Thursday afternoon brought a sudden, violent hail storm that lasted for twenty minutes, pelted the glass display window with thousands of tiny white ice pellets, and then vanished, leaving the street covered in a cold, slushy mess.
Ethan was sitting behind the counter with a pair of long-nosed pliers, trying to adjust the tension spring on an old turntable arm that had belonged to a local high school music teacher.
The shop was empty except for Leo, who was sitting on a wooden stool near the radiator, trying to dry his wet socks with a small electric hairdryer he'd brought from home.
The hair dryer let out a high, whining screech that was making Ethan's head ache.
"Leo, turn that off," Ethan said, not looking up from his delicate work with the pliers. "It sounds like a jet engine."
"My feet are freezing, Ethan!" Leo complained, blowing warm air directly onto his blue-patterned socks. "If I get pneumonia, who's gonna manage the website inventory?"
"I will," Ethan said. "And I'll do it faster."
Before Leo could reply, the silent front door swung open.
A guy in a heavy brown canvas jacket and a blue baseball cap stepped inside, dragging two massive, wooden crates using a small folding hand truck. The wheels of the hand truck left long, muddy tracks across the clean wooden floorboards.
"Delivery for Henderson's," the guy said, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "Two boxes from the Jersey distributor."
Ethan dropped his pliers onto the rubber mat, standing up quickly. "The heavy metal lot?"
"If heavy metal weighs eighty pounds a box, then yeah," the delivery guy grunted, tipping the hand truck forward to drop the crates onto the floor with a heavy, floor-shaking THUD. "Sign here."
Ethan grabbed the digital stylus, scribbled his messy signature on the screen, and watched the guy hurry back out into the chilly air.
Leo immediately turned the hairdryer off, dropping it onto his stool, and scrambled across the floor in his wet socks. "They're here! The Jersey crates!"
Ethan knelt down beside the first wooden crate. The wood was rough, unplaned pine, held together with heavy iron staples. The side was stamped with dark blue ink: VARIOUS VINYL - LOT 402 - AS IS.
He grabbed a crowbar from under the counter, jammed the flat edge under the top lid, and leaned his weight onto it.
CREEEAK - SNAP.
The wooden top popped open, kicking up a thick cloud of dry, papery dust that made both of them cough instantly.
Inside were rows of black vinyl records in white paper sleeves, packed so tightly together you could barely slide a finger between them.
"Man," Leo breathed, leaning over Ethan's shoulder. "Smells like a basement that hasn't been opened since nineteen-ninety-two."
Ethan pulled the first record out carefully. It was an original 1982 pressing of an obscure NWOBHM band called Demon, the sleeve slightly worn around the edges but the vinyl itself shiny and dark under the store lights.
"Look at this," Ethan whispered, turning the record over in his hands. "No scratches. Not even spindle marks near the center hole."
"What about the cat hair?" Leo asked, peering into the box.
"No hair," Ethan said, pulling out three more. "The guy was lying or thinking of a different box. These are clean."
"Dude," Leo said, his eyes widening. "We can sell these for thirty bucks a pop online. We paid a hundred for the whole box!"
"Don't tell Mr. Henderson yet," Ethan said, pulling out a thick stack. "Let's grade them first. If they're all like this, we can make enough to buy that new cleaning machine for the back room."
"And a new hair dryer for me?" Leo asked.
"No," Ethan said flatly.
As they were kneeling there on the cold floor, surrounded by stacks of vintage metal LPs, the front door opened again.
Julian stepped in. He wasn't wearing his trench coat today, just a dark grey cashmere sweater and sharp black trousers. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a magazine, except for his shoes, which had a small smear of grey street slush on the right toe.
"Afternoon, gentlemen," Julian said, stopping a few feet away from the open crates. He looked down at the dusty boxes on the floor, his eyebrow twitching slightly. "Unpacking more... vintage inventory?"
Ethan stayed on his knees, holding a Judas Priest album by its edges. "Just a shipment."
"Right," Julian smiled, though his eyes stayed sharp. "I saw the delivery van outside. Thought I'd drop by to see if you guys had any ultra-light tonearm counterweights in stock. One of our high-end clients broke his carbon fiber weight this morning."
"We don't stock carbon fiber," Ethan said, standing up slowly and wiping his dusty hands on his jeans. "Just standard lead and brass."
"Ah, of course," Julian sighed, taking a step closer to inspect the record Ethan was holding. "Judas Priest? British steel? Standard pressing. Very nostalgic. We actually just got a half-speed mastered Japanese audiophile box set of that exact album in stock yesterday. Retails for two-fifty."
Leo looked up from the box, holding an album with a missing cover. "Nobody cares about half-speed mastering, Julian. It's just a gimmick to charge rich guys more money."
Julian chuckled, a short, dry sound. "It's about dynamic range, Leo. The separation in the high frequencies is mathematically superior. But hey, if your customers prefer surface noise and compressed audio, who am I to argue?"
Ethan felt his jaw tighten slightly, but before he could say anything, Julian turned his eyes toward the front window, where the block festival flyer was taped.
"I see Maya put up the festival poster," Julian observed, crossing his arms. "Are you guys setting up a booth?"
"No," Ethan said. "Just helping the bakery with theirs."
Julian raised an eyebrow, a small, knowing smirk appearing on his face. "Ah. Helping Maya again? You really are a dedicated friend, Ethan. Hauling sofas, setting up tables at six in the morning... you're practically her personal handyman."
Ethan stood completely still. The comment was delivered with that fake, polite smile Julian always used, but the edge underneath it was as sharp as a razor blade.
"I have a truck," Ethan said, his voice dropping an octave. "Friends help each other when they have trucks."
"Of course," Julian said smoothly, stepping toward the door. "It's very noble. Anyway, if you ever find any carbon fiber counterweights in those dusty boxes, let me know. Have a good afternoon, boys."
The door closed silently behind him as he glided back out onto the damp sidewalk.
Leo stared at the door for five seconds, then looked up at Ethan. "Man. I really, really want to punch that guy in his soft, expensive face."
Ethan didn't answer. He just looked down at the Judas Priest album in his hand, his thumb pressing hard against the cardboard edge until his nail turned white.
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