—He was robbed and left for dead in the Bronx. I don’t know why he would go there or what he was doing. He had no connection to anyone in that part of town.
—I certainly didn’t send him out to the Bronx. He came to the bar, showed me a lot of money. I could tell right away the boy was a lost soul. I’m not a bad man. I tried to talk sense into him, but what can you say when someone’s like that? When they’ve got the collecting bug? I’m the same as you. I’m not a powerful person. But I learned my lesson. I don’t mess with any of it anymore. The boy was angry that I didn’t have any records. Wouldn’t listen to a word of what I was trying to tell him, which was get the hell out right now. Same as I tried to tell you, only you wouldn’t listen either. He kept running his mouth, saying he’d pay top dollar, did I know who he was, so much bull crap, I couldn’t follow it all. He even got his cash out on the table. No street smarts. I mean, anybody could have seen it. Anybody could have heard, the way he was rambling on.
—So you’re saying someone overheard him at the bar?
—He told me the same stupid story you did. That he’d made up Charlie Shaw. Wouldn’t listen to a word I said. I told him, Charlie Shaw wants something from you, and it’s something you probably don’t want to give. You’ve crossed the line and now you have to prepare yourself. He just kept on saying catalog numbers. Paramount this, Okeh that.
—I don’t understand.
—That’s not news to anyone, son. It’s clear to even the most casual observer that you and your friend are lost in the dark. If you promise you won’t interrupt, I’ll tell you. And after I tell you I want you to get the hell out of my apartment, because I barely made it away from Chester’s mess all those years ago and I’m taking a risk even speaking the words. You don’t know about Chester Bly. No one does anymore, though at one time he had a reputation. I’ve seen some collectors, but I can tell you he was the smartest and the most single-minded of them all. He would not rest until he had what he wanted in his hands.
THE STORY THE OLD COLLECTOR TOLD ME was so strange that, had I heard it in any other circumstances, I would have dismissed it as a fabrication. And yet it had a force—I would say the force of truth, but that would be too simple. It wasn’t that I believed it or didn’t believe it, more that it seemed to come from a place beyond belief. Something had attached itself to Carter and me, some tendril of the past, and if we did not detach it, we would be drawn back into death and silence.
The story built up inside me like pressure in a lab vessel. I couldn’t contain it. But who could I tell? The only person who would possibly understand was Leonie, and I doubted she would even hear me out. I used a guest pass to get in to Carter’s gym, where I had a shower and ripped open the plastic on a fresh tee shirt and a change of underwear. I combed my hair and made sure my clothes didn’t have any visible stains. Then I took the records out of storage and waited outside her building, standing on the sidewalk with the walnut box at my feet. I hung around for a long time, almost four hours. I was about to give up when she came out, wearing jeans shorts and one of Carter’s shirts. At first she walked straight past me.
—Leonie! Leonie!
She wheeled round, startled. She was in a bad state. I couldn’t see her eyes behind her big dark glasses but her hair was lank and matted and something in her posture suggested lifelessness, defeat.
—I told you to stay away.
She slipped one hand into her pocket, as if she were about to pull something out. For a moment I thought she might mace me. I imagined falling to my knees like a singer, clawing at my eyes. Leonie standing over me, delivering the coup de grace.
—Please, Leonie. I wanted to make sure you had these. They’re fragile. I didn’t know where to take them.
I pointed out the box.
—I could just leave them with the doorman, if you’d prefer.
—So you brought me Carter’s death music. Thanks.
—I didn’t know where else I should take it. They’re valuable. You should store them properly.
She stared at the box. She didn’t move.
—I don’t want you to think I was going to keep them. I’m not—that kind of person.
—What kind of person? The kind who’d sell information about my brother?
—Please Leonie, I thought he was one of his friends.
—Who?
—The journalist. It was an honest mistake.
—So you’re sorry and I should, what? Forgive you?
—I wasn’t thinking. It was stupid of me. I should have remembered his—your position.
—What do you want, Seth?
—Nothing, I swear. I just don’t want you to think I’m a thief.
—Bullshit. Everyone wants something from us. It’ll save time if you just tell me.
She lit and smoked a cigarette. I stared at the paving stones.
—You probably want me to go.
Weakly, she waved her hand.
—You’re just going to leave that here? I don’t know if I can even handle having that shit in my apartment.
—So where should I take them?
—I don’t know. Break them for all I care.
—Break them?
—No, of course not. Fuck it, I suppose you have to bring them up.
Though the doorman offered to take the box, I carried it to her apartment as carefully as if it were Carter’s own body. To my surprise she asked if I wanted coffee. I think she didn’t mean to; it was the sort of social reflex to which she was ordinarily immune. But she asked, and once I’d said yes, she had to follow through. As she pushed buttons on her machine, I hovered near the riverside window, surveying a scene of minor devastation. Ashtrays improvised out of cups, foil takeout trays and wine bottles on the floor, a deep scar in the brickwork of one wall.
—Did you have a party?
—Milk? I only have soy. I think there’s some agave in the cupboard if you want it sweet.
—No thanks.
She handed me a mug. Seeing that I’d noticed the mess in her apartment, she made a sarcastic face.