Written in Dead Wax by Andrew Cartmel Page A

cups of coffee. She saw us and paused. There was a faint buzzing, like a wasp trapped in a jam jar, and Stinky started digging into his pockets, apparently in search of his phone. He took it out. “Probably my agent,” he said.
    “Well, don’t let me keep you,” I said.
    He scrutinised the screen. “No, it’s just this model I met. She keeps pestering me.” He shook his head and switched the phone off. I smiled at him. Knowing Stinky it was just as likely the call had been some spam from his phone provider. He said, “You haven’t been writing much on your blog lately.”
    This was a surprising observation from someone who pretended not to read it. “No,” I said. “I’ve been doing other things.”
    “Well, you have to keep the content refreshed, or you won’t get any hits.” He noticed Nevada, who was hanging back, politely waiting for him to finish talking to me. He turned to her and smiled. “Hi. Do you want my autograph?”
    Nevada gave him a look. It was the same look she might give to something unpleasant that had attached itself to her shoe. “Christ, no,” she said. “Why would I?” This was enough to give even Stinky pause, and the smile froze on his face.
    But he rallied with surprising speed. “Are you
sure
you wouldn’t like my autograph?”
    Nevada turned to me and nodded at Stinky.
    “Do you know him?” she said. “Or has he escaped from the local asylum?”
    I felt all warm inside, like I’d been drinking rum punch. I said, “Unfortunately, I do know him.”
    “I’m Stinky,” he said.
    “Well, you’re certainly in the right place,” said Nevada.
    “Stinky Stanmer.”
    “Give it up, Stinky,” I said. “She hasn’t heard of you.” I looked at Nevada. “Stinky and I went to university together.”
    “Well, these things happen.”
    “Is one of those coffees for me?” I said.
    “Ah, yes. This one.” She handed me one of the paper cups. It was hot and it smelled good. “I’ve been assured it’s made of the finest coffee beans which have passed through a monkey’s rectum.”
    I sipped the coffee. It was great. “A civet, actually. And I doubt you managed to source any authentic
kopi luwak
around here.”
    “Perhaps I exaggerate a trifle,” said Nevada. “Are you finished here yet?”
    “Just about.”
    “Pretty thin pickings,” said Stinky, who was unfortunately still standing with us. “But that’s hardly surprising. Finding a choice piece of vinyl here is about as likely as finding a virgin at a pimp convention.”
    If Nevada had found this plagiarised remark irresistibly charming I would have had to kill Stinky at this point, but luckily she treated his whole attempt to talk to her with the
froideur
it so richly deserved. “Ready to go then?” she said. I nodded and we headed for the door together.
    “See you, Stinky,” I said.
    But he was already rooting through a box of records.
    * * *
    We hit the charity shops. I found a nice French reissue of a Verve album by Gerry Mulligan and a few Illinois Jacquet air-shots, which is to say recordings of radio broadcasts. Fortunately, Nevada had the designer clothes rail to rifle in each shop and eventually she got lucky and found a Prada merkin or something, so she didn’t feel the outing had been an entire waste. Plus it kept her from nagging me about buying records that weren’t the one we were after, as if I should pass them up for that reason.
    I flipped through my LPs, gloating, in the taxi on the way back. Nevada was sitting opposite me, looking at something on her phone and giggling. Our driver, now officially designated Clean Head in my mind, and only partly as a tribute to the noted alto sax player Eddie “Clean Head” Vinson, was getting us home at an impressive clip. Eddie Vinson had been bald as a billiard ball, as the result of a hair-straightening calamity. For our driver it was clearly a fashion statement rather than a terrible chemical accident.
    In any case, thanks to her skills behind the