“She’s sure a beaut,” Pete said. “A Wurlitzer.”

“Think you could get it working?” Jean asked.

“Sure.”

He probably could, Larry thought. The guy’s house was a museum of resurrected junk: televisions, stereo components, a toaster oven, lamps, a dishwasher and vacuum cleaner, all once disgarded as useless, picked up by Pete and restored to working order.

“You might get it playing again,” he said, “but it’s too messed up to ever look like anything.” Its chrome trim was dented and rusty, one side of the cabinet was smashed in, the speaker grills looked as if they’d been hit by shotgun blasts, and bullets had torn away at least half the square plastic buttons used for selecting tunes. “You probably can’t even get replacement parts for a lot of this stuff,” he added.

“Sure would be neat, though.”

“Yeah.” Turning his head sideways, Larry blew dust and sand from its chart of selections. Bullets and shotgun pellets had ripped away some of the labels. Those that remained were faint, washed out by rainfall and years of pounding sunlight. Still, he could make out the names of many titles and artists. Jean crouched and peered over his shoulder.

“There’s ‘Hound Dog,’ ” he said. “ ‘I Fall to Pieces,’ ‘Stand by Your Man.’ ”

“God, I used to love that one,” Jean said.

“Sounds like it’s mostly shit-kicker stuff,” Pete said.

“Well, here’s the Beatles. ‘Hard Day’s Night.’ The Mamas and the Papas.”

“Oh, they were good,” Barbara said.

“This one’s ‘California Dreaming,’ ” Larry told her.

“Always makes me sad when I think about Mama Cass.”

“All right!” Larry grinned. “ ‘The Battle of New Orleans.’ Johnny Horton. Man, I must’ve been in junior high. I knew that sucker by heart.”

“There’s Haley Mills,” Jean said, her breath stirring the hair above Larry’s ear. “ ‘Let’s Get Together.’ And look, ‘Soldier Boy’ ”