room.
Just three steps up to a second door, they passed into an elevated space smelling of dusty wood.
Filled with pianos.
At one time, it might have been a living room, maybe even a dining room. Now it had been stripped of everything but the floor planks. Even the walls were little more than studs and framing. This space wasn't about anything put the piano-forte, the clavier, and one irreparable harpsichord.
Dust lay in blankets a quarter inch deep over the tops of everything. As Jimmy and Vince stirred the air in their passage, it hardly moved the dust; the weight of time made a fabric of the accumulated motes.
The room smelled of antique wood, of metal casings and broken strings. It was like a graveyard of pianos packed so tight that only two aisles could be walked from one end of the space to the other.
"You only sell guitars and pianos?" Jimmy asked.
"And harmonicas," Vince replied.
Jimmy reached one end of the room. "I came here to ask . . ."
The words died in his throat. To the left, sitting on a piano bench facing a windowless wall was a trumpet case propped open. Inside, a silver horn bearing the dents and scrapes of use lay cloaked in the same fall of dust that coated everything.
A Gillespie model.
Vince came up beside him. "Been here since I bought the place in '69. Old Doc Thurber told me just to leave it be. Didn't much matter to me, I don't care for brass."
Jimmy looked up at the man. "This isn't the instrument I heard. Can't be. I just finished recording it less than ten minutes ago. This thing hasn't been played in years." He ran a finger along the tubing, clearing a path across the dull finish.
"You'll need to keep an open mind about that," Vince said. "Things are different on the Pacific. Stuff has a way of being less and more than you make of it. That's no lie."
"I'd like to buy it," Jimmy blurted. "How much?"
"Ain't for sale," the hippie said. "Not to you. I can see the money in your eyes. Saw it yesterday when you came through talking about selling us the ocean on a CD." He laughed. "You realize I just need to step outside to get that for free."
"I'm not going to argue with you. What about five hundred for the horn?"
Vincent's eyebrows lifted, but Jimmy soon realized it had nothing to do with interest in the five hundred. "I won't take your money," the guy began, scratching his nipple. "But since you seem sincere, I'll steer you one port more. There's a small theater up Nelscott way, the West End Theater. Judd Jensen is always around. Oldest guy in town. He was here when this was still getting some lip." He pointed at the Gillespie horn. "Tell Judd I showed you the trumpet. He'll know what to say."
Jimmy spent several moments looking at the instrument in its stiffened velvet case, then strode the boards back toward his car. The very thought of the sounds in the waves caused him to quicken his pace.
Something about those songs.
The West End Theater was closed until 6:00 p.m.
Jimmy spent the day trying to duplicate his findings at the beach, annoyed at the bystanders asking him a lot of stupid questions. He actually threw a bit of sand at a few pesky kids to shoo them away.
But the trumpet didn't seem to accompany the waves in the daylight.
When dusk fell, Jimmy went to the theater, bought a ticket to a delightful rendition of
You Can't Take it with You
, then lingered in his seat while the other three patrons wandered out.
When the rumblings of stage props ceased, a man with thick white hair stepped out onto the stage beneath the single bulb which burned above it.
"You waiting for me?" the man asked.
"If you're Mr. Jensen."
"I am."
"My name is Jimmy Nesbitt. Vincent said I could talk to you about the trumpet," Jimmy replied.
The old man stared out on the small theater, deep set eyes hiding whatever thoughts they might have betrayed. "That so?" He titled his head back, staring into the weak glare of the light. "You know what that is?"
"No, sir."
"Ghost light," the man said.
Just three steps up to a second door, they passed into an elevated space smelling of dusty wood.
Filled with pianos.
At one time, it might have been a living room, maybe even a dining room. Now it had been stripped of everything but the floor planks. Even the walls were little more than studs and framing. This space wasn't about anything put the piano-forte, the clavier, and one irreparable harpsichord.
Dust lay in blankets a quarter inch deep over the tops of everything. As Jimmy and Vince stirred the air in their passage, it hardly moved the dust; the weight of time made a fabric of the accumulated motes.
The room smelled of antique wood, of metal casings and broken strings. It was like a graveyard of pianos packed so tight that only two aisles could be walked from one end of the space to the other.
"You only sell guitars and pianos?" Jimmy asked.
"And harmonicas," Vince replied.
Jimmy reached one end of the room. "I came here to ask . . ."
The words died in his throat. To the left, sitting on a piano bench facing a windowless wall was a trumpet case propped open. Inside, a silver horn bearing the dents and scrapes of use lay cloaked in the same fall of dust that coated everything.
A Gillespie model.
Vince came up beside him. "Been here since I bought the place in '69. Old Doc Thurber told me just to leave it be. Didn't much matter to me, I don't care for brass."
Jimmy looked up at the man. "This isn't the instrument I heard. Can't be. I just finished recording it less than ten minutes ago. This thing hasn't been played in years." He ran a finger along the tubing, clearing a path across the dull finish.
"You'll need to keep an open mind about that," Vince said. "Things are different on the Pacific. Stuff has a way of being less and more than you make of it. That's no lie."
"I'd like to buy it," Jimmy blurted. "How much?"
"Ain't for sale," the hippie said. "Not to you. I can see the money in your eyes. Saw it yesterday when you came through talking about selling us the ocean on a CD." He laughed. "You realize I just need to step outside to get that for free."
"I'm not going to argue with you. What about five hundred for the horn?"
Vincent's eyebrows lifted, but Jimmy soon realized it had nothing to do with interest in the five hundred. "I won't take your money," the guy began, scratching his nipple. "But since you seem sincere, I'll steer you one port more. There's a small theater up Nelscott way, the West End Theater. Judd Jensen is always around. Oldest guy in town. He was here when this was still getting some lip." He pointed at the Gillespie horn. "Tell Judd I showed you the trumpet. He'll know what to say."
Jimmy spent several moments looking at the instrument in its stiffened velvet case, then strode the boards back toward his car. The very thought of the sounds in the waves caused him to quicken his pace.
Something about those songs.
The West End Theater was closed until 6:00 p.m.
Jimmy spent the day trying to duplicate his findings at the beach, annoyed at the bystanders asking him a lot of stupid questions. He actually threw a bit of sand at a few pesky kids to shoo them away.
But the trumpet didn't seem to accompany the waves in the daylight.
When dusk fell, Jimmy went to the theater, bought a ticket to a delightful rendition of
You Can't Take it with You
, then lingered in his seat while the other three patrons wandered out.
When the rumblings of stage props ceased, a man with thick white hair stepped out onto the stage beneath the single bulb which burned above it.
"You waiting for me?" the man asked.
"If you're Mr. Jensen."
"I am."
"My name is Jimmy Nesbitt. Vincent said I could talk to you about the trumpet," Jimmy replied.
The old man stared out on the small theater, deep set eyes hiding whatever thoughts they might have betrayed. "That so?" He titled his head back, staring into the weak glare of the light. "You know what that is?"
"No, sir."
"Ghost light," the man said.
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