One thing I know about burglaries—the motivation is mostly crack, sometimes heroin. I know that world well. Worked narcotics most of my career on the department. That’d be about fourteen out of seventeen years. It made me the man I am today. Damn if that doesn’t make me smile, but only for a second. It’s ironic, because that’s when I started using again, and of course eventually got caught. Then coerced into early retirement. The good thing is, only the ones who forced me into early retirement know the backstory. That spared a lot of friendships, like Luna’s, and the relationship I still have with most of the members of the department. And then there’s Leslie, the most important one of all. God help me if I ever lose her.

It’s not even a five-minute drive from my house. Finding a parking spot takes longer. Would have been quicker if I had walked from home. I eventually find a legal spot about a block away.

Some of the old row houses along the U Street corridor have been converted into trendy shops. The record store is located in an English basement below one of those spots, a two-story clothing store that caters to the anorexic.

Down two short flights of stairs, and I open a door to a small rectangular space riddled with bins filled with vinyl and, along the left wall, one large bin stacked with CDs. A song I can’t remember the name of by the Screaming Trees is playing in the background. Reminds me of Leslie for some reason. She likes them. Me, too. The music is at a moderate level, but it’s begging for more volume. Every bit of wall space is taken up by posters and small gig flyers, both current and from back in the eighties, when I was a kid and into the scene.

There’s a young kid, maybe in his teens, at a bin containing R & B CDs. He’s wearing an overly large T-shirt and baggy jeans. Oscar, the owner, is standing behind a glass counter looking at what appears to be an order sheet. He breaks away from it, turns his spindly body toward me, almost an about-face but a little more lurchlike.

“What’s up?” he says, obviously not remembering my name but still saying it in a tone that suggests familiarity.

“Dropped by to ask you something. You got a minute?”

“Sure.”

He sets the papers on the counter. Beneath it are band stickers, buttons, and pins.

“How’s business?” I ask him.

“Store’s slow, but nothing to complain about. I do most of my business online, so all is good.”

“Whatever keeps the doors open, right?”

“You got that right.”

“Listen, man. My house got burglarized couple of days ago—”

“Sorry to hear that.”