It read LAZERBEAM scratched in all caps next to a string of numbers.

“Maybe a serial number,” I said.

“No, read it.” She handed me the vinyl. I held it under the bulb: Lazerbeam 0 0 0 1 2 1 3 6 6 0 2 8 9 5 0 0 0.

“That’s not a serial number,” she said. “That’s a 213 phone number.”

“Holy moly,” I said. “You might be right. Should I call it?”

“Maybe not this late.”

Side two was one long track—a strange, creaky psychedelic jam-out that sent Endi to dreamland with her hands on her lap and her wine glass still half full on the table. Quiet as a mouse, I let myself out with The Daily Telegraph’s freaky magnum opus under my arm.

6

I woke in my studio apartment with Endi’s laughing smile on my mind, but the reverie was broken by the crinkle of the envelope I’d stuffed under my pillow—Elkaim’s cold hard cash. With a heave I sat up and groped for the cell. I was living in the upstairs storage space of Santiago Sound Labs, now complete with futon bed, mini-fridge, hot plate, and a rolling rack of clothes—my wardrobe didn’t quite fill the thing. One little window overlooked a three-space parking lot, but it caught the morning sun. I dialed Steam World. After one ring, a man answered. “Yallo.”

“Hi, wow, somebody there—finally—can I speak to Devon Hawley?”

“That’s me.”

“Howdy, hi—my name’s Adam, I’m a friend of Charles Elkaim. From the retirement home?”

“Oh man, so glad you called, hold on a sec.” His voice was friendly, relaxed, and for a flash I felt a little guilty about having spied on him. “Man,” he went on, “I felt sooo bad about standing Charles up—I did phone the nursing home a couple times but they said he was busy and then, you know…I just wanted to get my ducks in a row before bothering him again.”

“Your ducks? You mean, like, about Emil?”

A pause. Then: “Did you know Charles’s son?”

“I grew up across the street.”

“Oh. Wow. Well—why don’t you come by the studio. I’m on a deadline, but I should be finishing up by five or six.”

I said, “I’d love that,” then I made a thing of taking down the address even though I already knew where it was. Energized, I dressed, started the coffee, and nuked a breakfast burrito. Watching it spin in the microwave, I got a notion and pulled out the vinyl, held it to the sunlight. Then I dialed the number in the run-out groove. A man’s squeaky voice answered.

Create new paragraph, beginning with “Collectibles…..” “Collectibles.” Create new paragraph, beginning with “Hi…..”

“Hi. Is this…Lazerbeam?”

Some kind of rattling, pots and pans. Then: “Who is this?”

“My name’s Adam. I’m interested in learning about The Daily Telegraph.”

“How’d you get my number?”

“There’s this test pressing I found, I—”

A woman’s voice started raging in the background. “I told you I need the goddamn phone!”

“Hey, man, uh, I’m kinda strapped right now,” he said. “Why don’t you fall by after lunch.”

“Where are you?”

“Centinela Trailer Court. Tell ya all about it.”

Two appointments booked before breakfast—maybe this gig would be easier than I thought.

I planned to work a six-hour Lyft shift, but by 11:00 I found myself back at the Shalom Terrace Retirement Home, with its mustard carpets and wall-fastened Purells. I was eager to share the good news. Charles Elkaim wasn’t in his room, so I asked the nurse at reception where he might be and followed her to the rec room sing-along. Elkaim was hunched in a chair, playing his Casio, accompanying a singing guitarist, a handsome square-jawed entertainer guy in his fifties, a real leading-man type. Together, they led the wheelchair-bound through a heart-crushing rendition of “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face,” with everyone singing in about eight different keys. The guitarist kind of waltzed around the long table, strumming his pristine sunburst Martin acoustic with a twinkle in his eye, crooning person-to-person, trying to cheer up the dying with melody, and it worked. Big smiles on their upturned, yodeling gray faces—they adored him. When Elkaim saw me with the nurse, he pushed the keyboard aside and reached for his walker. I hated to interrupt—all eyes followed us out into the hallway.

One thing about these places: they drew very few visitors…a lot less than you’d think.

I said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Elkaim, I won’t be more than a minute.”

I helped him to a yellow couch by a glass birdcage. Inside, trapped little finches darted around on hanging wooden swings. “Have you brought news?”

“Good news,” I said. “I’m going to see Devon Hawley this evening. At his studio downtown. I thought you might want to come along.”

His lip trembled; he considered the birds. “No,” he said, “no, you go without me. The journey is too much. Whatever this man has to say, I will hear it from you.”

“Okay,” I said, “understood. I’ll try to bring back a full report. There’s one other thing, Mr. Elkaim, I was just wondering…”

“Tell me, nu.”

“Was Emil in a band?”

“A band?”

“Like, you know—a musical group.”

“I don’t think so. He played his guitar with friends, but they were kids. Then again, he certainly didn’t share everything with me. A teenager is like this.”

“Okay,” I said. “Anyway, not important. Now please, let me get you back to the singing. I hate to keep you from what you love.”

“No, no. I don’t feel like music anymore.” He stood and grabbed the walker. “Help me to my room. I must rest.”

“What about your keyboard?”

“Leave it. The entertainment director will bring it to me later.”

We clambered down the hall in half-time. As we turned a corner, a bearded man in his thirties approached. Elkaim introduced him as Rabbi Peretz. He was an odd duck—stocky but almost effeminate in a bolo tie and monkish curly hair around his dome. I hated to be cynical about these people that made a career out of acts of kindness, but it was hard to picture this guy anywhere else but here.

“Rabbi,” Elkaim said with great official pride, “this is Mr. Adam Zantz. I have known him since he was a child. He is like a son to me. And now he has volunteered to help me get my affairs in order.”

The rabbi shot me a skeptical smile and said, “Very good” but his hard eyes had the faint air of disapproval, like he saw me as the scam artist.

“It’s my honor to volunteer,” I said, “and that’s why I can’t accept Mr. Elkaim’s pay.” I dug for the envelope in my pocket, but Elkaim stopped me.

“Don’t insult me,” he said. “The money is for expenses.”