Chapter 1
The door opened, and a cool breeze rushed in, bringing the aroma of the Pacific Ocean with it. A partially naked man stood in the store’s entry.
Deeply tanned, the rotund visitor wore colorful board shorts, flip-flops, and nothing else. A long, twisted braid of gray hair hung over his left shoulder. A ratty beard descended over a puka shell necklace and down to his hairless chest.
Behind the store’s sales counter, Owen Hunter stood on a ladder, a rolled poster in his hand. He paused for a moment to study the potential customer.
It’s too cool outside to dress like that, Owen silently mused.
As the visitor scanned the store, he rubbed his belly. He nodded in time with the hard rock music playing through a set of hanging speakers.
When his gaze landed on Owen, the man waved and stepped farther into the store. He stopped suddenly, though, and tilted his head as if truly noticing the music for the first time.
His gaze once again swept across the store.
To Owen, it seemed apparent this was not the visitor’s first time to Rockafellers, Costa Buena’s only used record store celebrating rock and roll of the fifties and early sixties.
The half-naked man’s attention passed over posters of Buddy Holly, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Fats Domino. He quickly appraised the shelves of memorabilia dedicated to the early days of rock and roll. When he looked at a speaker hanging in the corner of the ceiling, his brow furrowed.
“What are you playing?” the man asked.
“Music,” Owen said, turning to face a back wall covered in monochrome photos and vintage concert flyers. He lifted the rolled poster, exposing enough of it to stick a pin in the upper right corner.
“Not the right music.”
Owen next pushed a pin into the opposite corner of the poster. “What’s not right about it?”
“It’s not old enough.”
“It’s old enough,” Owen muttered resolutely then glanced back to see the concern on the visitor’s face. “It came out in the early eighties.”
“But you can’t sell music past sixty-five.”
Owen climbed several steps down the ladder. As he did, he unrolled the poster, covering over the faces of The Big Bopper, Chuck Berry, and Little Richard.
He stuck two pins in the bottom corners of the poster. He then hopped off the ladder and stepped back to ensure his new addition was level.
In the middle of the wall, slightly off-kilter, hung a large image of four long-haired musicians clad in leather and eyeliner. They leered at the viewer with their fists raised in defiance.
The poster clashed with the sensibilities of the store’s other memorabilia.
“What is that?” the customer said, pointing at the wall.
“That,” Owen said, “is Mötley Crüe.”
“I know who they are, but you can’t do that.”
He turned to face the naysayer and crossed his arms.
It was then the visitor finally took in the man behind the counter. His gaze traveled up and down the man’s massive six-foot-four, two-hundred-twenty-five pound frame.
The customer examined the tattoos on the big man’s arms. First, the fireball tattoo on his right hand which turned into a snake encircling his entire arm and disappeared under his shirt. A kaleidoscope of images cascaded down his left.
Owen’s outfit consisted of blue jeans and black Converse tennis shoes. His blue T-shirt featured an image of a vinyl record. Its logo read Rockafellers—Side A—Where the Music Never Dies.
The smaller man looked up at Owen and swallowed hard. “You’re a big fella, aren’t you?” The man snickered as he fiddled with a gemstone earring in his left lobe. “You standing on a box back there or something?”
“Why can’t I do this?” Owen asked, thumbing toward the Mötley Crüe poster behind him. His gravelly voice lacked any playfulness.
The visitor nervously chuckled. “You can, of course. I didn’t mean to tell you what you couldn’t do. It’s your business, after all. You can do anything you want.”
“But you said…”
“I was thinking about your customer base. They’re loyal.”
“For this dusty stuff?” Owen waved to the boxes of old vinyl records sitting neatly arranged on several rows of folding tables. Underneath the tables were additional cardboard boxes containing more albums.
“For sure. They love it.” The visitor didn’t sound convincing.
“What about you?” the big man asked. He leaned in slightly. “Are you here to buy something?”
“Well…” the half-naked man glanced around, “not me. No.”
Owen smirked and straightened. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ve been open for two hours, and you’re the first person to show up. It doesn’t seem like these records are in high demand.”
“Just wait until summer, it gets—”
“I don’t want to wait ’til then,” the big man interrupted. “I want to make a change now. I want to sell what I want, what I like, which is real rock and roll.” Owen lifted his chin toward the speakers. “Heavy metal and hard rock that cranks. Not fuddy-duddy music.”
The man rubbed his bare belly and swallowed with some difficulty. When he spoke, his voice was soft, and his words seemed carefully chosen. “Don’t get frustrated. It’s the off-season. Your store will get downright busy come tourist season. I promise.”
“You promise?”
The man stopped mid-rub and glanced to his left and right. “Promise might be too strong of a word.”
Owen closed the ladder with a clatter and moved it toward the back of the building. When the big man returned to the front, he found the visitor still staring at the poster. The smaller man absently stroked his braid of hair.
“If you don’t like this music,” the visitor said, “why did you buy the business?”
Owen considered the question before saying, “I liked the view of the ocean.”
“If you change what you sell,” the customer said, pointing his braid to the leather-clad musicians, “you’re going to compete with Headbangers, and that’ll be bad for everybody.”
“The store at the end of the boardwalk?”
“They cover everything after sixty-five.”
“How come they got all the good stuff?”
The visitor shrugged. “I guess the two stores agreed upon a deal so as not to step on the other’s toes. Isn’t that how capitalism should be? Working together, hand-in-hand, everybody getting a little, so nobody loses.”
Owen’s lip curled. “When did this deal get worked out?”
The man released his braid and returned to rubbing his stomach. “You should ask Al, the owner. Maybe you guys can hammer out a new agreement. Maybe he’ll give up the rest of the sixties so you could get Jimi and Janis. That would seem fair.” A sly smile crossed the visitor’s face. “Jimi alone would be worth all of the seventies, am I right?”
His face warmed. “I’m not asking anyone for permission to sell anything. This is my store. I’ll sell what I want.”
“Relax, man,” the visitor said, with a nervous chuckle. His hand suddenly reversed direction on his belly and rubbed counterclockwise. “No need for any machismo. We’re rational men here.” The visitor’s eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed momentarily. When his face relaxed, he pulled his shoulders back and stood a little straighter.
“You’re the boss.”
Owen struggled to comprehend the sudden change in the visitor’s demeanor. “I am the boss,” he finally said.
“And you’ve got a head for business.”
“I do?”
“It’s obvious, which is why there’s no more time for trivialities, so to speak.”
What is this guy after? Owen wondered.
“Your time is valuable,” the visitor continued.
The big man’s gaze flitted over the empty store.
“I’m a businessman, too,” the visitor said. His hand stopped moving but remained resting on his stomach.
“You’re a businessman?”
“That’s correct,” the visitor said, thrusting his hand across the counter. “I’m Sam.”
Staring at the sweaty extremity, Owen frowned.
Sam pulled his hand back, examined it quickly, then dried it on his shorts. “The man with a plan.”
“Sam,” the bigger man muttered, “with a plan.”
“Now, you’re getting it. And may I ask your name?”
“Hunter.”
“Hunter?”
Owen’s face hardened, and he leaned slightly forward. “Got a problem with that?”
The visitor lifted his hands in mock surrender and nervously chuckled. “No, no, Hunter’s a super cool name.”
“Thanks.”
“For a kid,” Sam muttered under his breath.
Owen inhaled deeply before asking, “What exactly are you looking for?”
“It’s not what I’m looking for that matters,” Sam pointed at Owen, “it’s what you’re looking for that does.”
“Excuse me?”
“Here’s the thing,” Sam said. “I can get you anything, and I mean anything.”
Owen’s eyes were slitted. “Like what?”
“Name it,” the visitor said with a conspiratorial grin.
The big man dismissively waved his hand. He hadn’t messed with illicit substances in years, and he had no interest in participating in that type of activity again. “I don’t need what you’re selling.”
“You most certainly do.” Sam fiddled with his gemstone earring. “You’re new around here. You’re gonna need some product, right? Especially if you’re looking to make a change.” The visitor stepped to a nearby rack of Kingston Trio albums and flipped absently through them. “You’ll need to replace all this… What did you call it? Dusty stuff? That’s a lot of stock.” Sam’s fingers continued to flip through albums, but his eyes lifted to scan the store. “You want Def Leppard? I can get them. How about Duran Duran? That’s rock and roll for the ladies, am I right? I can find them, too. I can even get Frankie Goes to Hollywood if you like that sort of thing. Or is that not rock and roll enough?”
“You’re a scavenger.”
Sam spun to him, shocked. “Scavenger? That’s hurtful and unnecessary. I mean it. Just plain rude.” His hand caressed his long braid of gray hair while he thought. “What if I called you a yard seller? Would you like that?”
Owen scowled.
“Well, no,” Sam said with a self-conscious giggle, “you wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t dare imply such a thing. But you’ve got me wrong, Hunter. I’m a purveyor of music. Whatever you need, I can get it. For a cost, of course.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“There are always people willing to part with their music. If you know who and when to ask.”
“Which you do.”
“Naturally.”
“How do you know these people?”
“I’ve been in this town since I was a tender young man. I know everybody, so let me help you. It’s your first day, right?”
Owen shrugged.
“That’s what I thought,” Sam said. “We needed to meet before some of the other guys showed up.”
“Other guys?”
“There are some shady characters out there who’ll try to sell you junk.”
“I’m sure.”
“But not me,” Sam said, proudly thumbing toward his hairless chest. “I’m a legitimate businessman.”
“Your attire alone says that.”
Sam glanced down to his naked belly, board shorts, and flip-flops. “This is California casual.”
“Is that a thing?”
“It’s my style. A trademark, if you will. You won’t find many like me, Hunter.”
Owen smiled. As quirky as the man was, he had a certain charm.
The big man considered the store before returning his attention to the visitor. “Okay, Sam. Bring some stuff around. We’ll see what you have and if we can make a deal.”
“All right,” he said, clapping his hands twice. From the back of his board shorts, Sam pulled out a crumbled and slightly moist business card. He set it on the counter. “That’s my number.”
The card read Samuel Peyton—Trader and listed his phone number.
With the tip of a pencil, Owen slid the card behind a porcelain statue of a young Elvis Presley. Frozen in a permanent sway with arms thrust out, the king of rock and roll stood in front of a microphone.
The visitor stepped back to leave. “Call me any—”
A large orange cat wandered out from under a display rack and stared at Sam. With a widening smile, he asked, “You have a cat?”
“You want him?”
Sam reached down and gently stroked the tom’s head. “What’s its name?”
“It’s your choice.”
“That’s weird. Is it Turkish or something? Lakota, maybe?”
Owen opened his mouth but quickly closed it. Instead, he watched the visitor pet the cat.
When the man stood, he said, “See you around, Yerchoise.”
To Owen, he said, “I’ll be back with some goods. You won’t be sorry.”
The sweaty, rotund man then hurried to the front of the store and opened the door, which let in the ocean’s aroma.
He faced the big man once more.
“Welcome to Costa Buena, my friend.” With an extravagant wave, he said, “May the community be good to you.”
