Written in Dead Wax by Andrew Cartmel Page B

beside her. She looked small, sad, and a little beaten. Tinkler was on fine form, though. He studied our acquisition, chuckling. “So near and yet so far, huh?”
    “Why isn’t it good enough?” said Nevada.
    I looked at her. “What?”
    She gestured exhaustedly at the album. “That. Why isn’t it good enough? Why does it have to be the original?”
    “Ah well, now,” said Tinkler. “That’s a question that cuts right to the heart of being a collector. If it’s not the original it’s just not the original and that’s that.”
    “It’s crazy,” she said.
    “It’s not entirely crazy,” I said. “This is a Japanese pressing, so it will be as good as they could make it, but there are limiting factors. They may not have had access to first-generation master tapes. And for the last track, the vocal with Rita Mae, they wouldn’t have had any tapes at all. Because the originals were destroyed. So they must have remastered that from a vinyl copy.”
    “So someone, somewhere, must have a copy of the record.”
    “Or a tape of the record,” said Tinkler helpfully.
    I said, “And then there’s the physical aspect.”
    “Ah, the physical aspect,” said Nevada, staring at the ceiling.
    “The original pressing had the signatures of Easy Geary and Rita Mae Pollini in the dead wax,” I said.
    “Really?” said Tinkler. “That would make it a collector’s item, all right.” He took out the Japanese insert, looked at it briefly, then shoved it back in the sleeve and took out the other piece of paper. “Do you reckon this came from the Unknown Jazz Fan’s collection?”
    “Actually I do,” I said. “Why?”
    “Because this is an invoice with his name and address on it.” Tinkler looked at me, shaking his head and smiling wistfully. “It’s a bit of a shame, isn’t it? He isn’t unknown anymore. It’s the end of an era. It’s the end of an enigma. It’s the end of an enigma era.”
    I was about to ask what the guy’s name and address was—not that it would mean anything to me—when Tinkler took his dragon box down from the mantelpiece and said, “Shall we?” Nevada suddenly looked up with the first real sign of interest since we’d arrived.
    “Shall we what?”
    “Nothing,” I said hastily, moving towards Tinkler.
    But she was alert now, sitting up straight on the sofa. “Nothing what?”
    “Put the box back, Tinkler,” I said.
    He waved a hand at me. “Oh, he’s such a prude.”
    “What is it?” said Nevada. “Is it dope? Here, let me see.” Tinkler handed her the box and she opened it. “My god,” she said. “Smell that!”
    “It’s good stuff, all right,” said Tinkler proudly. He took the box back and started rolling a joint. “Would you like some?”
    “Does the Pope shit in the woods?” said Nevada.
    Tinkler chuckled and looked at me. “You’re outnumbered,” he said. He licked the cigarette papers and sealed the joint.
    “Fine,” I said. “Just remember when you’re rolling around drooling in your padded cell that I warned you.”
    “He is so conservative,” said Nevada. She accepted the joint from Tinkler, and a light, taking a deep inhalation. After a moment she let the smoke out and said, in a small croaky voice, “My word, that really is something.”
    Tinkler chuckled again. “Isn’t it just?” They swapped it back and forth and the room was soon so full of smoke that any abstention on my part was highly theoretical. After an indeterminate interval Tinkler said, “Hey, what about those pizzas? They must be ready by now.”
    “Christ yes,” said Nevada. “I’m famished.”
    “I’ll go down and serve them up.” Tinkler headed for the door.
    “I’d better accompany you,” said Nevada. “For health and safety reasons.” She followed him out and I heard them giggling as they went down the stairs.
    Nevada had left her shoulder bag on the sofa. I went over and picked it up. It was strangely heavy. I looked inside and found out why. I took it