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

hammering onto his hat and running over the brim in little rivulets. “I like it.” He folds his arms, exposing a blue Hawaiian shirt under his jacket, which looks really out of place on a day like this. “I would like to apologize on behalf of this region for the less-than-delightful weather.”
    â€œThanks,” I say, folding my own arms and retreating a few inches back into Harry’s doorway.
    â€œAnd as a token of my regret,” he says, “I would like to offer you a lift to wherever you need to get to. Free of charge and gratis.” With this, he takes a couple of steps forward, effectively blocking Harry’s doorway and my escape route.
    I shake my head, which sends out my own mini-shower of raindrops. “I’m fine,” I say. “I really don’t mind the rain.”
    â€œI was thinking, you know, musician to musician.” Pork-pie shimmies his narrow hips from side to side, sliding his shoes on the slick pavement. “We could take in some rare grooves. I have a kick-ass hi-fi in my car.” He points back across the street to the Civic, as if I hadn’t just seen him get out of it.
    â€œIt’s very kind of you,” I say, and I get a mental image of him back inside Harry’s with the bass upside down. Maybe taunting him might get rid of him. “I didn’t know you were a musician.”
    Pork-pie stiffens, and his mouth narrows into a slot, but only for a moment. “Oh man, I’m a key player. I toured the clubs. I even tasted the big time, but I bit off more than I could chew. I spat it out and roamed to smaller pastures where the grass was greener and more to my liking. I could tell you stories.”
    â€œWhat instrument do you play?” I ask him.
    â€œWhat’s my poison?” Harry begins to shimmy again. “I’m into a little of everything. A little bass, a little guitar, a little percussion, a little keyboards. If it can make a sound I can draw sweet music out of it.”
    I glance at my watch. If I’m going to go, I need to leave right now. “It’s been a treat chatting with you,” I say. I step forward at forty-five degrees, intending to squeeze past him, but just as I get out of the doorway something jerks me back. For a second, I think that my jacket has caught on a nail or something. I turn to unsnag it, and catch sight of a knobbly, pink hand fastened to my shoulder.
    He might be small and puny looking, but his grip is ten times stronger than Jasper Hamilton-Sinclair’s. I try to twist around, but it’s futile. With a sinking feeling, I cannot move an inch forward or back.
    â€œCome, good sir,” he says, with a broad smile. “Don’t be a fool. It makes no sense to walk in this weather.”
    His other hand fastens on to my forearm and, without me doing anything, my feet slide across the wet pavement toward the curb.
    â€œWhoa! Wait,” I say. “What are you? Police or something?”
    â€œSomething,” he says, and then he’s stopped by a ping.
    Harry’s door opens a few inches, and Harry pokes his head out. “Excuse me, mister,” he says to Pork-pie. He holds up Pork-pie’s card. “I have something that might be of interest to you.”
    We both stop and turn. Pork-pie’s fingernails are now digging into my shoulder.
    â€œIf you have a moment,” says Harry.
    Pork-pie’s grip slackens a little.
    â€œIf not, I can ring you later,” says Harry.
    Pork-pie glances at me, then back at Harry. “Don’t move a muscle,” he says. “I don’t want you walking in the rain.”
    â€œI’m not going anywhere,” I say.
    Pork-pie loosens his grip and follows Harry back into the shop. As soon as the door pings shut, I take off.
    At the end of Ombard Street I pause and look back, but nobody is following me, and the Civic is still double-parked. I climb Sprague Street, and cross the railway