The strange high vibration of I and die. I had listened to that record many times, but it was as if it had never broken my skin. The air was rent open by the sound; darkness poured in. Babe I’ll never die, he sang. I’d always heard the line as frightened, the alcoholic singer afraid of the death he is swallowing: Sterno brand camping fuel strained through a cloth. But now I heard something else. A veiled threat. If what I’ve already swallowed doesn’t kill me, nothing can. You will never be able to stop me, babe. I’ll just keep on coming.
The needle hit the runout groove and I lunged forward, terrified that it would skate. I didn’t dare turn my head to look at Leonie. Only when I’d secured the record, sleeved it and returned it to the box did I finally steal a glance. She seemed agitated, angry.
—That’s it? That’s what he loves?
—I know the sound quality is poor.
—That doesn’t help me.
—I’m sorry.
—It’s the opposite of helpful.
—I’m sorry, I don’t understand.
—Why would he listen to this? It’s so morbid. Everything about it is dead and buried.
—I didn’t mean to upset you.
She seemed to be making an effort to pull herself together.
—It’s not your fault. I’m just upset. Look, you can go back to bed. You must be tired, I got you up. I’ll sleep here.
I thought about warning her not to try and play any more records. Carter’s deck was temperamental and she was more than a little drunk. But she’d said she hated the music, so I judged that there was little risk of her damaging anything.
—Really, she said. It’s OK. Go to bed. I’m just going to crash.
—Do you need a towel?
—Sure.
—I’ll just leave it outside your door.
—OK.
Even with the air conditioner on high, the heat that night was oppressive. As I got ready for bed, I was aware of her presence across the hallway, asleep so very close at hand. I got up twice. Bathroom and glass of water. I tossed and turned in a tangle of damp sheets. I kept my door open, in case she called out.
THE NEXT MORNING I got up early, expecting to have the place to myself while I tidied. In the kitchen I found Leonie wandering around in one of Carter’s shirts, eating cereal out of the box. I started grinding coffee and washing glasses, keeping busy so I didn’t have to endure the full hormonal shock of her. Leonie Wallace, wearing a dress shirt and a pair of black cotton underpants. Leonie Wallace’s legs. Either she was dealing with a hangover or she hadn’t been to bed. Either way, she was irritable.
—You said he was going to buy records? So what does he spend on a record? A hundred bucks? Two hundred?
—More. The one I played you last night is worth about four thousand dollars.
—Four thousand dollars for that?
—More, possibly. Maybe a little less. That’s what he told me he paid for it. There are forty copies in the world, perhaps not even that many.
—So he could have taken a lot of money with him?
—I guess. He got fifty thousand dollars from Corny as some sort of investment in the studio. He told me he was going to spend it on records.
—Why would he do something so stupid?
—I suppose he doesn’t see it that way.
—Not Carter, Cornelius. What was he thinking, trusting Carty to hold on to that amount in cash?
—I don’t really understand. It’s not like your brother is ever short of money.
She gave me a straight look.
—Actually he’s on kind of a tight leash, financially.
—What? Really? It never seems like that.
—Sure, he’s got his allowance, he can buy toys.
She saw that I didn’t understand.
—Seth, Carter’s had a few problems in the past. Maybe you know about that. He doesn’t make good decisions. We try to avoid anything which would stress him out.
As I was trying to process this corporate “we,” the doorbell rang. The entry phone showed two men on the street outside. Ties and shirtsleeves. One of them held up a badge to the camera.
—Maybe you should put some clothes on. The police are coming up. Go into the bedroom and I’ll talk to them while you get dressed.
—Relax, Seth.
—But it’s the police. You don’t want them to see you like that.
—This isn’t Saudi Arabia.
Reluctantly, I buzzed them in. Leonie hopped up on the kitchen counter and struck a centerfold pose, arching one eyebrow sarcastically at me. They stepped out of the elevator, professional intruders. I was in a state of sexual panic, aroused and humiliated. It was too much to bear, the way she made them look at her. One, maybe both men knew who she was. The shorter one, who looked Latino, knew for sure. He didn’t take his eyes off her, swiveling left and right, up and down, checking out her ass, her legs, the shape of her breasts under the shirt. Helping himself. The taller one, the white one, was big and doughy, too physically somnolent to really feel her provocation. He turned to me and said blandly that they needed to ask some questions about the attack. Sit down, he said. It’ll only take a few minutes. The Latino detective gave way to autoeroticism, compulsively stroking his little French beard. Her point made, Leonie got down from the counter and leaned against the sink, her arms folded, making no further eye contact with him.