We Are Inevitable Gayle Forman (simple ebook reader TXT) 📖

have Nico’s Chelsea Girl,” he replies. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

I give up on the Čapek and return to my trusty Brusatte, opening to a random page the way I used to shake a Magic 8-Ball for guidance. I wind up reading about the discovery of a mass grave of metoposaurs—car-sized salamanders from the Triassic period, which Brusatte and his pals discovered in Portugal. It makes me feel better to know that something that lived fifty million years ago can still be here now.

When I hear Ike’s truck coughing down Main Street, I check on Lou again. “I’m going to close the door,” I call down. “When you’re done, don’t come up. Text me.”

“Roger, boss,” he says.

I close the door and lock it, just in case.

Ira comes skipping up the porch stairs. “You wouldn’t believe what we found!” he says, vibrating with excitement. “Tell him, Ike!”

“A whole mess of oak floorboards to replace the rotting ones,” Ike says. “A couple of lamps that’ll need to be rewired. And best of all . . .” He peers out the door. “Hurry up, will ya?”

“It weighs a ton!” Richie complains. “Can’t we use a dolly?”

“Just lift from your knees,” Ike says.

Richie and Garry struggle up the stairs holding some large, bulky, and clearly heavy object covered in a tarp.

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” Ike says, grabbing hold of it on his hip. “Aaron, put a cloth down, will ya. I don’t want it to get scratched.”

I quickly look around and see Lou’s left his jacket upstairs. I throw it on top of a sawhorse and Ike gently sets down his prize before whipping off the tarp with a jubilant “Ta-da!”

It’s a large cylinder with many knobs coming out of it, covered in a layer of rust and grit.

“Ain’t it a beaut?” Ike asks.

“It’s a something,” I reply.

“Do you know what it is?” he asks.

“A robot?”

“Guess again.”

“One of those old diving bells?”

“It’s . . .” Ike trails off with dramatic flourish.

“An espresso machine,” Richie shouts.

“Why didn’t you let me tell him?” Ike fumes.

“That’s an espresso machine?” I ask.

“Vintage Italian,” Ike says. “What they would use to make espresso and cappuccinos and all those fancy drinks in Italy. What’s the name of the company?”

“Something like Lady Gaga?” Richie says.

“Gaggia,” Garry corrects, with perfect Italian pronunciation.

“They don’t make things like this anymore. Fixed up, these babies sell for a thousand dollars,” Ike says. “We got this for two fifty.”

“But I only gave you forty dollars,” I tell Ira.

“Oh,” Ira says. “Chad fronted us the rest.”

“Chad? Why’d he give you money?”

“’Cause we knew you’d kick up a fuss,” Ike asks. “Now, should we put it in the basement?”

“No!” I shout. “I mean, it’s a mess down there. Just leave it here.”

“Okay,” Ike says.

“That was fun, lads,” Ira says, settling into his chairs. “Thanks for bringing me.”

“Why don’t you go get some espresso at ValuMart to test out the machine?” I ask Ira.

“Oh, first I have to take it apart and clean it and reassemble it,” Ike says, looking delighted at the prospect.

“Also, ValuMart doesn’t sell espresso,” Garry adds.

“Well, you could drive to Bellingham to get some. So we’re prepared.” I pull another two twenties out of the till, leaving it empty.

“I’m gonna stay here and work on Gaga,” Ike says. “And I’ll probably have to replumb the line to make sure the pressure’s adequate. Gonna take a few days.” He looks utterly thrilled at this prospect.

“Then you three go!” I push Ira, Richie, and Garry toward the door.

“We don’t have to go all the way to Bellingham,” Ira says.

“You might as well get the good stuff.”

“You’re sure excited about coffee all of a sudden,” Riche says suspiciously.

“Well, a good idea is a good idea.”

I get them out the door. “Be right back,” I tell Ike, who’s already started in on the machine.

Lou sits cross-legged on the floor, like Hannah did a few days ago. Only he has several rows of records around him, and a large paperback book open in his lap. “I didn’t even get through a quarter of the bins, but this is already more than I can afford.” He taps on the smaller row. “These are worth easily worth two hundred. And these”—he taps on the larger row—“double that. I can only afford these.” He taps on the two-hundred-dollar selection. “But I’ll get an advance on my paycheck and come back for the rest.”

I do the math: two hundred dollars today plus four hundred later. It’s six hundred dollars. A lot of money. But about one-thirtieth of what I need.

Lou misreads my frown. “You can check if you don’t believe me.” He hands me his book. “Goldmine Record Album Price Guide. My bible. I wouldn’t rip you off. It would dishonor the records.”

“I don’t think you’re trying to rip me off,” I say. “It’s just I kind of wanted to offload all of them, quickly, and I thought since you had that business . . .”

“Oh, you mean the table at the health food place?” Lou shakes his head. “That’s not mine. That’s owned by someone else. I just shill for him. Mostly to get any good stuff before he does. But his shit is nothing like what you’ve got.”

“Would he buy these records?”

“Probably, but he’d rip you off.” He glances upstairs. “You have a space. Why not sell them yourself?”

“I can’t.”

Shrugging, Lou opens his wallet, counting out ten crisp twenties. “Let me ask around. I know some people who would go apeshit for this. Would pay you what it’s worth. And would honor the vinyl.”

“Okay,” I tell Lou. “So long as they honor it by December first.”

I empty one of Mom’s boxes and load Lou’s records inside, throwing one of her sweaters on top for camouflage. “Gotta keep the records cushioned,” I tell Lou.

“Who’s this?” Ike asks as we emerge from the basement.

“Lou,” says Lou.

“What’s he doing down there?”

“Looking at the gas meter,” I lie.

“You work at Cascadia?” Ike asks, giving Lou the side-eye. “Where’s your uniform?”

“He works in the corporate department.” I lead Lou to the front