But she didn’t. She just nodded. “So, like I was saying, since there’s no L.A. punk section here, maybe you can tell me how I can help you make this go faster—I can write stuff down or help organize. Whatever you need. I’m yours for the afternoon.”
Damn. I mean, I knew she wasn’t flirting. But still. Most importantly, shewasstaying. Which meant, I supposed, that she didn’t hate my company.
It was a start.
She blinked at me and asked, “So, um, what are you lookingfor? I know a little about vinyl, but I’m a quick learner. Two hands are better than one. Wait… four? Ha.”
“And four paws.” I pointed at the dog. “Wouldn’t have happened to bring the green toy?”
“Oh—Frida, no! Stop!” Jane scolded. “No chewing on the mean woman’s rug!”
Once she got the dog under control, Jane let her off the leash with the pickle toy. I didn’t want to take any chances that she’d change her mind and call her dad to pick her up, so I plunged into all things music as we started digging into the record collection, explaining what I was looking for. I went over basics, like record size and RPM. Picture sleeves and inserts. Acetates versus vinyl. Record condition and grading systems. Warp. Wear.
My God, she smelled good. I tried not to breathe in too deep. Or to look at her too much when she was close. I kept getting lost and forgetting what I was saying.
“It’s amazing how big the covers are. Art was important. It’s so tiny on our screens. I never even think about it when I’m streaming music, but look at these that you open up like a book and there’s artwork inside—what are these called again?”
“Gatefolds,” I told her. “Bob Dylan’sBlonde on Blondewas one of the first gatefold sleeves to have two albums inside.”
“Cool.” I liked that she respected the vinyl and touched it with care, even when it was shitty Christmas records that weren’t worth anything. “Hey, I bet they played this with their kids every year,” she said. “Look how scratched it is. And the cover is sticky. Peppermint. Wow.”
“Not wow. Worthless. The same messy kid probably grew up and rearranged these records all wrong.”
“I’ve always loved the idea of a big family having a nice Christmas.”
“Just because your family’s big doesn’t mean it’s always nice.” I regretted saying this. I didn’t want to think about my mom telling me that my sister cried last year. And how I wouldn’t be there this year. But mostly I didn’t want Jane to think about my brother, not when our talk had been blissfully Eddie-free today.
But she just nodded and put the record back. “Still, I value this holiday section here at a very high price. That’s my expert opinion. Anything that conjures sparkly lights, family, food, and happy memories is valuable.” She pulled out a Townes Van Zandt album from the shelf above it. “This has the sad song ‘Waiting Around to Die,’ and therefore I value it at one cent.”
“Oddly enough, that depressing shit is worth a little cash if the vinyl is in decent shape. I’ve got a system for flagging the good stuff. Here. Let me show you.…”
Surprisingly, she was interested in both my method and sorting through this man’s collection. We sat on the floor together, pulling out small stacks, with Frida excitedly wagging her tail and jumping from lap to lap. The record collection was crap. I’m talking completely worthless. But Jane and I talked nonstop about music. The bands she’d heard recording in Mad Dog’s studio. The sound checks I’d watched from backstage at the festival. The stars who sounded terrible in person, and the ones who had real talent.
We were talking so much that I was surprised to see we’dmade our way through a third of the collection. More surprised when the doors to the den flew open.
“Get out!” Mrs. Tybalt shouted in a panic. “Both of you, now. My son’s coming.”
“We’re not done with—” I started to say.
She didn’t give a damn. “Come back later. If Chet catches you here, he’ll be furious.”
We scrambled to get out, collecting my notes and Frida on her leash, rushing through a cloud of Mrs. Tybalt’s cigarette smoke on our way out. “We’re still going to bill you for this,” I told her as we strode down the driveway.
“Fine,” she called back. “I’ll call the shop when it’s safe for you to return. What about all those Elvis Presley albums? How much were they worth?”
Shit. There was Elvis? Would have known that if the collection were organized correctly. “Whatever you do, don’t let your son take those, Mrs. Tybalt. Call the shop. I’ll come back.” I backed up the Jeep in a haze of dust and pulled out of the driveway, then booked it toward the freeway on-ramp.
“Is it always like this?” Jane asked, checking the rearview mirror to see if the car behind us was slowing down to pull into the Tybalts’ house. “Damn, I think that’s Chet.”
“Collectors are always a little weird, no matter what they collect,” I told her. “But I’ve never been rushed out of someone’s house like a lover in the middle of the night.”
“She wasn’t a collector.”
“Huh?”
“She just wants the cash,” Jane said. “Her husband was the music lover. And maybe her son is right to try to hang on to the records instead of selling them. What’s more important, making a quick buck or love of music?”
“He’s probably just sentimental because it was his father’s stuff,” I pointed out, getting on the freeway.
