The woods around this side of the lake were dark and deep, and the wind sent chills under my shirt. I put on some nice, dark electropop and let my mind wander with the curve of the road. Halfway into town, I realized where I was going.
“Friend-o, we’re going to Moonbeam’s,” I told the Jeep.
I needed to make a pit stop first to find something he’d want. That took longer than I wanted. It was almost ten by the time I made it around the lake.
Moonbeam wouldn’t care. Up all night, sleep all day.
I texted him to let him know I was coming and parked the Jeep outside his lake house, which sat on the northeast side of Condor, just past where the Strip petered out into warehouses and rental cabins. Not ideal lakeside property. If there were a low rent side of town, this would be it, but there wasn’t, so it was just quiet and away from everything else.
Which Moonbeam liked because he was agoraphobic.
He needed to be as far away from the festival grounds as possible. Not just because of the crowds. He had his reasons.
His house was just a basic two-story, zero frills. I headed up the back steps that led to an enclosed deck overlooking the lake. Ivy covered a chain-link gate that was locked at all times, and there was a camera and a buzzer. He got his groceries delivered—everything, really.
I rang the buzzer and showed him what I had in my hand. “It’s me, man. Let’s trade.”
“Is that imported Curtis Mayfield?” a rough voice said. “Sweet ExorcistBuddha label?”
“Also got a German 1970 import of his first solo album,” I said, showing a peek at the second album I hid behind as a tease. Moonbeam had a soft spot for 1970s soul. “I need to look through that eighties punk crate you showed me a few weeks ago, and I want to see whatever new stuff you’ve picked up since I was here last time. Not the usual crap. No reissues.”
“Chasing rare wax, huh? Come in, my friend. Let’s trade,” an excited voice said through the speaker. He buzzed me in. I knew he would. Moonbeam was a longtime friend of my aunt Pari’scousin. He’d done business with Victory Vinyl for decades—trade only. My grandpa Kasabian used to bring him weed from some guy in Humboldt County back in the early 2000s.
I pulled the door shut behind me and stopped to pet his two longhair cats, Peaches and Herb, who immediately rubbed their loose fur all over my jeans. The back part of his deck was covered and extended to his living room through a pair of doors that stayed open. His elaborate vintage stereo equipment was inside—he was all about hearing the authentic warmth of the wax—and hooked up to speakers out on the deck. Half his shabby living room furniture was out here too. My parents had a fancy open-air room at their villa with an outdoor kitchen near their lake dock, but this wasnotthat.
“Let me see those,” he said, emerging from the house with two stacked record crates, flip-flops smacking against his heels. The big man was dressed in his usual poncho-and-shorts combo, and his long silver hair was tied behind his neck… longer silver beard covering his chest.
“What are you listening to?” I asked as I sat on a couch that looked out toward the twinkling lights of town. “Boz Skaggs? Turn this shit off.”
He set the crates down and groaned as he plopped across from me on a worn recliner. “Learn to love the Boz. I thought I taught you better than that. How’s Pari?”
“Busy,” I said, handing him the Curtis Mayfield records. “And before you ask, she doesn’t care that I’ve borrowed these. Officially I’m the store’s buyer now. They aren’t stolen.”
He was too enamored to care. “Damn. These are beautiful, Fen. No wear. You must want something important if you’re bringing me this,” he said, one brow shooting up. “And what’s up with you tonight?”
“Nothing.” Everything.
“Got a look about you. Did Zabel kick you out of her place? You can’t live here. I don’t need a roommate.”
“Jeez, no faith,” I complained, wedging one of the record crates between my knees to flip through the sleeves. “No one kicked anyone out. I’ve had… a major spiritual awakening.”
“Sounds serious. Does it involve drugs or a girl?”
“Notagirl. The girl. Ophelia,” I said, nudging my shoulder in his direction to remind him.
“The girl in the water? Mad Dog’s secret bastard?”
“That’s just a rumor, man. Anyway, she’s back in town. Staying at the lodge. Working for Velvet as her PA. Came into the store. Did not know me.”
“No shit?” He was truly surprised and understood the gravity of all this. I knew he would. I’d told him… too much about my problems. But he’d told me a lot about his, too. It was strange what you shared when it was past midnight and the lake was quiet. Besides, Moonbeam was easier to talk to than half the wet noodles I hung around back at school, who just wanted me to get them free festival passes and backstage access so they could make fools out of themselves.
“But it’s not all good. There’s a problem,” I told him. “It involves Eddie.”
“Always does,” he said, resigned to hear my pitiful story.
But once he had, he put the Mayfield records down.
“Go on,” I said, miserable. I’d lost my place in the record stack, getting riled up over Eddie again. “Tell me I screwed up.”
