Sedona Law 5 by Dave Daren (e book reader android .TXT) 📗

“I told Chet that. He gave us forty eight hours. But we’re going to need to produce something by then.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” she said decidedly before she looked around the room at the boxes. A small file box with a “Done” sticker sat in one corner. It looked like it held about a dozen tapes. The rest of the table was full of unopened cases.

“We need more help,” I muttered.

“We could get plenty of help,” Vicki mused with a furrowed brow, “but how many eight track players are there in Sedona?”

I smiled and pulled out my phone. “If there are eight track players in this town, I can find them. After all, I am Moondust Irving’s kid.”

She laughed, and I got my dad after a couple of rings.

“Hey, dad,” I said as a broad grin stretched across my face, “I could use a favor.”

Chapter 16

It wasn’t long before the conference room in our office turned into an all out makeshift recording studio. I counted about twenty of my dad’s friends, gray haired hippie burnouts, lugging all sorts of audio gadgetry in through our doors.

Moondust Irving stood at the doorway and directed people.

“Yeah, back through there,” he said to a happy go lucky but not so bright guy with a silver headed ponytail. The guy carried some kind of hefty audio something on his shoulder.

“All we needed were eight track players,” I replied.

“Yeah,” my dad nodded, “we’ve got equipment that will translate the audio to other formats, so we can play and listen to it on other devices. Because, even between all of these guys, we still couldn’t find more than a couple eight track players.”

“I see,” I murmured with a frown.

“Eight tracks,” my dad clicked his tongue, “it was such an awful format between records and cassettes. Even at the time I never understood it. It was like the cassette’s redheaded stepchild. Ugh. Why did this guy do eight tracks?”

“Because he’s an idiot,” I chuckled dryly.

“I would venture to say so,” my dad laughed. “I’d never even heard of Jerry Steele.”

This was a condemning statement. My dad knew every decent musician in the county. In terms of music, if he didn’t know someone, it meant they weren’t worth knowing.

While the guys set up listening equipment, Vicki flittered around handing out NDA’s.

“Cool man,” the not so bright hippie said, “NSA? Like, you’re with the government? So, do you know about Area 51?”

“No,” Vicki smiled, “NDA.”

“Oh.” He started to nod but then stopped and frown. “Is that like the NSA?”

“No,” Vicki replied slowly as she tried to smother her laughter. “It’s a non-disclosure agreement. It means you won’t talk to anyone about what you find out here.”

“Okay sooo … what are we finding out?” he asked as he tilted his head to the side. “About aliens?”

I groaned and made a note not to put him on listening duty.

My dad noticed and chuckled. “That’s Lon,” he said. “He’s a nice guy. Just, you know.”

He mimed a joint smoking motion.

“Yeah,” I winked, “you should take note.”

“Whatever are you talking about, counselor?” he joked.

“Uh-huh,” I snickered. “Just stick to your salsa. I went by the McGrath’s today.”

“That Perry’s something else,” he shuddered, “creeps me out, really. He kept staring at me like … ugh. Weird.”

I smirked. “He thinks I’m a chip off the old block, and it’s freaking him out.”

“Really?” My dad made a face and looked me up and down quizzically. “Hmmm.”

“That’s what I said,” I chuckled.

“It’s the nose,” he replied as he squinted at my face. “You have my nose.”

“Ah,” I nodded, “that explains it.”

The next hour or so included a significant amount of finagling, while the two dozen or so guys knocked around through our offices. They borrowed every outlet strip we had and blew the breakers at one point.

“This is some shitty wiring.” Lon shook his head as he peered over our circuit box.

“We just had it redone a couple of months ago,” I said with a frown.

“Who did it?” he asked and scrunched up his face. “They didn’t know what they were doing. Look, you’ve got these wires that should be over here, not over there. I’ll bet it was those idiots at Central.”

“Yeah,” I mused, “come to think of it that was who we used.”

He groaned. “Those guys don’t know what they’re doing. You shouldn’t have used them. They should be shut down. Look, let me show you.”

He pulled out a pair of wire clippers from his pocket. Why he had wire clippers in his pocket, I will never know.

“No, no, no.” I shook my head rapidly as I reached out to stop him. “That’s fine, Lon.”

“You should listen to Lon,” my dad chimed in from behind me. “He was a master electrician.”

“Really?” I asked as I blinked in surprise at the man beside me.

“Yeah.” Lon nodded. “You know, I paid my dues back in the day with the city. I installed half of the wiring in this town. Then, you know, I got fried.”

My eyes went wide. “You got …  fried?” I repeated.

He shrugged. “That’s what they say. I was installing the wiring at the new McDonald’s, well it’s the old McDonald’s now. But, anyway, they were remodeling, and I don’t know, all the sudden I just felt this wicked fire buzzing through my veins. And the next thing I remember, I was in the hospital, and it was two days later, and they told me I got fried.”

“Jesus,” I breathed.

He smiled and nodded slowly. “It was wicked, man. Never had a high like that before. Gotta big settlement so I don’t have to work, which is good because I don’t remember so good anymore. But people think it’s cause of the weed. Maybe