Written in Dead Wax (4 page)

The walls were shelved from floor to ceiling and lined with records, CDs, and a few DVDs.

On the wall there were small, framed pictures of conductors and opera stars whom I couldn’t have named if my life depended on it.

The room was empty at the moment except for Jerry, who was sitting in his favourite chair near the window reading a book about Bernard Herrmann. “Hello there,” he said, putting a pencil in the book to mark his place and setting it aside. “I haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Cash flow problems.” I sat down in the chair nearest to him.

He shook his head. “That should never be a problem,” he said. “You know your credit’s good here. If there are things you want, just take them home. Pay me later, or whenever.” He smiled. Jerry Muscutt was a small, contented man with enquiring grey eyes. Despite his considerable age he had an unlined face and sleek red hair and a pointed beard. The hair and beard at least were the products of artifice. Some wag had once left a package of Tints of Nature red hair dye in the kitchen unit to tease him. It hadn’t bothered Jerry in the least and the hair dye packet had remained proudly on display for months, on a high shelf beside a boxed set of Gounod.

“We’ve just bought a large collection, including a lot of jazz,” he said. “Haven’t got it sorted yet. I’m still going through it at home. But when we bring it into the shop I’ll let you know. You can have a sneak preview. I think there will be some items to interest you.”

“Thank you.”

“In the meantime you want to pop upstairs.” Upstairs is where they kept the jazz. “We’ve got some Spanish Fresh Sound reissues on vinyl that you’ll want to see. Tell Kempton I put them behind the counter for you.”

“Thanks, Jerry. That’s great. But actually today it’s the classical department I wanted to explore.”

He looked at me shrewdly. “Classical music? That’s not like you.”

“I’m on commission,” I said. “Looking for a record.”

“Well, if it’s classical, I’m your man.”

“It’s an original Everest pressing.”

He smiled. “The turquoise and silver label, then.”

“I imagine so. It’s the Goossens
Firebird Suite
, recorded here in London.”

His smiled widened. “Ah, really?” he said. “Why don’t you make us both a cup of tea—coffee for you, of course—and I’ll tell you all about that record. Fascinating story.”

* * *

She was waiting for me in the café behind Denmark Street where I’d arranged for us to meet. It was a cramped place with chipped green linoleum floor and scuffed metal tables. She’d chosen a seat at the back, as far as possible from the bellowing hiss of the coffee machine. She had a notebook and pen on the table in front of her and looked in a bad mood.

“What is this place?” she demanded, as I sat down. “Couldn’t you have found somewhere a little more squalid?”

“Wait until you try the coffee.”

I went and bought two cappuccinos and took them back to the table. She sniffed cautiously at her cup, took a sip, and nodded as if confirming a long-held theory. No more complaints about the venue, though. She took a few more sips then she set her cup down and squared her little red notebook and pen on the table. She opened the notebook, all business.

“Now, about finding this record.”

“We won’t be.”

“What? We won’t be what?”

“Finding this record.”

She closed the notebook and looked at me. “Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t exist.”

She looked at me for a long time. “What makes you say that?”

“I asked a man who knows about such things.”

“And you trust him? You trust his judgment?”

“Yes. Because he knows about such things.”

She put the pen and notebook away very slowly, as if to give herself time to think. To fill the silence I said, “The record was scheduled and it was announced. The musicians and the hall were booked. They even printed copies of the sleeve, which is why you can see pictures of it online. But there was never a recording. It all fell through, due to some kind of contractual dispute.”

She nodded thoughtfully and said, “Well, that was incredibly honest of you.”

“What was?”

“Telling me, instead of just stringing me along endlessly and collecting your twenty pounds a day from now until god knows when. Your
per diem
.”

“Travelling expenses, actually.” I tried to conceal my delight at the implied praise.

She looked at me shrewdly and said, “Actually it’s probably more likely that you just couldn’t resist smugly showing off the knowledge you’ve just acquired.”

“I prefer the incredibly honest theory,” I said.

She laughed and then reached in her pocket and put a neatly folded twenty-pound note on the table. “Well, I suppose this is goodbye, then.” She gave me a polite smile and took out her phone. I had been dismissed. I got up and considered leaving the twenty there. I felt hurt and insulted and wanted to return the hurt and insult. But the brutal fact was I couldn’t afford the gesture. I took the money and left.

I was halfway out the door of the café when she called. “Wait.” I turned and looked at her. “Come back and sit down,” she said. I went back inside and sat down opposite her. “Well done,” she said.

“For what?”

“You passed the test.”

“I see,” I said, not entirely truthfully.

“We knew the record didn’t exist.”

“Did you?”

She nodded. “We just wanted to find out if you knew your stuff.”

“So you’re saying you
do
have a job for me?”

“Yes, my employer would like you to work with me.”

“Because we’ve built up such a foundation of mutual trust.”

She laughed. “That’s right, yes.”

“So who is this chick, then?” said Tinkler.

“She works for the head of some big corporation. In Germany, I think.” I handed him her business card.

He sniffed it. “Hmm. N. Warren. She smells nice. What does the N stand for?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to make it my life’s work to find out.”

He handed the card back to me. “Sounds like you should make it your life’s work to find this record of hers first. What was it again?
Disraeli Gears
?”

Disraeli Gears
is a classic album by Cream. My friend Tinkler was more of a rock specialist, though he did know a bit about jazz.

“No, you deaf idiot,” I said. “Easy Geary.”

“Oh yes,” Tinkler nodded, his hair swaying across his face. In the glow of the lava lamp his plump face was that of a depraved Sistine cherub. We were in the upstairs room of his narrow little Victorian house in Putney, in the spare bedroom he had converted into a listening room. It was a small cosy room stuffed with records and hi-fi equipment. In pride of place on the wall was a framed Valerian album cover, the gatefold with the naked young woman and all the cats on it.

Tinkler said, “The Beatnik poet of the tenor saxophone.”

“He was a pianist, actually,” I said.

Tinkler snapped his fingers, anxious to regain lost ground. “That’s right, I remember, a pianist. Easy Geary. Mid 1950s, West Coast. Sounds a lot like Monk.”

“A lot more like Elmo Hope,” I said.

“He was interesting.”

He was more than interesting. A considerable composer as well as a pianist, Easy Geary had died the traditional tragically premature jazz death, long before he had revealed the full flower of his true potential. His music was raw, primitive, abstract and urgent, always hinting at a profound underlying complexity, as if he knew much more than he was letting on.

Tinkler was nodding and smiling. “His arrangements were something else. So what’s this record?”

“It’s called
Easy Come, Easy Go
.”

“Cute. Never heard of it.”

“There’s a good reason for that. It was released on an obscure little label called Hathor. They were a West Coast outfit like Nocturne or Mode or Tampa. Except Hathor went under in their first year of operation.”

“Gee, why am I not surprised?” said Tinkler. “Nocturne and Mode and Tampa are all great names for a record label. And Hathor is a fucking terrible name.”

“It was an ill-omened one, anyway. When they went bust the owner killed himself. They only ever issued fourteen LPs and this was the last one. They produced records in steadily decreasing print runs as the company slowly failed. By the time they got to
Easy Come, Easy Go
, they were only pressing tiny quantities.”

“So that’s why it’s so rare. How much will they pay you if you find it?”

“They’re offering me at least a five-figure finder’s fee.”

“A five figure… I can’t even
say
it.” He went over to the mantelpiece and took down a small yellow enamelled box. It had a colourful swirling design of dragons on it.

I said, “When the drug squad busts this place that will definitely be the last place they look for your stash.”

“Don’t be snippy. Listen, if you find this record what’s to stop you just selling it yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

He sank back on the sofa and opened the dragon box. “If you find it, they’re offering to pay you a percentage of the market price, correct?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“So why not sell it yourself and keep everything? The whole market price.”

“Because that’s not what I agreed to do.”

Tinkler chuckled as he started to roll his joint. “So the Vinyl Detective has a code of honour?”

“Well, if you’re going to be sarcastic…”

“Down these mean crates a man must dig,” he said. “Sorry, that
was
a little sarcastic. It’s all highly theoretical anyway, though, isn’t it? I mean, if this record is as rare as you say it is, you’re never going to find a copy.”

I thought carefully for a moment about how much I should tell him. But Tinkler’s my friend and I knew I could trust him. “They’ve got some information,” I said.

He paused in the process of licking the cigarette papers. “What sort of information?”

“They have reason to believe someone has recently got rid of a copy. Put it on the second-hand market.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere in London.”

“Oh well, best of British luck.”

“Somewhere in south London.”

“Like I say, best of luck.”

“Southwest London.”

He paused in assembling the joint and scrutinised me. “You know, that might actually be doable.” He grinned. “Have you heard this record?”

“Never on vinyl. Just CDs. And never the whole thing. The CD reissues always omit one track.”

“That’s kind of mysterious. Not to mention annoying. Why do they do that? Copyright problems?”

“No, the master tape is missing.”

“That’s a major bummer. What was the track?”

“A vocal number. Just for this one track Geary was joined by a singer called Rita Mae Pollini.”

“Rita Mae who?”

“Pollini. For my money the greatest jazz singer who ever lived.”

“Never heard of her.”

I shrugged. “A lot of people have never heard of June Christy or Betty Carter or Lucy Ann Polk.”

“I’ve got some Betty Carter here, somewhere,” said Tinkler. He rose from the sofa and went over and checked the amp, which was warming up. Tinkler’s hi-fi system consisted of a vintage Thorens TD 124 turntable, some mammoth Tannoy horn-loaded speakers, only slightly smaller than prehistoric elephants, installed on either side of the chimney breast, and an amplifier using valves from obsolete television cameras that looked like the control panel of a flying saucer in a 1953 movie.

It all sounded pretty good, though.

While he was checking the bias and DC offset on each output valve—a finicky business but necessary if he didn’t want his speakers bursting into flame—I went over and looked at the fitted shelves that filled an entire wall except for a narrow strip where the Valerian picture hung.

The shelves were mostly crammed with records, of course, but there was also a narrow section devoted to books about music. I reached up and took down Wilson’s
Singers of America
. I’d sat back down and found the page I was looking for before Tinkler finished fiddling with the valves.

When he finally concluded his task he came over and frowned at the book. “What’s that?”

I showed him the picture I’d found of Rita Mae Pollini. Taken in 1958 it showed a stunning beauty with dark hair and wide dark eyes. It was hard to tell in the black and white photo, but her skin seemed to be a beguiling olive shade. A Mediterranean beauty who might have gazed out of a Renaissance painting.

Tinkler stared at the book. “Good Christ, my underpants are exploding. Why have I never heard of this woman?”

“Well, she only recorded a handful of albums before vanishing into obscurity. It seems she married a dentist, did her last—and best—recordings, and then retired to raise a kid.”

“Yes, that will do it every time. Particularly marrying a dentist.” He offered me the joint.

“No thanks. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.” Coffee was the only drug I really approved of.

“Yes, the first day of your quest.” He parked the joint in a blue crystal ashtray on the coffee table. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Where are you going?”

“To get some provisions from the kitchen.” He went out the door.

I called after him. “Got the munchies already?” There was no reply, just the familiar sound of Tinkler falling down the stairs.

I went out to take a look. “Are you all right?” I stood at the banister, peering down. His pale face smiled tentatively up at me from the shadows below.

“Fine. Just took a little spill. One of the stair rod screws is a bit loose.”

“One of
your
screws is a bit loose,” I said.

He came back a few minutes later with a big white ceramic bowl full of Kettle Chips and placed it on the coffee table. While I helped myself, he went over and rummaged through his records. “You know what I found the other day, at a record fair? A copy of
Beggars’ Banquet
. Red label. Original unboxed Decca mono.”

“Nice,” I said. Although I primarily listened to jazz, I shared Tinkler’s fondness for the Rolling Stones.

“Yes, and it was in great nick. Near mint. I paid for it with trembling hands, got it home and went to put it on the shelf, and you know what?”