AT NINE THE NEXT MORNING I was showered, dressed and working my way through a cafetière of strong coffee, trying to stop checking the time on my phone. Carter still hadn’t come home. Even though he couldn’t be bothered to make the meeting, I knew he’d be angry if I missed it, because it was a collecting connection and—as he often reminded me—there weren’t so many people who were in it at his level. Maybe fifty worldwide, was his estimate. I don’t know if that was boasting. He said you couldn’t be choosy about who you dealt with. People didn’t put together serious collections by being nice and well adjusted. So I felt obliged to go. I sent him a final where-are-you text and got on my bike.
It was already hot. I pumped up onto the bridge, standing up on the pedals and telling myself I had options, promising myself that I wouldn’t get drawn in to anything. Then I freewheeled down into the smell of gasoline and uncollected garbage. Delancey Street in summer: light particulates, the tar spongy at the crosswalks. I turned north and rode through the projects towards the white chimneys of the power station. Locking the bike to a street sign on 14th, I chugged some water, toweled off and changed my shirt, which was soaked in sweat. I walked along until I found the doorway between the dry cleaner and the dollar store and stepped down a flight of stairs into darkness and air-conditioning and a long skinny bar lined with alcoholics of various ages and professions, steeling themselves to go outside to smoke.
I was wearing a cap pulled down low over my eyes. My plan was to blend in and watch for a while before I identified myself, in case JumpJim looked threatening or insane. I admit I was curious to see this man who was so convinced by Carter’s fiction. Some loser collector, no doubt. They all had that look, that basement-dwelling look. I didn’t know what to have so I ordered bourbon. I didn’t want a bourbon, it was ten in the morning. The crinkled bills on the counter, the Irish tchotchkes, the bartender’s halter top and shitty Chinese character tattoo; the whole place was marinated in sadness. Ten in the fucking morning. You could feel the furred carpet making its way up the legs of your stool, seeking to become one with your ankles.
A candidate came in. Dressed in regular old-guy clothes. Slacks, a dress shirt, everything comfort fit. Good thick rubber soles on those sneakers, sir. Good grip. I started the recorder in my pocket, assuming this was him, but he took a stool and started talking to the bartender in Russian and I got bored and looked down the row into the dark colon of the bar only to realize that the guy, the real guy, had been there all along, watching me from a booth. Shock of white hair, thick black eyeglasses that scanned as fashion until you checked the raincoat with the grubby collar, the unpleasant-looking scab on his forehead. Exactly who I did not want to meet. Very slowly, he raised an index finger and pointed to me, a gesture like firing a gun. Carefully positioning a coaster on top of his drink, he eased himself off the vinyl bench and hobbled my way.
I need a cigarette, he said, and crooked that long nicotine-yellow finger. Follow. How old was he? Eighty? Older? He looked embalmed. I got off my stool and we went upstairs. We stood there on the street watching the traffic, me sweating in the heat, him wrapped up in his long coat like a man expecting bad weather, a man prepared for the worst. Certain other peculiarities of dress: hiking sandals over some kind of orthotic socks, polaroid lenses on the glasses. In the July sunlight it was like two security gates dropping down, twin black screens. He procured a tin from his coat pocket, rolled and lit a cigarette. Then he came right up to me, toe-to-toe like a boxer, and jabbed the cigarette at my face, holding it between thumb and forefinger and using it as a pointer. You, he said.
I took a step back. He took one forward.
—I don’t see any record.
It seemed the cigarette had played its part. He flicked it at a passing dog walker (“fuckin’ yuppies”) and headed back inside. I followed. I didn’t know what else to do. The carpet in his booth was sticky underfoot. He pointedly emptied the slush from his glass, his hands trembling.
—Why don’t you get us two more of these? Then we can talk about why you didn’t bring the record.
—I’m not sure this place takes cards.
—Young man, I am wrestling with my disappointment.
—Take my drink. I haven’t touched it.
—The hell I will.
Chastened, I went to the bar and bought him a whiskey. He flexed his hands and cracked his knuckles as I returned to the booth.
—That is more like it. And you are?
I didn’t want to give my real name.
—Dan Smith.
—I just can’t believe you didn’t bring the record, Dan Smith. It is a blow, I don’t mind saying. It shakes my confidence in you.
—Well, what about my confidence in you?
—Don’t you worry about that. I’m kosher. Genuine certified.
—You haven’t brought any records with you either.
—Whenever did I say I’d bring records? To a bar, are you out of your mind? Think of the environmental hazards. The stuff they use to clean these tables is highly alkaline. Put a disk down and straightaway that’d be the surface gone.
I switched on the recorder in my pocket.
—So you must have a great collection, right?
—Slow down, jitterbug. We’ll get to what I’ve got and what I’ve not in due time. I’m more concerned with what you got. You do have a copy, correct? KG 25806, Charlie Shaw, “Graveyard Blues.” You must have, unless you’re not the one who put it out there. You are the one with whom I’ve been conversating?
—Yes. I am.
—Good. And you know what you have?
—Sure.
—Sure is not what I would call an encouraging word, son. Sure is not what you should be, because right now you are out on a limb.
—I have no idea what you’re talking about.
—And that’s not so good either. Not that I can solve anything. I make no claims for myself. You only have to look at me to know I’m not a powerful person.
He appraised me again from behind his smudged lenses.
—Oh, I see now. I see how it is. Fuck. He made the word into a long lizardy croak. You actually have no goddamn clue. That—He trailed away into a sigh, rubbed his palms wearily over his face. That is really not encouraging. The name Bly mean anything to you at all?
—No.
—Chester Bly?
—No.
—And you’re supposed to be a goddamn collector?
—Well, to be honest, there’s two of us. There were two of us online.
—And you’re the other one.
—That’s right.