it’s been waiting on us

sneakin’ up on us

Emil’s splashy guitar had been treated by some special chorus or reverb or something—one of those plasticky eighties pedal effects that maybe sounded modern then but seem old-fashioned now.

Just around the corner

into the big wide world

Then, without warning, his solo erupted like a geyser from the spaciousness, cycloning above the groove, chasing after some secret force. The urgency of his melodic sense, the erotic power of it, pure Emil—thrilling, reckless, thin ice. He built it and pushed it and raced it to the magic high, and the night desert spread out before me as grand and alive and mysterious as Mars. If this was what Emil was capable of, no wonder—no wonder he won every heart, no wonder they called him the brave one.

And no wonder he was marked for death.

Without notice, the solo made way for the chorus on return, and I knew I had to hear it again, the whole song, so I pressed rewind and play. It was pop, it was slick, glossy, melodramatic, far from the practice garage earnestness that made their unreleased LP so sweet—no, this was…grandiose even, but I had to admit one painful and undeniable thing: I liked it.

I liked it and I hated myself for liking it.

Maybe that’s why I couldn’t stop playing it—from Vista Chino to Beaumont, under fading, taunting stars, I clung to it, one hand on the boom box. As soon as the fade kicked in, I’d rewind and fire it up again and rest my hand on the buttons like a nervous air traffic controller. I must have played it ten times in a row, but I needed to hear it just once more—because it contained some something, some secret code, beyond the case even—the shape of the mystery, of Cinnamon and Emil, of being young and in love, all of it slipping away with brutal quickness.

the big wide world

is gonna steal you away

steal you awayyyyy

from me

Something elegiac in the voice—but determined too. The past, this song was saying, is gone. Time to face the future—the painful, synthesized, synthetic, ice-cold future. To salve the wound growing inside me, I groped for their beginning, their happier times, as if they were my own. I tried to picture it—he’s working after school at Kone-Coctions, she’s blushing on arrival. Twisting the scoop, he smiles. She says, “You go to Fairfax, right?”

But even then, on the cusp of first love, it’s just around the corner.

the big wide world

is just around the corner

sneaking up on us

and taking you taking you

far far away from me

into the big wide—

But did they know this was prophecy, the shape of things to come? Maybe they did. Maybe that’s what scared them. The world, with its flying metal and bloodlust and clocks that don’t stop was sneaking up—that they knew, every seventeen-year-old does. The world was the crowd all around, pushing, grabbing for some ice cream on a hot summer day. People. Too many. Waiting for ice cream and a destiny. Never knowing…how close we are to the end of a dream.

With a majestic swoop, dip, and curve, the 10 met the mighty Pacific Coast Highway and all at once I knew. I had to find him—Dr. Bahari—I had to see his face. I had to understand why he went so far, mutilated then slaughtered his musical children. With a surge of late-night hurt, the ocean horizon appeared before me like a signpost up ahead—the moonlight zone.

31

Waning late afternoon sun hit the palm trees that surrounded FG Vitamin Laboratories, casting lanky shadows across the lizard green walls. It was a generic-looking two-story commercial building that took up half a block of industrial park, and if it wasn’t for the FG logo out front—bold letters on a graphic lime-colored four-leaf clover—I wouldn’t have known I was in the right place. Big glass doors, darkened glass windows—there was something eighties-ish about the whole operation. Maybe it had always been Bahari’s little spot, revamped for every fresh scam. I parked on the street and tried the door—locked. I peered through the dark glass. The place was soft, pastel, ergonomic. The logo reappeared on the wall inside over a half-oval desk, lime couches, a pile of brochures—but nobody home.

I smarted with defeat. There hadn’t been much to go on in Wiki—Bahari was eighty-six, a celebrated headshrinker, motivational speaker, businessman, and one of America’s first foreign-born billionaires. Among his current holdings, FG Vitamins advertised “best-in-class” supplements that address a wide spectrum of needs for men and women over the age of sixty. It was more wellness juju, all-organic, feel great, and never die. But it didn’t make me Sherlock Holmes to guess that FG stood for Fountain Grove.

I dialed Fountain Grove Labs and got a machine. “Yeah, hi,” I said, “my name’s Adam Zantz. I’m…I’m trying to get in touch with Dr. Bahari. If there’s anybody at all that can get me in touch with him, please let me know. Soon as possible is better, thanks. And tell him I’m a fan of The Daily Telegraph.”

I gave my number. Then I texted Endi again—I’d been trying her all afternoon already. After no response, I called and got the answering machine. Maybe she was miffed that I’d flaked, but that wasn’t important now, it was time to make a full confession—I am studying to be an investigator, I picked up this crazy case, things got hairy and I—just…wanted to be careful. And I’m sorry I lied.

Something told me she’d understand; she had to. I fired up the ride and tore down the 405 back into Los Angeles—night was falling again but it was still early enough to pay her a surprise visit. When I pulled up to Ziva’s, a cop car idled out front, its lights casting red-blue on Endi’s grave face as she spoke to a uniformed police officer taking notes on his tablet. She seemed to be gritting her teeth at my approach.

The policeman said, “You know this man?”

“Yes,” she said, but she wasn’t happy about it. “This is the one I was telling you about. It’s his album they were looking for.”

“You leave an LP here?” The cop seemed incredulous to be asking about something so outmoded and breakable.

“No,” I said, the blood leaving my face. “No. I played one here, though, but I took it home. Can somebody tell me what’s—”

“Is there something particularly valuable about this record?”

I looked at Endi—she did not want to exchange comforts. “No,” I said. “I mean, it’s rare—but it’s not worth money, if that’s what you mean.”

“Can you give us a few minutes?” The cop’s tone was hard, and so I nodded and walked back to my car and leaned on it, clutching my keys, all twisted with anxiety.

After the police drove off, I caught Endi at the front door. “What happened?”

“I don’t feel like talking to you right now.”

“Endi—please tell me, I’m worried.”

“Not worried enough. A man broke in here today while I was at Trader Joe’s. Apparently, he wanted to know where your stupid LP was.”

“No.”

“Yeah actually—he turned the place upside down and when he didn’t find it, he pulled a fucking gun on Ziva.”

“No.”

“Yes, Adam—he gave her the scare of a lifetime.”

“No no no no.” I was shaking. “Where is she? Can I see her?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, in full contempt mode. I grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Endi, who was this man? Did Ziva say what he looked like?”

She shook me off. “Don’t touch me. You got a lot of nerve, coming around here, pretending to be a journalist, getting us tangled up in your little…unofficial investigation. And lying to me every step of the way. The officer told me you’re in their database as a…some kind of a witness to a homicide? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Endi, it’s not how it sounds. I didn’t—”