I Am (Not) the Walrus by Ed Briant Page A

“Can I leave you a contact number?”
    â€œOf course,” says Harry.
    â€œPlease call me if anybody brings one in,” says Pork-pie. “Be cool. Let me know. Hey. Even if they don’t want to sell. Maybe just getting it valued or fixed or something. Let me know. I’ll make an offer.” He hands Harry a card with something scrawled on it.
    Harry looks at the card as they make their way down the steep staircase. “You’re based in Brunswick? You should look closer to home. You’ll have far more luck.”
    As the voices fade away downstairs I suddenly realize that I have to leave right now to get to the park.
    I hang the bass back on the wall, jog down to the first floor, and make my way to the entrance. Just as I push the door open to leave, Harry looks up and says, “You play in the band with Zack don’t you?”
    â€œYes,” I say. “I’m really excited about Monday.” I step backward and let the door close. “I was just running through the set.” I point upstairs.
    â€œSounded very tight. Your timing is good. That’s very important for the bass.” Harry runs his fingers along the neck of the balalaika. “I remember you telling me that you had an old precision bass.”
    â€œYes!” I come back into the store. “I was going to mention it to that bloke who was just in here, but I thought it might not be the right thing.”
    â€œYour instincts were correct,” says Harry. “That gentleman was … ” He twirls his finger around. “How do you say … ?”
    â€œArtsy-fartsy?” I suggest.
    â€œFull of shit,” says Harry. He breaks into a full grin and gives a short, coughing laugh. “I would not recommend you do any business with him.” He puts down the balalaika and offers me a card, presumably the one Pork-pie just gave him. “If you want to contact him, please leave me out of it.”
    â€œIt’s okay.” I shake my head. “Are you saying he’s some kind of criminal?”
    Harry shrugs, and turns his attention back to his balalaika. “Just avoid him at all costs.”
    â€œThanks for the advice,” I say. “Listen. I have to go. I’m meeting someone, and I’m already late.”
    â€œDon’t leave her standing in the rain,” he says. “That would not be good manners.”
    This time I push the door open and actually leave.

13
    Saturday
    I stand in Harry’s doorway for a moment. The rain is hammering on the pavement and seems to have set in for the day. I wish I had a pork pie hat now myself. There’s a black Honda Civic parked across the street. It’s a quiet street and even though there are plenty of empty spaces, the car is double-parked.
    For really no good reason, I wonder if the car belongs to Pork-pie, and at precisely the moment the thought enters my head, the door swings open and out he steps.
    He waves to me. “How are you, good sir?” he says, as if we’ve been good friends for a long time. He grins at me, crouches low, and pretends to draw a pair of six guns from his pocket as if he’s a Western gunslinger. “Pop-pop-pop,” he says, then twirls his pretend guns and re-holsters them. “I was going to offer you a lift.” He pulls his hat lower, turns up the collar of his jacket, and saunters across the street toward me.
    Once again, I find it difficult to move, or even think while he’s staring at me, but as he gets closer I notice that he’s actually shorter than me, and puny-looking as well. Upstairs in Harry’s I was sitting, and he looked much taller. I should try harder not to be intimidated by him.
    â€œI’m okay, thanks.” I point upward. “It’s only water.”
    â€œVery cool,” he says. He reaches the pavement and stops a few feet in front of me. “Only water.” He seems to be oblivious to the rain, which is