I Am (Not) the Walrus by Ed Briant

suppose.
    â€œOne hundred and eighty,” repeats Harry, turning to look at Pork-pie.
    But Pork-pie is staring at me. “He-e-e-y,” he says. He has a p-bass in his hands, which he is holding left-handed, even though it’s a right-handed instrument. In other words, upside down. “I like your accent,” he says. “Where are from?”
    â€œLondon,” I say. I feel hesitant about telling him this. I don’t really like talking to people wearing sunglasses, especially when I don’t know who they are. It feels like they’re trying to hide something.
    I go back to noodling on the bass.
    â€œLondon is the place to be,” says Pork-pie. “You’ve got to be in the heart if you want to make it beat.”
    â€œExcuse me, my friend,” Harry says to Pork-pie. “What exactly are you looking for?”
    â€œI know exactly what I’m looking for.” Pork-pie tips the p-bass from one side to the other.
    I watch his fingers as he pulls a string. It makes a flat, dead, clunk.
    â€œA 1960s precision bass,” he says.
    I glance up at Pork-pie’s face. He’s not looking at Harry, the bass, or at his fingers. He’s staring right at me.
    â€œSunburst body,” he says. “Rosewood neck. Very cool. Very slick.”
    I try to take my eyes away from Pork-pie’s, but I can’t seem to move. Hair prickles on the back of my neck.
    â€œThat’s an ’80s p-bass you have there,” says Harry. “It’s pretty decent. Why don’t you give it a whirl?”
    Finally, Pork-pie looks away from me. I slump down as if I’d been held up by strings. He looks over at Harry.
    â€œMe? I’m a pure artist, good sir.” Pork-pie flips the bass over onto its back. “I can only play when the stars are aligned and the spirit moves across the water. I can only play when the muse is in the heavenly house.” He flips the bass forward again, but it’s still the wrong way round to play. “And the only instrument pure enough to receive my ministrations is a p-bass from the 1960s.”
    Could Shawn’s bass be a 1960s one?
    Harry lets out a long breath. “A ’60s p-bass will set you back at least five grand.” He smiles at Pork-pie, and raises one eyebrow. “You have an expensive muse.”
    Could Shawn’s bass be worth five thousand pounds?
    â€œMy talent is a gift from the gods,” says Pork-pie. “No dollar spent would be wasted, and worth every cent.” He hands the p-bass to Harry, and then directs his sunglasses at me again.
    Once again, I can’t move.
    â€œYou sure you don’t have one?” he says, and I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or to Harry. “Maybe somebody brought in one to sell to you. Or maybe you just sold one.”
    Finally, Pork-pie looks away again.
    â€œMaybe I could contact the buyer and make an offer,” he says.
    â€œNo. I’m afraid not,” says Harry. “I wish I did have one to sell you. I had a natural wood p-bass a few months back, and that one went for nine thousand.” Harry spreads his arms, then slaps them against his thighs.
    â€œNatural wood?” says Pork-pie. “That means it wasn’t painted. Right?”
    â€œCorrect,” says Harry.
    â€œCould it have been a p-bass with the paint peeled off?” says Pork-pie.
    â€œThere are natural basses that are natural because they have been stripped at some point,” says Harry. He grins as if he’s in some pain. “This particular one was a natural natural.”
    â€œThere are two other places you could look in Port Jackson,” Harry adds. “Steve’s Sounds and Merrywether Music.”
    â€œI checked those guys out,” says Pork-pie. He heads over to the stairs. Harry follows him.
    Pork-pie says, “Gave them the once over, but no joy, no luck. Beautiful people. Very friendly.” He shifts his hat to one side.