22

Bobby walked into the communal weightlifting pit at the Los Angeles County Gym. Several bodybuilders were working silently.

"Hi," Bob said.

"Hi," said a weightlifter in a black leotard.

"I was told to ask for Marty," said Bob.

The weightlifter scowled at Bob's scrawny frame. "Hit the road, Jack!" said the weightlifter.

Bob winced. "The name is Bobby," he said, extending his hand to the weightlifter.

The weightlifter kept his hands on the metal bars of the weight training contraption and glared. Bob took a long look at the weightlifter and furrowed his brow. He scoured the pit with his eyes - and noticed at the far end, another weightlifter, same shorn head, same black leotard, same moustache, same muscles.

"Hmm," said Bob, "I've got the wrong guy - I'm really, really sorry." He scampered quickly to the other weightlifting contraption, looking even more out of place as he scurried around like a fox or a baby rabbit.

"Marty?" he asked the brawny lug.

"Who wants to know?" asked the weightlifter between revs.

"Hi, I'm Bobby Sheen, I was told you could help me, um, find some ... nutritional supplements." Marty rolled his eyes.

"Try again," he said.

"Ummmm," Bobby said, flustered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. "Ah, here we go," he said. "I need to buy some PCP and some anabolic steroids and stuff," he said.

"Getting warmer," Marty grunted. "What kind of 'stuff'?"

"Heroin?" asked Bobby.

Marty nodded.

"OK, I need to buy some heroin. My boss is a heroin addict and I need to buy some heroin and give it to him so he can take it. Can take heroin."

"Follow me," said Marty, hoisting himself off the machine with some effort. He went around the perimeter of the weightlifting pit to a wiring closet. He took a key from a pocket in his leotard, and unlocked the little metal door. Inside was a fusebox. Gripping both handles at the top and bottom, Marty yanked the fusebox out of the wall, revealing a secret area behind it. The fusebox was deliberately weighted down with weightlifters' counterweights.

Very clever, Bob thought. It's some kind of security system. Only a few people can get back there because only a few people can manage to lift the disguise out of the way. All of the drug talk was just a disguise too, and now Marty brought out the real booty: a corrugated metal box the size of an unabridged dictionary or thesaurus.

"I knew you'd be here eventually, " Marty said. "We've been keeping it safe for you."

Bob nodded. "How long has it been back there?" he asked.

"Least ten years," Marty said.

Bob gave a respectful whistle.

"Now you take good care of it," Marty said. "This box is very important to me. You gotta respect it - treat it with kid gloves."

Bob nodded. The hulking weightlifter Bob had originally interrupted came over and when he stood next to Marty, Bob could see that they were twin brothers.

"Hey punk," Marty's brother said. "I thought I told you to get out of here!"

Bob tugged at his collar nervously.

"I'm just kiddin'" said the brother, and both twins burst out laughing.

As Bob smiled nervously, and turned to go, Marty smiled and said, "Aren't you forgetting something?

"Huh... what?"

Marty rubbed his fingers together, signifying money.

"Oh! " said Bob and pulled a wrapped wad of bills out of his pocket. As he handed it over to Marty, he sighed.

"I just lost that lovin' feeling," he said.

"Huh," said Marty's brother.

"My boss is a record producer, you see, and he produced that song." Bob explained gently. "The song was a big hit and my boss got lots of royalties and it's those royalties that are buying us a Loyd box right now. It was ... a little joke."

"Oh," said the brother, almost forming his mouth into a little O. "Did you sing that hit song?"

"No," Bob said, his shoulders hunched. "That was the Righteous Brothers. I sang a coupla others, though. If I had a hit like that, I wouldn't still be running errands. But, it pays the bills, right? See you guys later."

Later that evening, Bobby Sheen presented his boss with the prize.

"God, I can hardly wait," Phil said. "This box can make me a reverb like you never heard. You know, echo is like a music unto itself, Bobby. I'm going to take Bob B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans through the ceiling, out the roof and out the atmosphere to the moon! You're going to be on the MOON, Bobby!"

In a little while they reconvened, Spector hunched over the high notes on the piano and Sheen hunched over the low end.

"Now, Bobby, we can have a PERFECT sound," Spector said. "A perfect note, never before heard. And I want you to be the arbeiter. The mouthpiece!"

Bob rolled his eyes. Spector could get a little flowery sometimes. The box was miked.

"Does it open?" Bob asked. "I brought it over here in the car but I don't see any openings anywhere. Does it..."

Spector held up a hand. "I only know what the Loyd Society publishes," he said. "I'm quite certain there's more to know. This box holds secrets only the Society may know. It's possible even they don't know. It's possible some of what this box can do, followed Sam Loyd to his grave. All I know is, the Loyd Society published a pamphlet on the magic box. There are six in the world and now we own one of them. I practically have to get a hit just to pay for this box, but oh boy, it's going to bring sounds beyond imagining..."

"...It's going to bring us a PSYCHOLOGICAL sound."

Bob didn't know what Spector was on about, so he struck a chord on the piano. The strings began to vibrate, the heavy wood cover on the top of the piano began to vibrate, and the Loyd box, sitting on the cover, began to vibrate too. Spector immediately fell unconscious and crumbled in a heap.

"Boss! Phil!" Bob cried, but Spector was unconscious, and what's more, Bob was immobilized by sound. He felt his limbs, he felt what it would take to make his limbs move, but couldn't get the gumption together to do it. He stood in place and could almost see the rainbow colored waves pouring past. And this from just one chord? Bob put his hand on the underside of the piano, below the keys. He had an impulse to quiet the vibrations by pressing up on it from below. He felt he should touch the strings themselves, but he pushed up from underneath and as he did, he felt something lifting. It took him a moment to realize he was lifting the piano off the ground!