I Am (Not) the Walrus (8 page)

12

Saturday

It's been six months since my last visit to Harry Haller's. I never did bring in Shawn's bass to have him value it, but nothing much has changed about the place. For all I know, it could be the same collection of instruments dangling from the ceiling. Even Harry looks the same, the only difference being that last time he was fixing a saxophone, and this time he's fixing what I think is a balalaika.

“Can I help you?” He looks down the neck of the balalaika and gives me his almost-smile. Probably doesn't recognize me, which is not surprising. All the business of organizing our gig has been done between him and Zack. I wasn't involved.

“I was going to look at your basses.” I point to the staircase.

“Help yourself,” he says.

As I make my way up to the guitar room, I realize that I can do more than just stay dry here while I wait to go back to the park. I'm not planning to give Julie McGuire back her bass, but if for some reason I had to, and she made good on the offer of the reward, then this might not be a bad time to see what two hundred could buy me.

A quick glance at the Fender and Gibson wall is all I need to know that I'm not even close to being able to buy another Fender Precision. Even the wall of Japanese copies has only a couple of instruments within my price range. I lift one off the wall. A bright red p-bass with a maple neck. I only play three notes before I hang it back up.

I head to the wall of mystery guitars. There's a Burns Bison, a Watkins Rapier, and a Vox Teardrop all within my price range, but what really catches my eye is a Strad Bass, exactly like the one Paul McCartney played back in the early days. I take it off the wall. At two-fifty, it's a little out of my league, but it's playable.

I sit down and start thrumming my way through my repertoire of Beatles bass lines, beginning, of course, with “Nowhere Man.”

I've only been playing for a couple of minutes when I hear a loud drumming. I glance over at the window. It looks like someone is spraying a fire hose at the glass.

The rain has started with a vengeance. Maybe it'll slacken off before I have to go back to the park.

I'm just about to start playing again when I hear footsteps on the stairs. I stop and freeze. I really don't want Harry Haller whisking an instrument out of my hands again. But it isn't Harry. It's a lean man in a pork pie hat and sunglasses. Water drips off the brim of his hat and onto the damp-looking shoulders of his leather jacket.

The hat I can understand. It's good protection in the rain, but the sunglasses? Even with the lights on it's so dark in here that I can barely read the price tags.

“Good evening, good sir,” says the man, and raises his hat an inch or so off his head. “That sounded very nice. Don't let me stop you playing. Everybody loves the Beatles.” He wanders over to the wall of Fenders and Gibsons. “Way cool. Way cool.”

I go back to strumming, but I don't feel quite so much like playing with this bloke wandering around. Then I start thinking about the gig. If I feel this self-conscious in front of one person, then how am I going to be able to play in front of a whole audience on Monday?

I watch him as he wanders. He seems to be interested in p-basses. He examines two or three of them, and then there's another set of footsteps on the stairs. This time it is Harry Haller, and he really does come and lift the Strad Bass out of my hands. “That's an instrument to hang on somebody's wall,” he says, with a slightly warmer version of his almost-smile. “You'll ruin your technique if you play something that bad.” He hangs it back up, selects the Watkins Rapier, and hands that one to me.

“Thanks,” I say. “I was just thinking that Paul McCartney always looked cool playing a strad bass in the old
photos.”

“I can't say for certain,” says Harry, “but he probably just posed with the Strad Bass, whereas this one,” he points to the one in my hands, “is one of the best basses in the shop.” Harry stands back, rubs his hands together, and actually grins at me. “As good as any Fender, and only one hundred-eighty quid.”

“
One hundred-eighty
?” I say. I immediately think that I could buy this with the reward from Shawn's bass. That's if I do give it back. I probably won't, I suppose.

“One hundred and eighty,” repeats Harry, turning to look at Pork-pie.

But Pork-pie is staring at me. “He-e-e-y,” he says. He has a p-bass in his hands, which he is holding left-handed, even though it's a right-handed instrument. In other words, upside down. “I like your accent,” he says. “Where are from?”

“London,” I say. I feel hesitant about telling him this. I don't really like talking to people wearing sunglasses, especially when I don't know who they are. It feels like they're trying to hide something.

I go back to noodling on the bass.

“London is the place to be,” says Pork-pie. “You've got to be in the heart if you want to make it beat.”

“Excuse me, my friend,” Harry says to Pork-pie. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“I know exactly what I'm looking for.” Pork-pie tips the p-bass from one side to the other.

I watch his fingers as he pulls a string. It makes a flat, dead, clunk.

“A 1960s precision bass,” he says.

I glance up at Pork-pie's face. He's not looking at Harry, the bass, or at his fingers. He's staring right at me.

“Sunburst body,” he says. “Rosewood neck. Very cool. Very slick.”

I try to take my eyes away from Pork-pie's, but I can't seem to move. Hair prickles on the back of my neck.

“That's an '80s p-bass you have there,” says Harry. “It's pretty decent. Why don't you give it a whirl?”

Finally, Pork-pie looks away from me. I slump down as if I'd been held up by strings. He looks over at Harry.

“Me? I'm a pure artist, good sir.” Pork-pie flips the bass over onto its back. “I can only play when the stars are aligned and the spirit moves across the water. I can only play when the muse is in the heavenly house.” He flips the bass forward again, but it's still the wrong way round to play. “And the only instrument pure enough to receive my ministrations is a p-bass from the 1960s.”

Could Shawn's bass be a 1960s one?

Harry lets out a long breath. “A '60s p-bass will set you back at least five grand.” He smiles at Pork-pie, and raises one eyebrow. “You have an expensive muse.”

Could Shawn's bass be worth five thousand pounds?

“My talent is a gift from the gods,” says Pork-pie. “No dollar spent would be wasted, and worth every cent.” He hands the p-bass to Harry, and then directs his sunglasses at me again.

Once again, I can't move.

“You sure you don't have one?” he says, and I'm not sure if he's talking to me or to Harry. “Maybe somebody brought in one to sell to you. Or maybe you just sold one.”

Finally, Pork-pie looks away again.

“Maybe I could contact the buyer and make an offer,” he says.

“No. I'm afraid not,” says Harry. “I wish I did have one to sell you. I had a natural wood p-bass a few months back, and that one went for nine thousand.” Harry spreads his arms, then slaps them against his thighs.

“Natural wood?” says Pork-pie. “That means it wasn't painted. Right?”

“Correct,” says Harry.

“Could it have been a p-bass with the paint peeled off?” says Pork-pie.

“There are natural basses that are
natural
because they have been stripped at some point,” says Harry. He grins as if he's in some pain. “This particular one was a
natural
natural.”

“There are two other places you could look in Port Jackson,” Harry adds. “Steve's Sounds and Merrywether Music.”

“I checked those guys out,” says Pork-pie. He heads over to the stairs. Harry follows him.

Pork-pie says, “Gave them the once over, but no joy, no luck. Beautiful people. Very friendly.” He shifts his hat to one side. “Can I leave you a contact number?”

“Of course,” says Harry.

“Please call me if anybody brings one in,” says Pork-pie. “Be cool. Let me know. Hey. Even if they don't want to sell. Maybe just getting it valued or fixed or something. Let me know. I'll make an offer.” He hands Harry a card with something scrawled on it.

Harry looks at the card as they make their way down the steep staircase. “You're based in Brunswick? You should look closer to home. You'll have far more luck.”

As the voices fade away downstairs I suddenly realize that I have to leave right now to get to the park.

I hang the bass back on the wall, jog down to the first floor, and make my way to the entrance. Just as I push the door open to leave, Harry looks up and says, “You play in the band with Zack don't you?”

“Yes,” I say. “I'm really excited about Monday.” I step backward and let the door close. “I was just running through the set.” I point upstairs.

“Sounded very tight. Your timing is good. That's very important for the bass.” Harry runs his fingers along the neck of the balalaika. “I remember you telling me that you had an old precision bass.”

“Yes!” I come back into the store. “I was going to mention it to that bloke who was just in here, but I thought it might not be the right thing.”

“Your instincts were correct,” says Harry. “That gentleman was … ” He twirls his finger around. “How do you say … ?”

“Artsy-fartsy?” I suggest.

“Full of shit,” says Harry. He breaks into a full grin and gives a short, coughing laugh. “I would not recommend you do any business with him.” He puts down the balalaika and offers me a card, presumably the one Pork-pie just gave him. “If you want to contact him, please leave me out of it.”

“It's okay.” I shake my head. “Are you saying he's some kind of criminal?”

Harry shrugs, and turns his attention back to his balalaika. “Just avoid him at all costs.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I say. “Listen. I have to go. I'm meeting someone, and I'm already late.”

“Don't leave her standing in the rain,” he says. “That would not be good manners.”

This time I push the door open and actually leave.

13

Saturday

I stand in Harry's doorway for a moment. The rain is hammering on the pavement and seems to have set in for the day. I wish I had a pork pie hat now myself. There's a black Honda Civic parked across the street. It's a quiet street and even though there are plenty of empty spaces, the car is double-parked.

For really no good reason, I wonder if the car belongs to Pork-pie, and at precisely the moment the thought enters my head, the door swings open and out he steps.

He waves to me. “How are you, good sir?” he says, as if we've been good friends for a long time. He grins at me, crouches low, and pretends to draw a pair of six guns from his pocket as if he's a Western gunslinger. “Pop-pop-pop,” he says, then twirls his pretend guns and re-holsters them. “I was going to offer you a lift.” He pulls his hat lower, turns up the collar of his jacket, and saunters across the street toward me.

Once again, I find it difficult to move, or even think while he's staring at me, but as he gets closer I notice that he's actually shorter than me, and puny-looking as well. Upstairs in Harry's I was sitting, and he looked much taller. I should try harder not to be intimidated by him.

“I'm okay, thanks.” I point upward. “It's only water.”

“Very cool,” he says. He reaches the pavement and stops a few feet in front of me. “Only water.” He seems to be oblivious to the rain, which is hammering onto his hat and running over the brim in little rivulets. “I like it.” He folds his arms, exposing a blue Hawaiian shirt under his jacket, which looks really out of place on a day like this. “I would like to apologize on behalf of this region for the less-than-delightful weather.”

“Thanks,” I say, folding my own arms and retreating a few inches back into Harry's doorway.

“And as a token of my regret,” he says, “I would like to offer you a lift to wherever you need to get to. Free of charge and gratis.” With this, he takes a couple of steps forward, effectively blocking Harry's doorway and my escape route.

I shake my head, which sends out my own mini-shower of raindrops. “I'm fine,” I say. “I really don't mind the rain.”

“I was thinking, you know, musician to musician.” Pork-pie shimmies his narrow hips from side to side, sliding his shoes on the slick pavement. “We could take in some rare grooves. I have a kick-ass hi-fi in my car.” He points back across the street to the Civic, as if I hadn't just seen him get out of it.

“It's very kind of you,” I say, and I get a mental image of him back inside Harry's with the bass upside down. Maybe taunting him might get rid of him. “I didn't know you were a musician.”

Pork-pie stiffens, and his mouth narrows into a slot, but only for a moment. “Oh man, I'm a key player. I toured the clubs. I even tasted the big time, but I bit off more than I could chew. I spat it out and roamed to smaller pastures where the grass was greener and more to my liking. I could tell you stories.”

“What instrument do you play?” I ask him.

“What's my poison?” Harry begins to shimmy again. “I'm into a little of everything. A little bass, a little guitar, a little percussion, a little keyboards. If it can make a sound I can draw sweet music out of it.”

I glance at my watch. If I'm going to go, I need to leave right now. “It's been a treat chatting with you,” I say. I step forward at forty-five degrees, intending to squeeze past him, but just as I get out of the doorway something jerks me back. For a second, I think that my jacket has caught on a nail or something. I turn to unsnag it, and catch sight of a knobbly, pink hand fastened to my shoulder.

He might be small and puny looking, but his grip is ten times stronger than Jasper Hamilton-Sinclair's. I try to twist around, but it's futile. With a sinking feeling, I cannot move an inch forward or back.

“Come, good sir,” he says, with a broad smile. “Don't be a fool. It makes no sense to walk in this weather.”

His other hand fastens on to my forearm and, without me doing anything, my feet slide across the wet pavement toward the curb.

“Whoa! Wait,” I say. “What are you? Police or something?”

“Something,” he says, and then he's stopped by a ping.

Harry's door opens a few inches, and Harry pokes his head out. “Excuse me, mister,” he says to Pork-pie. He holds up Pork-pie's card. “I have something that might be of interest to you.”

We both stop and turn. Pork-pie's fingernails are now digging into my shoulder.

“If you have a moment,” says Harry.

Pork-pie's grip slackens a little.

“If not, I can ring you later,” says Harry.

Pork-pie glances at me, then back at Harry. “Don't move a muscle,” he says. “I don't want you walking in the rain.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” I say.

Pork-pie loosens his grip and follows Harry back into the shop. As soon as the door pings shut, I take off.

At the end of Ombard Street I pause and look back, but nobody is following me, and the Civic is still double-parked. I climb Sprague Street, and cross the railway footbridge. From the embankment I can see Harry's shop. No black Honda is parked outside. I jog the rest of the way to the park.