“Broken Cassettes” - a short story.

(A short story from a tentative collection I’ve been working on.)

Leanna and I had history, we certainly did.

She walks, waltzes through double glass resort doors, carrying her marbled red purse and a beige dossier to brim with ivory. Unlike the suits currently meandering about, shuffling another paperwork to newspaper atop Elmwood tables, she is loud. Her footsteps, though dampened by a thin layer of paisley carpet lining the entrance, click and clack throughout the hall. A short bellhop studies her from behind a graphite desk fastened with strawberry-tone hardware, to which he raises his head with a cursory glance. The morning’s breeze follows her inside, retaining cool, Pacific air that smells torrid though fresh.

She waves to me animated, strutting towards a two-seater I have aside a window overlooking downtown. Leanna’s got a demeanor iconoclastic, juxtapositioned to my mellow. We exchange wordless motioning of hands from across the room, tight-lip smiles. There’s an energy throughout the emanant air as people outside bustle, scurry in-lines, running to or scuttling from mustard taxis. From the walls up to the ceiling, stands a white-tiled fresco amid pearlescent, stone inlets carved of caricatures and angel reliefs, while the resort lobby sits packed of corporate types, lawyers, finance, techies, you name it.

I wave her in, watching as she stops at a table in front of ours. Two suits sharing early mixers clink their glasses and laugh as they light her cigarette. Though smoking inside is banned city-wide, this place isn’t known as a stickler for rules. Leanna breathes congeniality: a convivial, deep laugh that emanates, echoing throughout the hall once her cigarette’s embered. The man at the table in pinstripes and back turned pats her arm, gripping as he shakes it before turning to look. He and I share an awkward nod, where he raises his glass with teething grin, to which I reciprocate, raising my water. The woman across from him who looks to be youthful, yet in her later years, white hair and blue eyes, winks at me amid the impromptu toast.

Leanna skids out her chair against the stone flooring when she sits. Up close, her suit’s slightly roomy, too large for her frame, as the pads extend past her shoulders. Her light brown hair and grey eyes reflect the morning’s blue light, a light that washes out her tan freckles amid boneshell decorum. We exchange a handshake. She abruptly rests the dossier on the table, making our wares clank as do the plates, rippling the ice waters. Smiling again, this time larger than before, a closed-mouth of sterility, she only nods of acknowledgement.

Immediately, she begins to rifle through papers, opening the dossier upon the table without a word. I raise my arm to signal our eager waiter’s attention, who quickly trots from a nearby counter, before-effortlessly a-chat with a suit, sharing orange juice. His bowtie’s superimposed atop his thin neck, and the tassels of his dipping coat appear as if a tail, flapping against his rear when he walks brisk. He approaches and opens the menu for Leanna, reiterating the day’s specials. They share detached rapport, politely a-laugh as they volley impersonal one-liners amid short quips. One autumn mojito, she orders, glancing to I to verify she’s got cart blanche, to which I extend a palm at the table.

The waiter scuttles off, holding his gloves to chest, leaving Leanna and I in silence amidst the morning bustle. From there, she hands me a thick, stapled contract to read over. It is with indifference I begin so, sipping water from a wine glass. Her head’s down while she thumbs through paper, reaching into her purse for a pen. Flipping the page, I know she’s yet again done her homework and it’s all more than well, although if I don’t pretend to read it over, she’ll catch offense. Beneath my mouth, I hum into the glass, sipping and chewing ice, breaking it apart in my teeth.

After more of this, our waiter returns with her drink and a tray of toasted baguette, and along the silver sides lay a spread of marmalade, onyx caviar and margarine. I ask for another espresso, to which he smiles before answering with a dejected, “of course.” Leanna sips through a green straw, stirring the umbrella through crinkling ice, audibly clinking her glass. Our interlocution returns to awkward silence. I try gesturing with my face to communicate she’s done a fine, good job, but it’s not enough.

“Good work,” I say, to which she rolls her eyes, sipping mojito.

“Yup,” demurs she, looking away.

Shortly thereafter, she orders a cut of smoked salmon over a bed of greens, barely touching the baguette, and I keep to it, espresso and water, while my signature becomes cat-scratch over contract line. I hear her sigh, as if to imply a dissatisfaction that I’m not mulling it over with a magnifying glass. When I hand it back, she taps the stack upright atop the table before pulling yet another set out, pointing to where I’ll sign.

“It’s because you make it easy,” I tell her.

She laughs, mouth-closed. Her fork points to me over the table, dribbling green off her plate, quiet bites as she eyes me up, though I sign without regard. Soon, the waiter comes to see if we’re finding everything, “up to satisfaction,” to which I hear her chuckle and offer, “of course, dear, of course.”

Leanna closes the dossier with the last of my signature. I figure she’s ready to get into it once more, like last time, though she doesn’t. Now, she’s reserved, sterile in cadence and movement, as if this person who emerged from the double doors is a stranger. I’m compelled to drag it out by way of insinuating to end the rendezvous.

“Well, if there’s nothing more to say, then,” I suggest.

Leanna, wiping the corner of her mouth with the tablecloth, offers nothing but a shrug in-fanciful and esoteric. Her cutting, dry English wit that I knew seems gone within a corporate demeanor. The things I know about her do have their certain parts unsentimental, yet there’s an attitude she adorns that’s antiseptic.

“So,” she finally says, “what is it, you want, Mr. Corden?”

In-response, a smile froths abound my scowl, awaiting for her to mirror, yet she won’t. The suits behind us make it a point to visit our table before leaving. One of them knows who Leanna is, corroborated by a pat of cheek-kisses and hug from within her seat. They exchange cards without paying me mind. Leanna, showing her charm, soon says, “just to be sure,” as she programs the man’s number in her phone. He pays me a glance as he walks away into recalescent light, briefcase in-hand.

“Business good?

“If you’re asking,” says she, “you’re buying.”

I know what it means, but she’s already milking the teat to powder. She knows I’m aware, but there’s something undefinably ascertained of her character. Leanna’s a shrewd businesswoman, knows how to play the cards to her favor when need be; we both smile as she raises an eyebrow, as though to check-raise on the turn.

“Fine,” I say, “fine.”

To her delight, her face lights up and for the first time, she reveals her teeth. Wrinkles below her eyes look soft, but flatter her thin, round-jawed face. Again, my arm goes up for our waiter, ordering us another round once he arrives, to which he as-well for the first all morning, smiles genuinely. Our drinks arrive and for a third cup, I take back my espresso as a shot of liquor. Leanna has her second mojito, giggling as she slurps somewhat loudly. The couple suits ahead catch my eyes when they glance back to us, unironically raising their glasses, to which I shrug back.

“Alright, spill it,” I say, after yet of more awkward tepidity.  

She goes into it: of clients. Her newest one, she explains, is going the full mile, re-developing old properties into luxury condos. Her regret, she laments, was that she wasn’t able to, “milk him further,” provoking a belly laugh out of me. We engage and my heart races from a rush of caffeine parallel the morning bustle; I feel alive as we talk. Her clients, in her words, are “untapped, fat whales,” a remark stated with a cutthroat tonality that lacks even a hint of remorse. Though enjoying our idle, I continue to dilly-dolly around my intentions, waiting for the right moment.

“Ok,” Leanna says. “One name and we split down the middle.”

An old recording studio in the East Bay, looking for theirs to liquidate in cash, the same recording studio which turned out hits from our childhood, one’s we grew up listening, would be, “brainless money,” explains she. Leanna, finishing her second drink, begins to warm up, where I motion to our waiter after she accepts the offer for a third. Not long after it, she then orders a fourth and fifth without guilt, nor auspicious conscientiousness.

“Broken Cassettes?” I ask, though I already know it is.

“My, are you dense?” she shoots back. “Yes, yes.”

We laugh the details. She’ll put me in touch with the old man who runs it, informing me the property’s off-market so far. I run numbers, though each gives her a bigger laugh the lesser they are, where she gestures a winding finger to increase instead of go down. Our rapport eases, as does her increase of drink and my guesstimated price, but I’m aware of the cost for her company. Our history has put me at greater odds before, where the price of our business was deep in my pockets. Leanna was lots of things, but an under-seller or low-baller, she never was, or had been.

“The place’s got history,” I tell her, pointing to my head.

“It’s not for the faint of heart, tell you that,” she says.

People like us don’t care for veneers of tradition or airs of prestigiousness. The bottom line was, and always’d been, what’s the takeaway. In that way, Leanna had forever been smart and no-nonsense, logistic, sparing the heartstrings or swansongs of some failing business or crumbling institution. Money was what we were entitled before and after. The woman always had her price well before discussion, more-often than not, armed with insider scoop. Real estate was booming faster than ever, so the upper hand was ours upon any given situation or right set of circumstances. In the meantime, I remembered we had both, at one time, grown to fall in love with the city years back, me, a mid-western buck of a transplant and her, a shrewd fast-talker from Britain. While she kept goading figures, I recalled when, following her mother’s funeral, Leanna tried to secure deals, negotiate contracts amidst the pews.

“Could get bad PR if someone caught wind,” I say.

Leanna roars out laughter, jutting heads and turning necks to our table. Her laugh echoes throughout the hall, causing our waiter to approach to see if we need something. With a quick motion, I shoo him off.

“Since when do you care about people’s opinions?” she asks.

“It’s more about the blowback. A beloved institution, that studio is,” I tell her.

Leanna goes into numbers, giving me projected profits after either demo’ing the lot wholesale or rebuilding ground-up. The property’s in disrepair, something of a “fixer-upper,” she says. Her words begin to slur and I see cracks in her facade. That was the way she was, and had always been, one for the masses and two for in-person. Our history was something of “a relic,” she later comments regarding my approbation, after I ask who she’s currently after.

“Money, Mr. Corden,” she continues.

We go back and forth, discussing a final price.

“Can I quote you on that?” she persists.

Earnest, though officious, I return the question and ask, “does it include dinner?”

She laughs, knowing we’re both looking for something to gain. Though I hadn’t objectified her in the brutish sense, her cursory glances made my skin tingle with avidity. It was part of her charm, to become far away then grow near my flame. This deal would be one of many after, but for the first time in forever, I’m unsure. That recording studio in-question has some personal value, as my late-father had put on their records growing up. Broken Cassettes always produced talent in the previous decades, going back so far as Sun Records. Then, there’s the very real possibility that I might’ve known people there through proxy affiliation, but I myself, wasn’t an artist beyond a deal or profit.

So, I tell Leanna my trepidations. She nods through it, half-paying attention, sucking bits of remaining drops near the bottom of her cup. We get into our informal routine of high and low for a final quote, before paperwork would etch the numbers to iron.

I intercede, lifting a finger to say, “wait a minute,” while taking out my cellphone.

“Oh boy, here we go,” Leanna answers, laughing.

A short call with her in front of me, I address then confer with one of the lawyers at the firm, running numbers by him. He gives provision to be mindful, as to renovate or re-zone the place would be costly, if not years of red tape and paperwork. I reply self-sure, telling him to review a proposal at a later, tentative date. Before he clicks off, he asks if I’m sure I want to acquire the studio and go through with talks.

“It was your father’s favorite, if that matters,” he says.

With a deep breath, I wonder what’s to come of the old man who runs Broken Cassettes and the artists who depend on it. It would be a shame to put to rest a near centenary institution which’s given so much purpose, but I reassure him that all’s well and in-order. We hang up without further word, to which I look upon Leanna’s eyes gazing into mine. She throws a kiss into the air, saying, “not to let go” of the offer. The pressure’s on, I feel, and remark to her the absence of a timetable.

“Real estate in this town is liquid gold,” she says.

We finally agree upon a number. I ask her once more for dinner. Taking a minute to think it over, Leanna waits as I get the check. Handing him my card, the waiter leans over and, pointing to Leanna, whispers she’s, “lively, she is,” before walking to the front.

“Broken Cassettes, an old memory at best,” I say, to she.

“Here’s to more business and profit, Mr. Corden,” she returns, leaning over the table to peck my cheek.

Suddenly, thoughts of father playing records amid our house and overlooking the flatlands came to mind. He used to say, with business specifically, there were certain lines which should never be crossed, and that people were, as he phrased it, “the Lord’s children.” My late-mother too, used to love Frisco’s psychedelic scene and alternative from that studio, though now, it’s all but passing memory. Preserving something out of charity wasn’t good business, but it could certainly be good PR, is what I tell Leanna. She replies that whatever I do upon closing is my domain, as long as there’s a lump sum at the end of it. There, her hand grazes my knee as she looks my eyes, urging me quite emphatically to, “think about it, think.”

We approach the double-doors of the lobby. She grips her purse and the dossier tucked beneath an arm. I ask about the deal, questioning if we can strike something up as to keep the studio running without costs. With a plain look, half-drunk and leaning against a stone pillar aside the entrance, Leanna parts her hair behind an ear as she goes into a spiel about potential liabilities and margins. I smile when she holds my hand. It’s been awhile since we’ve shared skin. One might say our history is something of a figment of imagination, the way we are now. Our marriage had been damaged, “beyond reproach,” she once said, after I soured a deal that left her at the low end, where we burned through her parent’s money.

Back then, there were risks we had to take, but she didn’t get it. Nothing was worth its weight in sentimentality, if it didn’t have a price, I once told her. She argued I respected nothing in the face of acquiring asset, or at the time, our lack thereof, before we got it made. It took everything I got to get to where I was, yet for some reason, our budding deal doesn’t feel right. Broken Cassettes is a bastion, a last remnant of the past that hasn’t been gentrified yet.

“Come on, Leanna, maybe there’s another way,” I say.

She scoffs and lightly hits me with her purse. As people pass us, the rush of morning breeze which smells of ocean and cold concrete whirs about my nose, an air that rustles her hair. Leanna pulls me in and kisses me, to which I reciprocate. The way she throws herself at me feels as though she’s attempting to take my mind off indecision.

“Out of all people, history’s meaningless to you the most,” she says, slurring her words.

We smile and kiss. I stretch out my arms, jutting my cufflinks into her side to press her against the pillar. Leanna lets her hands graze my side, smiling with callous affect. She wants to go. She’s acting, and I know my window for walking this one back won’t be good for business. In a way, she’s been my sole insider for quite a while, someone I trust to not feed me duds. Perhaps it’s Broken Cassettes to be her sort of petty revenge years later, as memories of my late-father she was privy, and the only thing of intangible, personal value to me.

“How about this,” I tell her, “we talk to the old man running it to see if he’s interested in passing the torch?”

Leanna’s face falls to a frown as another gust of wind follows a suit who abruptly passes us. She’s thinking it over, seemingly hip to balance our personalness with a dollar value upon the tentative agreement. I watch her sigh as she pulls out another cigarette, then motions to a bellhop for a light.

“Raymond, it’s a simple yes or no deal,” she says as the bellhop approaches us.

He tells us we really can’t be smoking inside, but we ignore him.

“We wouldn’t be fronting it, so much as skimming what we can and keep a positive image for the firm,” I tell her.

With her cigarette lit again, despite it all, she laughs, then goes on about my reservations being no different than that of kicking out squatters, evicted tenants and/or businesses.

“The art of making money,” she adds, “is important, to me personally,” pointing her lit cigarette.

She’s pernicious, the way she smokes, gazing a studious glare. I ask about the old man who runs the place, to which she gives me another speech about how I never cared in the past. The money she’s making, she tells me, is “making up for what you lost,” and then bluntly, insists, “make up your mind.”

“Fine, fine, we flip it at the price,” I say.

“Good, Mr. Corden,” she answers. “A wise decision.”

I then ask, upon touching her hand, “how about that dinner?”

We stand back to look at another. Her hands bump against the pillar, where she puts out the cigarette. I follow her outside into cool morning, where she fumbles through her purse for her cellphone. The details about dinner, she remarks, will have to be decided.

“Chinese,” I suggest.

“Bleh, you always eat that,” she quips.

“So, let’s strike a deal.”

“Well, I like the pizza down by my place,” says she.

To it, I joke, “if you don’t watch it, you’re going to get fat.”

Leanna doesn’t laugh but shakes her head, beginning to walk away towards the corner. I follow aside her, putting an arm around her shoulder. She sighs, struggling to work her cellphone while maintaining balance. Light falls brightly and the rush of gale feels cold beneath my suit. For the first time following their marriage, Leanna calls Charles, her new husband, in front of me. The two of them bicker when she explains she’s to attend a meeting tonight. Over her shoulder, I hear his voice scramble the receiver with a drawl. Leanna tells him to warm up the leftovers, hanging up.

“I don’t suppose you have anywhere to be?” she asks, putting away the phone.

“Well, you know, between personal things at the moment,” I say.

“Whatever illusions you have of us, Mr. Corden, our love’s a graveyard,” Leanna remarks, hailing a cab.

An old, faded yellow, metal-bodied taxi shuttles from out across the street at an adjacent light, up next to the curb. The driver looks to be late age, appearing perhaps Middle-Eastern or South-Asian, with a thick beard and wrinkled face. I approach him and produce a large bill from my breast pocket, handing it through the window. He seems to be surprised, asking if I want change, to which I decline, instructing him to take Leanna where ever she wants.

Her and I stand on the corner as the taxi idles. She gives me a small peck, resting her palm beneath my chin. I say I love her, but she won’t hear it. Italian it is, not Chinese or Thai, she says. Well, alright I begin, but she interrupts, and says she’s on her way to officiate signatures.

“Broken Cassettes,” I say.

Leanna laughs as she gets into the cab, resting first her red bag then dossier atop the seats. A final breeze gusts over her skirt ends, lifting it into ripples. Her smile turns again close-mouthed; I can tell she’s readying for work, despite being half-drunk.

“Well,” she starts, then shakes her head, parting her hair once more. “Broken Cassettes it is.”

She yells directions at the cabbie, who in-turn, shakes his head, lurching the taxi from the curb. I watch them turn the corner and then soon disappear, wondering to myself, if I’ve made a mistake. 

© 2022, A. M. D’Angelo