Serious Moonlight(29)

“So, though you couldn’t swear, electricity wasn’t satanic science for you either. That’s what you’re saying.”

“That’s what I’m saying. I just wasn’t aware of tournaments for games like that.”

“There’s a pro tour every year—the World Magic Cup. You travel to other cities and win big cash. Like, tens of thousands. And you get to go to cool cities, which I’d love to do.”

“Because you’re not a hipster with a man bun; you’re a nerd.”

He feigned insult. “I’ll have you know, this is a topknot, not a man bun. But, yeah, I’m such a nerd. Throw in magic tricks and the fact that I’m nineteen and still live with my mom. Now you’ve built yourself a raging nerd monster.” He thumped his chest with one fist and roared.

I laughed so hard, hot tea splashed on my hand.

“Are you laughing at my dorkishness?” he said, eyes merry.

“In a good way. You might be the biggest nerd I’ve ever met.”

“It’s good to be number one in something,” he said with a smile, holding out his coffee cup for me to clink. When I did, he lifted his chin toward a storefront. “I think that’s our destination.”

The record shop was part of a block-long building, its neighbors being a fish-and-chips shop and a gay nightclub. A leafy tree growing out of the sidewalk hid the store’s unassuming black-and-white sign—TENOR RECORDS. If it weren’t for the album covers plastering the glass door, we might have missed it.

“Put down your martini and let’s get to some sleuthing, Nora,” Daniel said, full of infectious cheer. A bell tinkled when he opened the door, and we stepped inside.

The narrow store was a claustrophobe’s nightmare. Clunky record racks stretched from the register to the Employees Only door in the back corner. Every inch of wall space was filled with albums pegged to display racks and vintage cardboard flats of old covers—operas and concerts from every decade, every language. And between the two outer walls, instruments hung from the ceiling by fishing wire: violins and bows, clarinets and flutes. It was like a scene from inside the Great Hall at Hogwarts.

“Whoa,” Daniel said, looking around as a string quartet played Mozart over the shop’s trembling stereo speakers. “We seem to be the only customers.”

And no employees. We were alone. “Maybe someone’s in the back? Let’s look around.”

Daniel and I strolled down an aisle, scanning the bins of records until I spotted the opera section, and he began flicking through the covers. Most of them appeared to be old and used. I caught snatches of words in vintage fonts: scenes and arias, Decca, Maria Callas, Pavarotti. Metropolitan Orchestra. Tosca, La Traviata, Antony and Cleopatra. It was like reading a book in a foreign language.

“Look at this thing,” Daniel murmured, hefting a giant boxed set of records emblazoned with raised silver letters. Der Ring Des Nibelungen. “This is one opera? Christ. Fifteen hours? That’s insane.”

“I’d probably fall asleep in the first hour.” I picked up a copy of arias from Verdi’s Aida. On the front was a photo of an enormous Egyptian temple set, the two opera singers inside it looking like ants. “Rome Opera House. I had no idea the sets were so elaborate.” I opened the gatefold to see more of the Egyptian temple inside.

“It’s like Broadway on crack,” Daniel said, standing closer to inspect the photograph with me. “You think this is what Raymond Darke listens to?”

At that moment, a single clerk emerged from the back offices, a pale, gangly man who looked to be in his early twenties, possibly younger. One side of his short blond hair was shaved, and the other flopped over his eyes. Tattooed musical notes along both wrists peeked out from his shirtsleeves when he stretched to straighten the top of a rack of sheet music. Then he headed toward the front register, stopping only when he spotted us.

“You guys need something?” he asked, pushing hair out of his eyes.

Daniel closed the Aida album, tucking it under his arm as he approached the clerk. “Hey, man. What’s up?” he said, casual as can be. “We were trying to track down someone who may be a regular customer here and wondering if you might be able to help us.”

“Uh . . .” The clerk looked at Daniel, then me. Then Daniel again. “Maybe?”

“He’s a white dude in his early fifties. About this tall,” he said, holding up his hand. “Looks like he enjoys wine—has a reddish nose and a potbelly. Wears a blue baseball cap. Frowns all the time.”

The clerk shrugged. “That sounds like half our customers, honestly.”

I added, “He’s well off. Would likely drop a lot of cash on collectibles. Rare vinyl, that sort of thing.”

“Yeah, we’ve got a couple customers who do. They pretty much keep the store afloat.”

Daniel whipped out his phone, and after pulling up a few screens, turned it around to show the clerk a photo. It was pixelated and a little blurry, but I recognized it: our mystery man in the hotel elevator. Daniel had snapped a picture of Mr. Kenneth’s security footage at work.

The clerk’s eyes brightened. “Yeah, that’s Mr. Waddle. Bill Waddle.”

Waddle? Was that another alias? Daniel and I shared a look before I asked, “Can you tell us anything about him?”