Written in Dead Wax (7 page)

Nevada gave him a look. It was the same look she might give to something unpleasant that had attached itself to her shoe. “Christ, no,” she said. “Why would I?” This was enough to give even Stinky pause, and the smile froze on his face.

But he rallied with surprising speed. “Are you
sure
you wouldn’t like my autograph?”

Nevada turned to me and nodded at Stinky.

“Do you know him?” she said. “Or has he escaped from the local asylum?”

I felt all warm inside, like I’d been drinking rum punch. I said, “Unfortunately, I do know him.”

“I’m Stinky,” he said.

“Well, you’re certainly in the right place,” said Nevada.

“Stinky Stanmer.”

“Give it up, Stinky,” I said. “She hasn’t heard of you.” I looked at Nevada. “Stinky and I went to university together.”

“Well, these things happen.”

“Is one of those coffees for me?” I said.

“Ah, yes. This one.” She handed me one of the paper cups. It was hot and it smelled good. “I’ve been assured it’s made of the finest coffee beans which have passed through a monkey’s rectum.”

I sipped the coffee. It was great. “A civet, actually. And I doubt you managed to source any authentic
kopi luwak
around here.”

“Perhaps I exaggerate a trifle,” said Nevada. “Are you finished here yet?”

“Just about.”

“Pretty thin pickings,” said Stinky, who was unfortunately still standing with us. “But that’s hardly surprising. Finding a choice piece of vinyl here is about as likely as finding a virgin at a pimp convention.”

If Nevada had found this plagiarised remark irresistibly charming I would have had to kill Stinky at this point, but luckily she treated his whole attempt to talk to her with the
froideur
it so richly deserved. “Ready to go then?” she said. I nodded and we headed for the door together.

“See you, Stinky,” I said.

But he was already rooting through a box of records.

* * *

We hit the charity shops. I found a nice French reissue of a Verve album by Gerry Mulligan and a few Illinois Jacquet air-shots, which is to say recordings of radio broadcasts. Fortunately, Nevada had the designer clothes rail to rifle in each shop and eventually she got lucky and found a Prada merkin or something, so she didn’t feel the outing had been an entire waste. Plus it kept her from nagging me about buying records that weren’t the one we were after, as if I should pass them up for that reason.

I flipped through my LPs, gloating, in the taxi on the way back. Nevada was sitting opposite me, looking at something on her phone and giggling. Our driver, now officially designated Clean Head in my mind, and only partly as a tribute to the noted alto sax player Eddie “Clean Head” Vinson, was getting us home at an impressive clip. Eddie Vinson had been bald as a billiard ball, as the result of a hair-straightening calamity. For our driver it was clearly a fashion statement rather than a terrible chemical accident.

In any case, thanks to her skills behind the wheel, we were already passing Kingston Hospital and I suspected she was heading for Richmond Park to take a shortcut.

Inspecting my records, I was just thinking they’d probably come from the collection of the Unknown Jazz Fan when Nevada looked up from her phone and said, “Who is this Unknown Jazz Fan?”

In response to the look of blank astonishment on my face—had she read my mind?—she said, “I’ve just been reading your blog. I heard you talking to your, ah, friend Stinky about it and I thought I’d take a look.”

“Of course, I blogged about him. The Unknown Jazz Fan, I mean. Not Stinky.”

“Of course not.”

“So, wait a minute,” I said. “Does that mean that when you were giggling a moment ago you were giggling at my blog?”

“I wasn’t giggling.”

“Yes you were.”

“I’m not the giggling sort. Anyway, what about this Unknown Jazz person?”

“I blogged about him. You’ve got the blog there. You can read it.”

She put her phone away and gave me her big eyes, all soft and attentive. “No,” she said. “You tell me.”

I sighed. “Okay. It’s just some guy who’s getting rid of his record collection, in instalments. It’s a hell of a collection and I don’t know why he’s getting rid of it. Divorce? Moving home? A massive collapse in taste? Perhaps he’s like the vicar in Barnes.”

“What vicar in Barnes?”

“He had a crisis of faith. By which I mean he foolishly renounced LPs in favour of CDs and got rid of all his vinyl. And it was a hell of a collection. Perhaps the Unknown Jazz Fan is like that. Or perhaps the poor sap has copied all his LPs digitally and is even now listening to music files on a computer.” I glanced at the records in my lap. “In other words, he had sent them across the digital Rubicon. Actually, the river to the underworld more like.”

“The river Styx.”

“Exactly.”

“You’ve really got it in for poor old digital recording, haven’t you?”

“Anyway,” I said, “I keep finding batches of records he’s got rid of. Here and there. In charity shops, at jumble sales.”

“We haven’t been to a jumble sale yet,” she said. “In our supposedly exhaustively thorough search for this record.”

“I’ve got us booked for one tomorrow night.”

“How dizzyingly stimulating. Tell me, this Unknown Jazz Fan. How do you know the records belonged to him? Does he write his name on the cover?”

“Christ no.”

“Then how do you know it’s him? For that matter, how do you know such a person even exists?”

“I cover that.”

“What do you mean?”

“In my blog. I cover it.”

“I see. You expect me to read it.” She took out her phone and scrolled down the screen. “Oh yes. Here we go. ‘Does he even exist? Maybe it isn’t a person at all. Maybe it is just a statistical cluster, an analytical artefact, a certain population, a given age group, a shared taste, a demographic bubble…’ My god, you do go on a bit, don’t you? ‘A cultural profile, a sociology paper…’” She looked at me. “So, to cut a long story short, the Unknown Jazz Fan may not even exist?”

“That’s right. But that doesn’t mean he’s not out there somewhere.”

She smiled at me. “It’s like something out of Borges,” she said. “Or do I mean Cortázar?”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

* * *

The cats were waiting outside when we got home. They milled around impatiently with an equally impatient Nevada while I opened the door. There was actually a cat flap installed in it, but Turk and Fanny disdained the use of this whenever they could have someone actually open the door for them. They were the first through, followed by Nevada. And, as was rapidly becoming traditional, I brought up the rear.

I stepped over the door mat. The post had come and there was a jumble of letters lying there; even at this most casual glance obviously mostly bills, and laughably unpayable ones at that. I picked up the pile of mail and began to go through it when suddenly a man’s voice shouted from inside.

“Easy, easy, easy!”

I ran into the sitting room. Nevada was standing there—a study in dynamic tension, arm extended rigidly, holding my largest and sharpest kitchen knife.

She was aiming it at Stinky who was standing by the sofa, his face pale and his composure fled for once. “Easy,” he said.

“Christ,” hissed Nevada. She lowered the knife and looked at me. “What is he doing here?”

“I have no idea,” I said.

“I just walked in and saw someone was here and I grabbed this.” She waved the knife. “He scared the shit out of me.”

The colour was starting to return to Stinky’s face. “Likewise,” he said, “I’m sure.”

“You shut up for a minute,” said Nevada. She turned to me. “You had no idea he’d be here?”

“Of course not,” I said.

“How did he get in?”

“I, um, let myself in,” said Stinky. He held up the keys.

Nevada set the knife down on the dining table and went and snatched the keys from him. “How did he get hold of these?” She waved them at me accusingly.

“I leave them outside.”

“Outside?”

“Under the plant pot.”

“The plant pot?” she demanded.

“Yes, that’s right, the plant pot,” said Stinky.

“You shut up,” she said.

“In case I lock myself out,” I explained. The cats, who had wisely made themselves scarce during the armed confrontation, began to emerge from hiding. Turk jumped up onto the sofa and Fanny went to her favourite chair. Business as usual. Nevada watched them for a moment, then looked at Stinky.

“Why didn’t you wait outside with the cats?”

I said, “If he’d waited outside, they would have waited
inside
.” One of the things that endeared the little monsters to me was that they couldn’t stand Stinky.

“I couldn’t wait outside,” said Stinky. “My fans would have recognised me.”

“Your fans?” said Nevada, managing to combine contempt and incomprehension in about equal measure.

“I have a radio show.”

Nevada made a snorting sound that couldn’t quite be described as laughter. “And they’d recognise you from that? They’d recognise your face from the radio?”

“Stinky has also been on television,” I added reluctantly.

“And I’m also very active on the Internet.”

“I’m sure you are,” said Nevada. It was impressive how she didn’t actually add the words “No doubt surfing for porn, you pathetic loser,” yet we all clearly understood that’s what she meant. Stinky returned to the sofa from which he’d so recently risen in fear for his life. Nevada glanced at my hi-fi. “Your thermionic valves are on,” she said.

I nodded. “So they are.”

“I’ve been listening to CDs,” said Stinky. He casually sat down on the sofa, ignoring Turk, who snarled at him and jumped down. “There’s nothing quite like dropping the needle,” continued Stinky, addressing Nevada and ignoring me, “but you have to listen to something while you’re changing records.” Had he actually forgotten he’d stolen that line from me?

“Well, I hate to be rude,” said Nevada. “But we have business to discuss.”

“Business?” said Stinky, looking from her to me. I went to the CD player and took out the disc. He’d been listening to
Bullitt
by Lalo Schifrin.

“Yes,” said Nevada. I found the CD case for
Bullitt
and opened it to find that it contained
The Taking of Pelham 123
by David Shire. I sighed and looked for the CD case for that, opened it and, logically enough, found that it contained
The Organization
by Gil Mellé.

“What sort of business?” said Stinky. I found the Mellé case, which was empty, duly put the correct disc back in there, then restored the Shire and Schifrin CDs to their rightful cases. The old CD switcharoo. One of Stinky’s many annoying habits. Useful for anyone who wanted to do a forensic analysis of his listening habits, but otherwise just plain annoying.

Stinky repeated, “What sort of business?”

“None of your damned,” said Nevada.

“What? Oh, very clever,” said Stinky, catching up. “So how do you guys know each other?” It was obviously this question that had impelled him to make today’s latest uninvited visit. He couldn’t imagine what someone like Nevada was doing with someone like me. And in some sense his universe was threatened. So he just wasn’t going to let it go.

He was smiling at Nevada politely, or with what passed for politeness in Stinkyland. He made a vague hand gesture, waggling a finger back and forth between us, “You know each other, how?”

“We met at Lord Rudolph’s fifteenth annual zeppelin race,” said Nevada.

“Okay,” said Stinky. He evidently decided he wasn’t going to get anything else out of her. “Well, I’ll be shoving along then.” He picked up his coat.

“Would you?” said Nevada. We accompanied Stinky to the door and saw him off the premises. The cats didn’t stir. As soon as he was gone Nevada turned to me and I was startled to realise she was boiling with anger. “How could you?” she said.

“What?”

“Leave your key outside, unprotected.”

“It’s hidden.”

“Hidden. It’s under a plant pot! Show me this plant pot.” I took her outside and showed her. She was still furious. “How could you? Just anyone could walk in off the street. And be waiting for you.”

“Hard to believe they could be worse than Stinky.”

She ignored the joke and stood glaring at me. “Are you simple-minded?” she said.

“Look, I have to have a spare set of keys. In case I lock myself out.”

“They don’t have to be under your plant pot.” We went back inside and shut the door.

“They have to be where I can get at them,” I said.

“I’ll look after them,” she said.

“What?”

“I’ll look after your keys.” She put them in her handbag.

“Are you sure?” I didn’t argue with her. In fact, to be candid, I found the notion strangely appealing.

She nodded. “If you need them, if you lock yourself out, you’ve got my number. Just ring me and I’ll bring them round.” She paused thoughtfully. “Oh, one more thing to do.” She took out her little red notebook and a pen and went back outside. I followed her. She opened her notebook and wrote in large, bold letters,
FUCK OFF STINKY
. She tore the page out of her notebook, folded it up and put it under the plant pot where the key used to reside.

“There,” she said happily. “That’s that.”

* * *

“Of course, what she’s going to do,” said Tinkler, “is let herself into your house, sneaking in one night while you’re asleep, glide through the darkness, shedding her clothes, stub her toe on a crate of records that should have been properly shelved years ago and then, cursing, hop under the duvet with you and bang your brains out.”

“You’re saying that as though it could never happen.”

“Yes,” said Tinkler. “What other possible reason could there be for her wanting to hold onto your keys?” He shook his head despairingly. “You always go for the gorgeous ones and you always get kicked in the teeth. When are you going to learn?”

“Learn what?”

“That they don’t go for insolvent, failed DJs who are record-collecting nuts.” He added politely, “Not that I’m saying I’m any better off. They don’t go for solvent database managers who are record-collecting nuts, either. Would you like something to eat?”