked us, repeatedly taking our picture with his bulky digital camera.

When I say “our picture”, I actually mean Ree’s picture.

“Am I a celebrity?” she said.

“Sort of. He’s not accustomed to having an attractive woman to photograph. They’re a bit of a rarity at this kind of event.”

“Maybe I should take off my top.”

“That would probably cause his brain to melt and run out through his ears.”

I’d decided there were three dealers worth visiting and by cutting around on the walkway behind the exhibition area, and avoiding the crowds, we were able to hit all three in swift succession. The first was a total bust, but at the second one, run by a guy called Florien, we struck gold.

A copy of
Easy Geary Plays Burns Hobartt
, HL-001, the very first of the Hathors. I checked and nodded to Ree. It was a genuine original pressing.

“Okay,” she said, and reached into her pocket. “How much?”

Florien scrutinised her, then the record, then her again. “Two grand.”

“Two what?” I said. “Florien, are you out of your mind?” This was the least rare of the Hathors, having been produced in the greatest numbers.

Ree tugged at my arm. “No, we’ll just pay him. I’ll have to cash some traveller’s cheques, though.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. I looked at Florien. “Shall we try playing one track?”

“What?”

“Oh look,” I said. “There’s a turntable over there.” I took the record from Florien. “Surely you have no objection?”

“Look, don’t worry about that…”

“You know what? For two grand I think we will.”

He watched me unhappily as I went over to the Rega deck one of the other dealers had set up nearby. It was connected to a phono stage and small pair of active speakers. Not exactly an audiophile setup, but it would do. I put the record on the platter, started the motor and lowered the tone arm. There was a rustling from the speakers and then the music began.

It sounded like Satan playing a barbed wire banjo during a particularly noisy thunderstorm.

Florien quickly backed away, as though expecting a blow. He certainly deserved one. I looked at him and said, “This is supposed to be one of the most beautiful recordings in the history of jazz.”

“All right, all right, all right.”

“I think the price needs to head south in a dramatic fashion.”

“All right,” he said. “One thousand—”

I looked at him.

He cleared his throat. “Nine hundred.”

I looked at him.

“Five hundred. Four hundred.”

I continued to look at him.

“Ah, two hundred and fifty?” This was uttered in a newly tentative tone. I began to think we could drive him even lower.

“Done,” said Ree hastily, stuffing the bank notes into his hand.

We bagged the record and moved away, Ree at my side. I said, “I think we could have beaten him down some more.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But it’s in really bad shape. You heard how it plays.”

She leaned towards me and said, “It doesn’t matter how it plays. My grandmother didn’t care about that. And neither do we.” She patted the bag. “This has got what we need.”

She was right, but it still rankled. It was the principle of the thing. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to let someone rip you off.”

“I know,” she said. “Thank you, Chef.”

We found our way to the last dealer, a lady called Mrs Kitchener whose husband had run a record shop in Brighton specialising in jazz. Since he’d died she’d taken over and taught herself all about vinyl and the music. Her prices were high but her records were scrupulously graded.

When I told her what I was after, she looked stricken. “I’ve just sold one, dear. The Johnny Richards. HL-004.”

“Who bought it?” I said.

“A girl. Pretty. Long red hair.”

* * *

There was a refreshment area on the upper level where you could buy cardboard sandwiches and drink crankshaft coffee and look down on the crowd milling around the dealers’ stalls like insects below.

We did all three of these things.

I felt the ache of the record we’d missed, like a bruise where someone had punched me in the chest. Ree took it in her stride, though. She was more concerned with being pleased about what we’d found, than upset about what we’d missed.

I understood the superior virtue of this attitude, but I still couldn’t stop smarting about the setback.

“How did they know we were coming here? They couldn’t have known. We didn’t use the bugged phone.”

She nibbled at the corner of her stale cheese sandwich and looked at me. “Couldn’t they have just found out about it on their own? The record mart, I mean. Is it possible?”