—You’re shitting me.
He banged the table with his fist, suddenly furious.
—So why the fuck am I talking to the other one? Jesus Christ, what a mess. What a goddamn mess!
—Hey, calm down. I don’t know, OK? I don’t even know why I’m here. Look, I’m sorry I wasted your time.
I got up to leave. I really did want to leave. He didn’t have anything for Carter and I needed to be outside in the open air, under the sun.
—Hold on!
He spread his hands, and for a fleeting moment I saw a tell. Of what, I wasn’t sure. Something about those trembling, beseeching hands.
—Please. Take a seat. I believe you. You represent whoever you represent. I’m not here to pry into your business. If you’ve got the record, you’ll know what I’m talking about. I’m not a powerful man. I was just a kid who liked to listen to old music.
—Honestly, I’ve got to go. I’m meeting someone.
—Look, I’m not involved, and I don’t want to be. In fact, I’m not a collector at all anymore. Not the kind of collector who would want that record. But I do have questions. I’m curious. Surely that’s forgivable.
—Come on. You want the record.
—Oh no. I’d never want to own that record. No thank you. All I’m asking is that you sit down and tell me about it. Just for five minutes. Tell me where you got it. I won’t ask anything personal. I won’t pry into areas that aren’t my concern. Look, you didn’t even drink your drink. I’ll get you another. Something different, perhaps? Lyuba’s pi?a coladas are famous.
All I wanted was to leave. I knew Carter would press for his joke to go on as long as possible, to run through as many losers and suckers as it could, but I didn’t have the heart for it. There seemed no point, nothing to be gained. What fun was there in messing with a semi-homeless old man?
—Look, sir. I’m sorry to say this, but you made a mistake. It’s all a joke. A hoax. Whatever record you heard back in the day, this wasn’t it, because my partner and I—we put it together literally last week. It’s just field recordings and some surface noise. That’s all. I’m sorry, but you wasted your time.
His pleading expression became a snarl.
—Stop lying to me! I’m trying to help you out here. It’s obvious you know nothing, less than nothing. What is in play here is highly, and I mean highly, complex. You may think you’re still moving forward, right now. You may feel safe.
—I’m sorry. We made it up, the whole thing.
—You’re a bad liar. You’re already slipping, you don’t even know it.
—Look, I’m going to go now, but just in case—do you own and if so do you wish to sell any high-numbered Paramounts?
—Why?
—My friend wants to buy 12900 and up. He’ll pay for anything in good condition. That’s the only reason I came.
—This being your partner, the one who is a real collector but sadly can’t be here with us today? Does your collector friend mean good as in generically good or specifically good as in G condition or higher on the VJM scale?
—I have no idea.
—Tell him I have what he wants, many E, even E+. A few unplayed. Not a complete run but near as makes no difference. Tell him 13099, Willie Brown, “Window Blues” and “Kicking In My Sleep Blues.” That’ll get his attention.
—So you have records.
—I have records. Repeat it. I want to check you have it correctly.
—Willie Brown, “Window Blues.”
—13099, Willie Brown, “Window Blues” and “Kicking In My Sleep Blues”
—13099, Willie Brown, “Window Blues” and “Kicking In My Sleep Blues”
—But he has to come in person. And he has to bring the Charlie Shaw record.
—Come where?
—Here. If I’m not around, Lyuba will know where to find me.
I left him in his booth and half-ran up the stairs, back out into the light.
IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE to get Carter to listen. I tried to describe it, the bar full of sad morning drinkers, the smudged fingerprints on the man’s filthy eyeglasses, but the only thing he seemed able to hear was thirteen thousand ninety-nine Willie Brown. Did the guy really say thirteen thousand ninety-nine? Yes he did. Definitely that serial number. Yes, I could prove it. I’d been recording. He wanted to hear the whole conversation, spinning round impatiently on the control room chair as I scrolled through, looking for the file. I must have screwed up, because all I had was some audio I’d made a few days earlier, out in Queens, walking through one of the cemeteries in Ridgewood. I was angry at myself for making a mistake. I was usually very careful.
When I told him I had accidentally deleted the file, Carter had a tantrum. He threw a pair of headphones at me, then went into the live room and started kicking over the mic stands. I could see him shouting on the other side of the glass, his snarling face in dumbshow. I wondered what he’d taken. The pupils of his eyes were like saucers. I pushed the button on the control room talkback, so I could hear.
—Do you even know about that record? Paramount thirteen thousand ninety-nine. You asshole! No one has that record! There are no known copies!