by Ed Briant
“Okay,” I say. I smile now even though my heart is beginning to sink.
He studies the metal plate, where the neck joins the body. He jumps back, changes his glasses, and scrutinizes the number again. After that he takes out the notepad again and jots down the number. He puts the pad away and frowns at me. “How did you get this instrument?”
“It belonged to my brother,” I say. Now I feel like an idiot. With a bass like this I ought to know its history. “He got it about a year and a half back. I don’t know how much he paid for it or where he got it.” I take a long breath.
“Okay, Toby. This is very important,” he says. “You need to ask your brother where he got the bass.”
“That’s not going to be possible,” I say.
“Wait.” Harry leans forward. “Is he okay?”
“He’s alive,” I say, “but it’s going to be hard to ask him about it.” I point to the instrument. “Can’t you value it just from the serial number?”
“Yes and no,” says Harry. “It has a four-digit serial number, Toby,” he says. “That means it’s one of the first ten thousand instruments Fender made.” He nods at me. “It’s from the 1960s.” He pats the pocket where he put his notepad. “At a rough guess it’s from ’67 or ’68.”
“So it could be worth 5,000 pounds,” I say.
He puffs out his cheeks. “As I said. Yes and no.” He places his hands just above the fret board, but doesn’t touch it. “It could be worth a lot more.”
“I thought you told the bloke with the pork pie hat that a ’60s p-bass was worth 5,000,” I say.
“Yes, but there are some basses that are worth a lot more.” Harry flutters his eyelids as if he doesn’t quite approve of what he’s going to say next. “They’re called Lost Basses.” He shakes his head as if it pains him to tell me this.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“There’s this whole obsession among collectors to find instruments that were once owned by famous musicians, but have somehow vanished.” Harry patters his fingers on top of the counter. “For example, there’s the bass that was owned by James Jamerson. He was the bassist who played backing on nearly every Motown hit in the 1960s. His bass was stolen just after he died.” Harry claps his hands together. “It’s never been seen again.” He points to Shawn’s instrument. “This one is not it,” he says, “but it could be one of the others.”
“What makes you think it’s a Lost Bass?” I say.
“It’s from the ’60s,” he says, “and they’re nearly all from the sixties. Plus, and don’t take this the wrong way, but they are all lost”—he makes air quotes with his fingers—“because they were all stolen.”
“But my brother paid for this,” I say.
“Is your brother very rich?” says Harry. “Did he have 5,000 pounds to spend on a bass? Because that is the very least this instrument could be worth.”
“Five hundred,” I say. “At least that’s what he told me.”
“So whoever sold it to him,” says Harry, “did not know the value of what he was selling.” Harry lifts the bass up as though it’s a fragile vase, and puts it back in the case. “The reason he did not know the value is because he stole it.”
“Are you going to file a police report or something?” I say.
“Good God, no.” Harry closes the case and hands it to me. “I will do some research and get back to you.”
“How long will that take?” I say.
“No more than a day or two.” He walks over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Toby, you have to understand that there’s a lot of money to be made buying and selling old musical instruments––electric guitars and basses more than any other instruments. Where there’s a lot of money changing hands, there are always a few dodgy characters. Take the bass home, and put it away carefully.”
The phone is ringing just as I arrive home. I struggle in through the front door and pick up, but it’s not Harry. It’s Jasper with Julie McGuire’s number.
30
Tuesday
As the bus pulls into Brunswick Station, I catch sight of Michelle standing under the clock, right where we agreed to meet. According to the clock, it’s four, and I should already be at Julie McGuire’s. My concern for the bass is now added to my worry about being late. The last thing I want is to get to Julie’s, find she’s out, and have to carry the bass all the way home again.
A moment later, both bus and Michelle are out of sight as the bus turns a corner. I stand up before the bus stops, and then get thrown forward as it jerks to a halt, but I’m back on my feet in a second. With a huge sense of relief, I grab the bass and race up the aisle.
Michelle is waiting by the door.
“Oh man, I’m sorry you had to wait,” I say as I step down onto the asphalt. “There was a big accident on Coast Road. We got held up for half an hour.”
“It’s okay, Toby.” She grabs my shoulders, pulls me towards her, and kisses me on the cheek. “I think I’m getting used to the idea that you’re always late.”
I’m not sure if the kiss is a friend kiss, or a boyfriend kiss, so I just pat her left shoulder. I can’t hug her anyway, as I have the bass in my other hand, and I don’t want to put it down. My relief at being reunited with the bass is fading fast. Now I’m just paranoid having it with me. There are a lot of sketchy-looking characters around, and every time one of them glances at me I think they know that I’m holding a bass worth five thousand pounds.
“I was hoping we’d have time to get that second cup of tea.” She folds her arms and tips her head from side to side. “We’re probably too late, right?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Julie told me to be there by four.” I shrug to show that I’m not sure of the significance of this fact. “I kind of assumed that it was due to the fact that Live Oak was a dodgy place to be after dark.”
Michelle laughs. “Live Oak?” She gives me a comical frown mixed with a smile, then does sidelong looks either way. “This is Live Oak,” she says. “Who told you it was dangerous?”
“A bloke called Jasper,” I say. “He’s the guy who tracked down Julie for me.” I switch the bass over to my left hand. It gets heavy quickly. “Maybe we should give the bass back first, and then get tea. To be honest, I want to get rid of it as soon as possible.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” says Michelle. “Besides, then you won’t have to lug it about with you.”
I think about telling Michelle how much the bass is worth. Then I decide not to. One stressed-out person in our group is enough. Besides, I can always tell her after I give it back.
Julie’s house is only about five minutes from the bus station, and in the opposite direction to Mariner Street. We hurry past used car showrooms, fast food restaurants, and empty shops. Barnard Street itself is lined with crumbling Victorian row houses and empty lots. Number 27 is almost at the top of the hill where it sags between two empty, overgrown lots, like a condemned criminal in front of a firing squad.
The front door is at the top of an ornate set of steps. There’s an intercom on the right of the door. Underneath are six buzzers, plus there’s one separate bell under the intercom-buzzer set, and another bell on the right side of the door. None of them have any names or numbers.
“Which one is Julie McGuire?” I say. “And which one is the psycho-hatchet-murderer?”
“Hmm.” Michelle taps the upper-right buzzer. “This one,” she says.
“How can you tell?” I say.
“Just a guess,” says Michelle. “It’s cleaner than the top left, and she lives on the top floor.” She raises her eyebrows. “If the buzzer is cleaner, then someone has been pushing it a lot.” She wags her finger at me. “Ex-punk-rocker ladies always get more visitors than psycho-hatchet murderers. Don’t they teach you anything in those schools in Port Jackson?”
“The sex life of flowers and French irregular verbs,” I say. I shift the bass into my left hand, place my fingertip an inch from the buzzer, and stop. “So I’ll follow your judgment on this.”
I’m just about to push the buzzer when she grasps my forearm. “Are you sure you really want to do this?” she says. “You don’t have to give the bass back.”
“Brilliant,” I say. Keeping my fingertip an inch from the buzzer, I turn and scrutinize her for a moment. I give her the biggest smile I can muster in order to hide the fact that I’m a little pissed off at her. “You were the one who talked me into this.”
“Me?” She spreads the palm of her hand across her collar bones.
“Naturally,” I say. “Who else would I be talking about?”
“Please.” She holds out her hands and backs away from me slightly. “Don’t do this just because of me.”
I shake my head. She’s right. I don’t really want to dump the responsibility onto her. “I want to do it,” I say. “Sorry. I’m just a bit agitated.”
“Is it because I’m here?” Michelle frowns. “Did you tell her I was coming?”
“No. No way.” I take in a long breath. “I’m really glad you’re here. I don’t think it’ll make much difference to Julie.”
“I suppose not,” she says. “What time is it now?” She rolls her lips over her teeth.
“Late.” I raise my arm and push the doorbell. It makes no sound. I stand back and look up at the cracked front of the building, without knowing exactly what I’m looking for. Maybe someone leaning out.
“Aargh!” Michelle does a pretend scream, squeezes my upper arm with both hands, and pushes her head against my shoulder. “How could I be stupid? Hatchet murderers get more callers, of course!”
I don’t know why or how I do this; I twist toward her while she’s still holding onto my arm. Then I lean down and brush my lips against hers.
She increases the pressure on my arm. “Hiya,” she says. “Do I know you by any chance?”
“I think we met,” I say. I lean down, and give her a lingering kiss.
“Hello!” The harsh intercom voice jerks me back to reality like an alarm clock. “Is that Toby?”
I pull back from Michelle, but breaking away is too sudden, so I lean my forehead against hers while I speak. “Yes. It’s Toby,” I say. It’s an odd sensation speaking to a disembodied voice on an intercom while I’m gazing into Michelle’s eyes. “My friend Michelle is here as well. Is that okay?”
“Fine,” says the voice on the intercom. “Come right up.”
The door buzzes. I lean on it, and it opens inward. I switch hands with the bass yet again, and usher Michelle in ahead of me. As she passes, I kiss her one more time.
31
Tuesday
“I wish you’d come a bit earlier.” A voice echoes down the stairwell to the lobby. I look up to see where the voice is coming from, and get a kind of reverse vertigo. The staircase winds upward, past giant doorways, crumbling pillars, and cherubs with their wings and noses knocked off.
“I don’t think this place was built with ex-punk-rockers and axe murderers in mind,” whispers Michelle as we climb.
“Why are you whispering?” I say.
“Maybe there are some archdukes taking a nap,” she says, pointing to one of the doorways as we pass.
“Sorry to rush you,” says Julie, as we reach the top floor.
Until this morning, I didn’t even know if Julie McGuire was alive or dead. Now here she is right in front of me, all in black, in sharp contrast to faded greens and browns of the walls and doorways.
“I was hoping we’d have a bit more time.” She pushes open her door, which is about twice as tall as she is. “I have to go somewhere and I’m late already.”
Maybe this explains why she’s so dressed up.
“Sorry we’re late,” I say as I stand aside to let Michelle go in first. “The bus got stuck in a traffic jam.”
The hallway is pretty narrow, one side being taken up by an overflowing bookcase.
“Oh, well, can’t be helped,” says Julie. She leans forward and gives Michelle a peck on the cheek as she passes. “Aren’t you pretty?” she says.
Michelle’s cheeks go red. “Thanks,” she says, as she squeezes past a fragile-looking table with a phone on it.
“Just a statement of fact,” says Julie. “I’m just staying here at the moment while I’m moving out of my flat. I don’t normally live in this level of squalor.”
In spite of the shambles, the place is actually pretty clean except for a slight background pong. The smell is familiar, but I can’t quite place it until something soft nudges my leg.
“Oh, don’t let the cats out,” Julie says.
I look down and wedge a morbidly obese ginger cat against the wall with my leg. Julie stoops down and wedges the football-cat under her elbow. “Come in, Madison,” she says. “Otherwise you’ll be spending the night in the hall.”
With the cat under one arm, she wraps the other arm around my neck and kisses me on the cheek. “It’s so nice to meet you, finally.” She dances across the floor like a soccer player as she tries to maneuver a calico cat away from the door. “Come into my studio.” I squeeze in past owner and cats into a slightly more intense cat-pong.
I make my way down the hall to a kitchen jammed with books. Books on chairs, books on tables, books on the floor.
“Let me see, let me see!” says Julie.
She bustles past me, lifts a pile of books off the table, and distributes the books onto other stacks on the floor and the couch.
“Sorry about the clutter.” She splays her fingers on the table as if it’s a piano. “Why don’t you plonk it down here?”
“Oh, wow,” says Michelle, picking a paperback off one of the piles. “My mum reads Ruth Rendell books.”
“Honey.” Julie spins around. “Please don’t mess things up,” she says. “There’s actually an order to these.”
I lower the case gently onto the table. After the Rupert incident at the beach it seems to have developed some uneven edges, and I don’t want it to scratch the tabletop.
“Whoa.” Julie turns back to me, and presses her palms together as if she’s praying. “You know I hadn’t really thought much about this.” She blows out a long breath and rests her chin on her raised fingertips. Her hands are heavily veined. They look a lot older than her face. “I’m kinda nervous.”
“Yeah.” I shake my arms to get the blood flowing again after the weight of the bass. “Me too.”
“You know what?” she says. “It really is a weird situation.” She flips up the catches—one, two, three—and raises the lid as if the case contains holy relics, and maybe it does in a way.
She whistles.
Michelle comes around from behind me. “I forgot how beautiful it was,” she says.
“Yup,” says Julie, and lets out a short laugh. “Pretty, and a pain in the arse.”
She gives Michelle a harsh glance, and just for a moment, I’m not completely certain that she’s referring to the bass.
Julie looks down at the bass and takes in a long breath. “I never thought I’d see this again.” She puts her hands back into her prayer position. “You don’t know anything about this instrument, do you?”
“Just that my brother came home with it one night,” I say. “He gave it to me when he went away,” I add quickly. “It wasn’t him who stole it. He paid for it. He bought it about eighteen months ago.” I have to clear my throat. I’m not a good liar. Of course, I don’t know for certain that he didn’t steal it, but now I’m guessing that he might well have done just that.
“Oh. I know who stole it.” Julie lifts the instrument out of its case. Without looking at me she says, “I know exactly who stole it.” She rests the bod
y on the table and slides a veined hand up the neck as if she’s stroking one of her cats. She smiles at me. “It wasn’t you, and it wasn’t your brother.” She plays a few notes.
The intonation is clumsy, and the timing is off, but it’s just about recognizable as “Day Tripper.” She’s no Paul McCartney, but she’s better than either Rupert or Shawn.
“Nice,” I say. I’m getting better at lying.
She purses her lips as she looks at me. “Now you.” She passes the bass over to me.
“Last time,” I say. I put my foot up on a chair, prop the body on my leg, and play the same lines. It really is the last time, so I throw in every slide, trill, and decoration I can think of. Probably the best I’ve ever played it.
Julie bends down and scoops up the calico cat. “That”—she gestures toward my fingers with the puzzled-looking cat—“is nice.”
“It’s okay,” I say.
“You know what’s funny?” She strokes the top of the cat’s head with her chin. “Over the years I must have heard a hundred people play that instrument.” The cat begins to purr loudly. “Every single one played a Beatles riff when they picked it up.” The cat flails its legs, and Julie places it back on the floor. “Uncanny. Right?”
“I suppose,” I say. I offer the instrument back to Julie, but when she places her hands on it I have to make a real effort to let go of it. I want to leave before I change my mind. “I don’t want to be rude, but we need to get going. If you don’t have the reward money, then it doesn’t matter.” I have a sudden urge to grab the bass back, so I step away and thrust my fingers into my pockets. “But if you did have it, the money would come in handy.”