Read Online The Kill Riff by David J. Schow - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David J. Schow
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Thursday Garris had strolled into the stockroom after returning early from a crosstown shipment pickup. There he had discovered Charity kneeling in front of Ronnie Colvin with her mouth full. Ronnie's Jordache jeans were pooled around his ankles. The expression of torpid bliss on his face shifted to stark, bug-eyed terror at Garris' unannounced entrance. He fainted before Garris could fire him. Charity had licked her lips like a cat, and Garris knew he held only the ashes of what passed for a relationship. In retrospect, the worst part was that now Garris would have to fill in for Ronnie in the classical music department until a new warm body could be hired.
On the floor behind the counter, leaning against the videotape shelf, were three teetering columns of priced records waiting to go into the bins. That was supposed to have been done on Saturday, Garris' only day off.
Wrong.
Two minutes past opening, and On the Brink already seemed too glaring and bright by half. Garris was in a state his mom always termed "cross-eyed with bad anger."
Fucking cretins, was that all he was capable of hiring? First order: Bum the oil. Recheck the books. Redo the orders. Screw severance for Charity; she could keep the Human League promotional stuff she'd appropriated. Tomorrow afternoon could be spent bartering comp albums and deejay pressings in return for reliable emergency help-Mitchell from the Broadway store, Bianca, who could really rise to a crisis, and for sure Mickey, who wanted everybody to call him Slitboy but was a bonafide stocking and checking fool. Mickey would hold out for drugs but would settle for weed, and Garris always had a bribe lid or two stashed in eternal readiness.
Garris fought not to plod as he trudged up the wide, Christmas-tree-lit stairway to the Classical Music Nest and fired up the lights. Banners bearing the dour visages of Perlman, Ax, and Pavarotti wafted in the breeze from the air-conditioning vents. Lined up behind the counter were posters featuring famous composers. Garris had pet names for all of them. Mahler was the Mad Doktor. Franz Liszt was Son of Lovecraft. Mendelssohn was Santa Claus Meets the Hell's Angels. Beethoven was the High School Principal. Waist high on the counter was a blowup of Charles Ives with the eyes cut out. Ronnie Colvin had liked to kneel and peer out through the eyeholes like a Chinese manservant in some Victorian murder mystery. There was also a chaotic handwritten chart, much annotated, listing the film scores of John Williams and the classical music from which each score had been plagiarized. Ronnie really had a hard-on to berate Williams. Garris thought that the chart would go, but Peeping Charles could stay. So much for Ronnie's contribution. Let Charity try to blow him full of minimum wage.
He shut down the cooler. It was nearly forty-five degrees inside the store. He'd turned it on automatically, without thinking. Winter was hanging on too long. It should, by rights, be balmier.
Garris ascended from the Classical Music Nest and brought the store's third level to life. This was the potpourri section encompassing all recordings not covered by designations like SOUL/R&B, JAZZ/BLOOZE, FUNK/RAP, REGGAE/SKA, THRASH, SPEED METAL, NEO-RAGE, POST-PUNK, NUEVO WAVO, SPRINGSTEEN, MOLDIES, ROCK-ROCK-ROCK, and the challengingly eclectic IMP, the import bins. Up there were sound tracks, and Broadway shows, and spoken word, and foreign language, and three-for-a-buck discs.
Murphy's Law of Record Stores was in force today, he thought. No sooner did he get up on the third floor than the first customer of the day blew into the apparently abandoned store downstairs.
"Mornin'," he said loudly, jaunting down with his easy, lanky, sort of loping stride. "I was beginning to think there was no sentient life in the outside world today."
"The weekday curse," answered the customer, aimiably enough to make Garris
On the floor behind the counter, leaning against the videotape shelf, were three teetering columns of priced records waiting to go into the bins. That was supposed to have been done on Saturday, Garris' only day off.
Wrong.
Two minutes past opening, and On the Brink already seemed too glaring and bright by half. Garris was in a state his mom always termed "cross-eyed with bad anger."
Fucking cretins, was that all he was capable of hiring? First order: Bum the oil. Recheck the books. Redo the orders. Screw severance for Charity; she could keep the Human League promotional stuff she'd appropriated. Tomorrow afternoon could be spent bartering comp albums and deejay pressings in return for reliable emergency help-Mitchell from the Broadway store, Bianca, who could really rise to a crisis, and for sure Mickey, who wanted everybody to call him Slitboy but was a bonafide stocking and checking fool. Mickey would hold out for drugs but would settle for weed, and Garris always had a bribe lid or two stashed in eternal readiness.
Garris fought not to plod as he trudged up the wide, Christmas-tree-lit stairway to the Classical Music Nest and fired up the lights. Banners bearing the dour visages of Perlman, Ax, and Pavarotti wafted in the breeze from the air-conditioning vents. Lined up behind the counter were posters featuring famous composers. Garris had pet names for all of them. Mahler was the Mad Doktor. Franz Liszt was Son of Lovecraft. Mendelssohn was Santa Claus Meets the Hell's Angels. Beethoven was the High School Principal. Waist high on the counter was a blowup of Charles Ives with the eyes cut out. Ronnie Colvin had liked to kneel and peer out through the eyeholes like a Chinese manservant in some Victorian murder mystery. There was also a chaotic handwritten chart, much annotated, listing the film scores of John Williams and the classical music from which each score had been plagiarized. Ronnie really had a hard-on to berate Williams. Garris thought that the chart would go, but Peeping Charles could stay. So much for Ronnie's contribution. Let Charity try to blow him full of minimum wage.
He shut down the cooler. It was nearly forty-five degrees inside the store. He'd turned it on automatically, without thinking. Winter was hanging on too long. It should, by rights, be balmier.
Garris ascended from the Classical Music Nest and brought the store's third level to life. This was the potpourri section encompassing all recordings not covered by designations like SOUL/R&B, JAZZ/BLOOZE, FUNK/RAP, REGGAE/SKA, THRASH, SPEED METAL, NEO-RAGE, POST-PUNK, NUEVO WAVO, SPRINGSTEEN, MOLDIES, ROCK-ROCK-ROCK, and the challengingly eclectic IMP, the import bins. Up there were sound tracks, and Broadway shows, and spoken word, and foreign language, and three-for-a-buck discs.
Murphy's Law of Record Stores was in force today, he thought. No sooner did he get up on the third floor than the first customer of the day blew into the apparently abandoned store downstairs.
"Mornin'," he said loudly, jaunting down with his easy, lanky, sort of loping stride. "I was beginning to think there was no sentient life in the outside world today."
"The weekday curse," answered the customer, aimiably enough to make Garris
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