“But you don’t blame yourself?”
“Of course I do. Her father and I gave her a show. Today, everything would be different. Today, we could let her in, let her know we knew what she knew and—”
“Okay, but that’s not the reason she ran away.”
“Isn’t it? Her boyfriend was the only piece of reality she’d found. And his family took her in. Why do you think she was hooked? Emil was real—and they were a real family, probably warm and loving in ways Herbert and I could never be. From the day she fell in love with him she just transformed. She was alive as I’d never seen her before. And when she lost him, I knew she would lose them too, it was inevitable. I told her, ‘Cynthia, nobody will ever look at you the same again—especially not Emil’s parents.’ ” Mrs. Persky tugged at her granny glasses, checked herself. She had opened up more than she intended. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m attending a book club this evening. I’ve got to be on my way—”
As she stood, I shuffled quick through the LPs one last time in a cursory way—Mary Poppins, Beatles, Brahm’s Concerto No. 1, the Bangles, Ian & Sylvia Four Strong Winds. The last record caught my eye—RAINBO TEST PRESSING. A white label—all caps in faded Sharpie:
Customer: THE DAILY TELEGRAPH
Title: DEL CYD
Comments: PIONEER RECORDS
Date: 11/14/83
“What’s this?” I asked.
She shook her head, impatient. “I have no idea.”
The cardboard sleeve was worn, slightly burned at one end, like someone had leaned the LP against an electric heater—a toasted relic.
“Was your daughter in a band?”
“No,” she said. “But I believe Emil might have been.”
“He was?”
“Yes, but—you know, just high school boys. I don’t think they made a record.”
“Do you know who else might have been in the band?”
She made a lemon face. “It’s been thirty-five years.”
I had been holding back all afternoon, but I came out with it. “Do you know the Hawleys—your neighbors across the way?”
She glazed over, raised an eyebrow. “Sure, but we’ve never been close. Now look, I don’t want to be rude. But I really must go. Alba will let you out.”
Marjorie Persky took off down the stairs and I followed, with Alba closing the door behind me. Mrs. Persky moved swiftly into her champagne Lexus and exited the cul-de-sac in a rushed three-point turn. I was halfway to my car when I got an idea, turned around, and knocked on the door.
“Alba—so sorry, I left my cell phone upstairs.”
She nodded and I made the dash. Once up in Cinnamon’s room, I quickly tore off my jacket and pulled the test pressing from the trunk, wrapped it under my arm and skipped down the stairs and out the door.
As I hustled to the car, LP under my arm, I glanced back at the Hawley residence—a gent in his eighties was watering the lawn, could’ve been Hawley Senior. He was trim, clean-shaven, with the crystal blue eyes and wry jaw of an aging male model, waving his spritzing hose over the grass with regal self-amusement. But as he watched me get into the Jetta, his lids grew heavy and he tightened up.
Whoever I was, he did not like me.
5
Fourteen rides in four hours—the rains had stopped and the evening shift breezed by, working the hotels along Pacific Coast Highway. All the while, the LP in the trunk was tickling at my conscience. I had a wave of regret about yanking it and getting in deeper, but now that I had it, I had to at least listen to it once. There was just one problem: I didn’t own a record player and I racked my brain about who did. The only person I could think of was my sometimes ride Ziva, a painter who lived off Crescent Heights on the Westside. I knew the record player because she’d once insisted that I come in and listen to her favorite vibraphonist. The music had been superfast, almost comical, but Ziva said, “Isn’t it relaxing?”
I knocked on the door to her small cottage and to my surprise a beautiful young woman with auburn hair falling over her shoulders cracked it open—her crystal blue doe eyes almost made me lose my bearings.
“Hi…is Ziva here?”
“Can I tell her what it’s about?”
“I’m Adam. I’m her Lyft driver.”
“She didn’t tell me she was going anywhere.”
“No, no, I…” I lifted the LP, held it like a shield. “I want to see if I can borrow her record player for an hour.”
The young woman gave me a curious look. “And you’re her Lyft driver?”
“Well—” I smiled. “We’re friends, too.”
“Okay, one sec.”
“Are you Ziva’s granddaughter?”
“No.”
“New tenant?”
“Not exactly, I’m her caregiver. Let me ask her…” She hesitated, then gently closed the door in my face and I heard the lock turn. Fair enough.
