Written in Dead Wax by Andrew Cartmel Page A

already moving away, into the crowd. I double-checked the pile she’d looked through—all classical—and set it aside. I reached for the third case. It was full of LPs. I took out a handful to give myself manoeuvring room, glancing through them. Jazz; all Dixieland, but jazz nonetheless. Not my cup of tea, but they looked immaculate and would no doubt make some New Orleans fan very happy. I delved into the crate, flipping through the albums. There was enough late Louis Armstrong to choke a horse. Some Acker Bilk. Some Chris Barber.
    And suddenly, there it was, in my hands.
    Easy Come, Easy Go.
    * * *
    I stood up, the blood abruptly rushing to my head, and experienced a strange dreamlike swaying. There must have been something in the expression on my face because Nevada saw me from across the room and immediately fought her way back through the crowd to join me. “What is it? What is it? Have you got it?”
    I held the album up. The cover was heavy cardboard, the kind they printed in the 1950s, and I could feel the weight of the record inside. It definitely was not a flimsy piece of modern vinyl. It had to be the real thing. Nevada was staring at me. My hands were shaking as I lifted the sleeve and slid the record out.
    Two pieces of paper came with it. One was dense with Japanese text. I said, “Shit, shit, shit.”
    “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”
    The record itself was in a rice paper inner sleeve. This also was not a good sign. I carefully eased the vinyl out. It was nice and heavy all right, and the label was the proper red and white Hathor design. But in the fine print on it, just barely discernible, was the Jasrac logo.
    “What is it?” said Nevada. She could see from my face that something was wrong.
    “It’s a reissue,” I said.
    She stared at me as if I’d let her down. In a funny way, I felt that I had. I made myself get back down on the floor and go through the rest of the records, but my heart wasn’t in it. I bought the replica album and left the hall with Nevada walking along, uncharacteristically subdued, at my side.
    “Why did you buy it?” she said finally.
    “It may not be what we’re looking for, but it’s still a nice record.”
    “What is it, exactly?”
    “A reissue. A replica. A Japanese release from the 1970s.”
    “Japanese?” she said. “Then he definitely wouldn’t be interested.”
    “Who?”
    “My boss.” She looked at me. “I feel utterly drained.”
    “A jumble sale will do that,” I said. But I knew exactly what she meant. The adrenalin flood of discovery followed by the bitter and abrupt let-down of utter disappointment.
    “And I’m famished,” she said. “I want something to eat.”
    “We could go back to my place and I could cook you something.”
    “I want something to eat now.”
    I looked around. It was starting to rain again. “We could find a restaurant.”
    “Did you hear the word
now
?”
    “Well, we could get something and drop in on Tinkler. He lives nearby.”
    “Won’t he mind us just dropping in?”
    “Tinkler’s life is such that any interruption is welcome.”
    * * *
    We ended up buying a selection of pizzas from a minuscule late-night supermarket, with Nevada carefully vetting the ingredients before she put them in the shopping trolley, along with her shoulder bag and a bottle of wine she’d spent ten minutes choosing from the shop’s tiny selection. When we got to the checkout I went to take her bag out of the trolley but she snatched it away from me for the second time that evening.
    I waited while the sleepy clerk scanned our pizzas and the wine and Nevada counted out the cash to pay him. She let me carry the bag of groceries without protest as we searched for a taxi. Once we found one it took five minutes to reach Tinkler’s house, where we stuck the pizzas in the oven and retired upstairs to his listening room. Nevada bundled onto the sofa and sat hunched up with her knees tucked under her chin, her shoulder bag