The latter was a beaut. Hi-fi is my hobby, and I’ve checked out every stereo combo on the market. This one, I knew, retailed for about $1,500 without the speakers.
Glancing around, I noted spots in the opposite corners of the room at ceiling level where the wall paint was lighter than that surrounding it. Pointing out the spots, I said ruefully, “The speakers were there. They’ve already moved them.
“You can buy speakers anywhere,” Stan said. “Is it a good set?”
“About fifteen hundred clams, as is.”
Stan emitted a small whistle. “That means Spooky would lay out a hundred and fifty.”
I had been thinking in terms of replacing the hi-fi set in my room, but that was only an idle dream. I needed the seventy-five bucks that would be my share a lot more than I needed a better hi-fi. I knew we would have to fence it. Sighing. I stooped to grab one end and told Stan to get the other end.
It was heavier than I d expected. We re both pretty sizeable guys. At six-feet-four but only 150 pounds, I was pretty strung out, but I was strong as an ox. And Stan, who was thirty-live pounds heavier than me, didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. We had to set the cabinet down to rest twice en route to the back gate though. It must have weighed two hundred pounds.
We finally got it loaded into the back of the station wagon. Stan closed up the rear end as I was shutting the gate. He slid under the wheel and I climbed in the other side.
As we drove off, I lifted my beer can from the floor and took a slug from it. Stan lifted his too and drained it.
I said, “How about that spinet?
Stan just looked at me without answering. It was a dumb question. The spinet would never have fit into the station wagon, even if we’d left the hi-fi behind.
We drove straight to the Jerry Hitter Service Station off San Fernando Road. The station bore my name because I owned it, and that’s why I was broke. I not only couldn’t make a living from it, I couldn’t sell it. It had been closed and up for sale for six months. In the meantime I had squeezed a few dollars out of it by selling off as much of the equipment and as many of the tools as I could. I had also sold my car, and that income, supplemented by whatever Stan and I managed to rip off, was all that kept me going.
Stan and I used the closed station for temporary storage of our stolen goods. We never left anything there very long, though, because in that neighborhood there was too much danger of it being re-stolen. Despite the boards over the front windows and the protective wire mesh over the smaller ones, there had been several attempted break-ins-none so far successful, probably because they’d been by kids instead of pros.
Stan backed the station wagon up to the service-garage door. We got out and I went to get the key from where it hung on a hook up inside the mouth of the drainpipe, then he opened the hack of the station wagon while I unlocked and raised the sliding metal door.
We carried the set over to the wall where the single live electrical outlet was. The utilities had been shut off since I closed the place, but I’d tapped one of the circuits of the office building next door to run a line to that outlet so we could test the appliances we ripped off.
When we had set it down, I said. “Let’s run over and pick up my speakers so we can see how it plays.”
Glancing at his wristwatch, Stan said, “I can run you over and back but I won’t be able to stick around. I told Mom to be ready by five.”
At twenty-four, Stan still lived with and sponged off his widowed mother, but in a lot of ways he was good to her — like never keeping her waiting, for instance.
“O.K., I can handle it alone, I told him.
My rooming house was on Cypress Avenue, only about four blocks from the service station. My room was on the second floor. I stuck an eight-track tape in my hip pocket and picked out an LP record. I unplugged my speakers and each of us started downstairs with one.
My landlady’s behemoth figure was blocking the foot of the stairs. Her hands were on her hips — a storm signal.
Coming to a halt, I said politely, “Yes, Mrs. Sull?
“Moving, Mr. Hitter?” she inquired.
“No.”
She examined both speakers. “Perhaps you’re planning to pawn those to pay your rent — which is due on Monday, in case you’ve forgotten.
I shook my head. “I haven’t forgotten. I’ll have it for you.”
“Well, now, that will be a pleasant change, she said. “This time you won’t be requesting a few days grace?
Since she had made it clear at the end of the previous month that grace would no longer be extended — and my room lock would be changed on the second of the month if my rent wasn’t paid on the first — I took that as a rhetorical question. “You’ll be paid on time,” I assured her. “May we get by, please?”
She moved aside like the opening of a massive door. As we went by she said ominously, “Good afternoon, Mr. Turner.”
Stan, who has always been terrified of the woman, muttered something inaudible.
As we loaded the speakers into the station wagon he asked me, “How old is Mrs. Sull?’
“I don’t know. Not as old as she looks. Forty-five, maybe.”
“That’s not too old, he said. “I know how you could get her off your back about the rent permanently.”
“How?”
“Marry her.”
When I stopped laughing. I climbed into the car.
We got back to the station and Stan helped me unload the speakers. Then he looked at his watch again and said he had to go.
“O.K.,” I told him. “You going to contact Spooky?”
“After dinner. That won’t be too late, we should be home by seven. I’m just taking Mom to a Mexican-food joint.
“Give me a ring when you get home, huh? I said.
“Sure.”
He went out and pulled the sliding door closed behind him. A moment later I heard him drive off.
With the door closed the lighting in the service garage was kind of dim because the windows were dirty and the wire mesh over them further cut the light. But I could see well enough to operate. I attached the speakers, plugged in the set, and lifted off the lid. As it was set for AM radio, I left it there and switched it on.
When a few seconds passed with no sound I turned up the volume control and moved the tuning dial. Still nothing happened. I switched to FM and drew a blank. I had no more success when I switched to Phono and to Tape.
Unplugging the set, I pulled it away from the wall and plugged in the work lamp I kept there. Since the lamp worked I knew the trouble wasn’t in the outlet.
The tool rack on the wall still contained a few tools-mainly screwdrivers and pliers. With a Phillips screwdriver I took out the dozen screws holding the back in place and lifted it off.
I meant to lean the back against the wall, but it slipped from my hands and fell flat on the floor when I saw what was in the cabinet.
There were no works in it.
Instead there was a dead body!
The corpse was of a man about fifty, with a gaunt face and red hair peppered with grey. He was dressed in brown slacks and a blue sport shirt. He was rather skinny, and I guessed him to be about six feet tall, though his height was difficult to judge because of the way he was folded into his improvised coffin. The cabinet was only about four feet long by three high, and about the top eight inches was taken up by the turntable and the controls. The works of this particular model were set in a metal framework that could be removed for repair work simply by loosening four screws and unplugging two wires. Someone had done that, but the space left was only about four feet by a foot and a half by a little less than two and a half feet. The body was on its back with the knees crammed back against the chest and the feet jammed against the top so that the toes pointed straight forward.