Page 34 of The Alibi Club

He stood on the sidewalk in Manhattan Beach and looked around.

Manhattan Beach was an affluent, beautiful coastal town. But one man’s beautiful beach town is another man’s artisanal hellscape. It had one store devoted entirely to cheese. A micro-brewery that specialized in gluten-free beer. A high-priced loungewear store where a gaggle of new moms, strong and sinewy from pressure to lose the post-baby weight, milled around talking about nannies. Coffee shops were filled with bespectacled millennials hunched over laptops with their flat whites trying to make their millions. And there were cops … bored, yoked, overly intense cops everywhere. It made Cliff itchy.

He ambled his way down the main drag, surprised at the number of boutique gyms and salons that populated the downtown area. He spotted a small pub with a green awning and café lights that beckoned him in. He ducked inside the place. It was dimly lit. There was a faint aroma of cheeseburger grease, bleach, and vomit. It was wonderful. He breathed deep, taking it all in, and relaxed for a half a minute before stepping back outside. He couldn’t have a drink without breaking parole.

Cliff walked on The Strand down to Hermosa Beach and took a left on Pier Avenue, wandering to nowhere in particular when he spotted a neon “Open” sign with a guitar symbol hanging above it. Curious, he ambled closer to the establishment. The sign on the plate glass window read in fancy script, “Paul’s Guitar Parlor.” A pair of flip-flops were hanging on the door handle, which was partially open. Cliff peeked through the window and saw a man in a short-sleeve button-down and weathered jeans tuning a classic Gibson Les Paul with a vintage sunburst design. As if sensing him there, the man looked up and smiled. He waved Cliff in.

Cliff walked into the parlor and was instantly hit with the warm smell of leather and patchouli; a massive Persian rug covered the floor and upon it sat a low-slung leather sofa and two adjoining chairs. The man started playing a bluesy tune on the acoustic guitar, a riff that came straight out of the Mississippi Delta. Smooth, slow, and rhythmic.

“Come on in, friend,” the man said, but didn’t stop playing.

All three walls also donned thick Persian tapestries where guitar mounts jutted out holding dozens of acoustic and electric guitars that lined the walls all the way up to the ceiling. Some were shiny and new, with taut strings, ready to be played. Others were shabby, worn, and well-loved. Cliff wandered over to one particularly ragged electric-blue acoustic guitar with pearl inlay and read the tag. Linda Ronstadt, 1976. $9,600. Cliff almost stopped breathing. What was this place? He turned back to look at the shopkeeper.

The man playing the guitar had thinning gray hair tied back in a tiny ponytail. He played effortlessly and free, clearly enjoying the music he was creating. He finished his song, put the guitar pick in his mouth, and held out his hand, “Hey man, I’m Paul,” he said. “Welcome to Guitar Shangri-La. Otherwise known as The Parlor.”

Cliff shook his hand, at a loss for words, and admired the guitar he was holding. “She’s a beauty.”

“Do you play?” Paul asked.

“I used to play a little, but not for years,” Cliff said. Seven long years, not since his arrest. It was one of the few things he loved from his previous adult life. The rest he could shove in a blast furnace and never look back. But he missed his guitar. His mother had taught him how to play when he was young, and he had a natural talent for it. She would sit in the sunroom in their house and teach him how to play classical jazz, Spanish guitar songs, and pop hits of the seventies. She once said after marveling at the ease and joy with which he played, “Your heart is in this, Cliff. You will always have it.” His heart beat a little faster as he eyed the guitar Paul had been playing.

Paul seemed to sense this and without hesitation handed it over. “Give her a try.”

“Really?”

“Buddy Guy wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“This is Buddy Guy’s guitar?” Whoa. He held it like a knight who had been offered a sword by his king.

“Yes, sir. I set it up for him for years whenever he did his West Coast tour. He gifted it to me back in ’96 as a thank-you.”

“So, I’m playing Buddy Guy’s guitar,” Cliff said, in awe.

“Well, not yet you ain’t. C’mon. Let ’er rip.”

Cliff sat down on the leather sofa and held the guitar, caressed the neck, played a couple of strings, and heard the deep hollow of the bass notes, the clarity of the high notes. He plugged into the amp. He felt a little giddy, holding this mythic guitar, unsure if his fingers would remember how to play. He reached for a guitar pick from a little tray on the coffee table in front of him. He cleared his throat, looked up at the patient, encouraging face of Paul, and laid into the strings.

It felt like coming back home to a woman you were still in love with, who opened her front door and her heart at the same time. The rest of the room fell away, his anxieties loosened as he curled himself over the warm instrument, feeling his way through the rhythm more than remembering. He played a little Steely Dan, then floated into an old Frampton tune, and ended up on a jazz classic “Darn That Dream,” when Paul picked up another guitar and joined him. Paul and Cliff created the sound of that beautifully sad, lilting refrain. This was the first time he felt truly free since he walked out of prison.

They played one jazz classic after another, Cliff leaning into it, feeling the exhilaration of reclaiming his soul; a fresh start, his possibility of redemption becoming more real by the minute. The music seemed to open him up to the possibilities. To the fragile belief that he could be better than his past. That he could overcome it.

Paul would start and Cliff would recognize the song and join, and vice versa. They were having a conversation, getting to know each other without saying a word. Finally, Cliff stopped and took a deep breath. He smiled broadly at Paul. “I needed that more than you know.”

“That’s the thing about music, right? Best drug in the world. When it hits you, you feel no pain.” Paul rested his guitar on a side stand and got up. “You either get lost in it for a while, or you find whatever it is you’ve been looking for. It’s magic that way.” Paul sauntered over toward the back of the parlor where there was a small bar. He grabbed two glasses and held them up.

“Drink?”

“Just a water if you have one.”

Paul shrugged and poured himself a brown liquid that Cliff knew was whiskey. He brought it over with a bottle of water for Cliff.

“So, tell me about yourself. Where you from?” Paul asked as he sipped.

Cliff’s shoulders tightened. He was unaccustomed to the straightforwardness of Paul’s questioning until he realized this was probably how normal people conversed, without suspicion or agenda. Given the instant camaraderie that playing music together had created, Cliff also felt strangely obliged to tell the truth. Not the whole truth, of course, that would be crazy, but as much as he could muster.

“I’m new in town. My name’s Cliff Weston.”

“And what brings you to our humble beach town?”