by Bill Moody
I’m surprised how caught up I am in all this. I remind myself that this entire research-investigation is only for a paper Ace is writing, but I realize—maybe because of all the spare time—I’m hooked. Unanswered questions always bother me, and Wardell Gray’s death has gone unanswered for too many years.
The file of newspaper clippings is probably all the written stuff I’ll find. But if I can find a connection, maybe I can get a look at the police records. All of which triggers a thought of Danny Cooper. Maybe he can wield his influence with the Las Vegas police. It’s worth a try.
I jump in the pool for one last cooling dip. I’m almost dry by the time I gather up the books and go inside the apartment to call Coop.
“Santa Monica Police. How can I help you?” a pleasant voice asks.
“Homicide, please.”
“Just a moment.”
A much less pleasant male voice this time comes on the line.
“Is Detective Cooper on today?”
“Yeah. Name?”
“Evan Horne.”
“Hang on.” There’s a click before Coop picks up.
“I hope you don’t want anything,” Coop says. “I’m having a bad hair day.”
“That’s hard to do with a crew cut, isn’t it? How did they get you to work on Saturday?”
“Fuck you, Horne. We serve and protect, even on weekends. Where are you, and what do you want?”
“Las Vegas, and just a little information.”
“Las Vegas?” I hear a noise that can only be Coop’s feet hitting the floor. He’d probably been in his usual phone position—feet crossed on the desk, leaning back in his chair. “Doing what?”
“A gig. Nothing big, just some solo piano in an upscale shopping mall.” For once Coop doesn’t make a crack. We go back too far. He’s one of the people who knows what it’s like for me not playing anymore.
“And I thought I could avoid you for a while,” Coop says. “It just so happens that I’ll be coming up next Thursday for a weekend of decadence and debauchery.”
“That’s hard to do by yourself.”
“Thanks, Horne, I needed that. By myself is not how I do it. For your information, my companion on this pleasure excursion is a very attractive young lady.”
“Who’s the lucky woman?”
“A blond in Traffic. I’m trying to exercise my immense influence and get her promoted from meter maid.”
“I don’t think I want to hear it.”
“Weekend or not, she deserves the promotion. Maybe as a former conductor to big stars you can pull some strings and get us into a couple of shows.”
“Sure. Wayne Newton is working at the Hilton. I know he’s your favorite.”
“Nothing wrong with Wayne Newton,” Coop shoots back. “The man is immensely talented, a legend. So what information? You’re not playing detective again, I hope.”
“Only on paper. Just doing some research for a friend on a musician’s death.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Horne, you—”
“Relax. This happened in 1955. I just want to look at the police reports. This is for an article in a very scholarly journal.”
“Yeah, sure. Let me think.” There’s a long pause while Coop decides whether he wants to get involved in this or not. “I know a guy in Homicide up there. Worked with him on an extradition case a couple of years ago. He might help, but Vegas is not my turf, and in case you didn’t know, the police aren’t happy about disclosing their files to mere civilians, let alone musicians.”
“Hey, tell him he might be a footnote in the article.”
“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. If it’s an open case, you’re out of luck. Do you know for sure it was murder?”
“No, that’s just a legend in the jazz world. There were some funny circumstances, though.”
“Such as?”
“Wardell Gray is the name. He was a heroin addict and supposedly died falling out of bed during a drug party, but the newspaper story says there were head wounds from a blunt instrument, as you police types call it.”
Coop snorts. “If he was a musician I’m sure there were strange circumstances. When was this again?”
“May 1955.”
“That sounds safe enough even for you. All right, give this guy a call, but don’t hold your breath. Meanwhile, get me in to see Wayne Newton.”
“I’ll try. Want me to pick you up?”
“Absolutely not. The blond meter maid and I will be taking the hotel limo as befitting a man of my position.”
“Have it your way. Call me when you get in.” I give him my number and promise again to try with Wayne Newton. “Thanks, Coop.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
When I’ve had enough of the pool and apartment, I decide to brave the heat and go exploring. I remember that driving around on Friday, I’d found a jazz station. I head the VW in the general direction of UNLV and flip around the dial until I catch some Coltrane, followed by announcements and station ID by the DJ. The sleepy, laid-back voice calls himself “The Breeze.”
“This is KUNV Las Vegas, your jazz connection for southern Nevada, where the airwaves are my playground. The Breeze blowing tunes at you. Give me a call at 895-5555. Now back to the sounds with Miles Davis.”
While Miles’s muted horn comes over the car radio, I start looking for a pay phone. I pull into a gas station just past the Strip and call the station.
“KUNV, Jazzline. You are talking to The Breeze.”
“Yeah, I was just driving around and caught your show. How about some Wardell Gray?”
“Wow, jazz buddy, an informed caller. We got lots of Wardell. Anything special?”
“How about ‘Twisted’?” It’s the first tune that comes to mind, and I remember Annie Ross’s lyrics crafted to Wardell’s solo.
“Way cool, man. I know we got that. Listen up in about ten minutes.”
“Thanks. Listen, I’m in the area. Any chance I could drop by the station? I’m a musician.”
“Can you hold a minute?”
“Sure.” I watch the traffic backing up from the Strip, thankful I’m not sweating in a phone booth. After a couple of more minutes The Breeze is back.
“Sorry man. Dude wants to know why I don’t play big bands. I told him Glen Miller died in a plane crash. What’s your name? Do I know you?”
“Evan Horne, piano. Used to work with Lonnie Cole.”
“Lonnie Cole? I think we got him, too. Sure, come on by. I’m here till three. UNLV, student union building, third floor.”
“Thanks. See you in a bit.”
“Later.”
The Breeze rings off. A pseudo-hipster? No one really talks like that, even if they do jazz radio. By the time I reached Maryland Parkway, I hear myself noodling behind Lonnie Cole on a blues. One of the first things I did when I joined him. It feels good listening to my own two very respectable choruses before Lonnie comes back with the vocal. The downside is, I know this is how I used to play. True to his word, The Breeze follows with Wardell Gray and “Twisted.”
The campus is pretty deserted being Saturday, so there’s no problem finding a parking place near the student union. I sit in the car listening until Wardell is finished. Inside there are a few scattered tables occupied in the snack bar, and a couple of students are watching a baseball game on a giant TV. School is definitely out.
I take the elevator to the third floor. As soon as the doors open, the music hits me—Stan Getz in full flight. I follow the sound around the corner and find someone who can only be The Breeze, leaning against the studio doorway. Neither the cigarette hanging from his mouth nor the Las Vegas Jazz Society baseball cap resting on the back of his head go with the slacks, loafers, dress shirt, and tie. He’s also older looking than his voice sounds.
“Horne?”
“Yeah, thanks for the airplay.”
He extends his hand and snuffs out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “No problem, jazz buddy. Come on in. About time
to put up something else.” I follow him into the tiny studio. CDs and records are scattered everywhere. The Breeze motions me to a chair and sits down at the board in front of the microphone. Two turntables to his left with records cued up; two CD players stacked to his right. As the Getz group winds down, he watches the seconds tick off on the top CD player. He presses a button on the control board as Getz finishes and Bill Evans comes out of his studio speaker monitors. “Cool,” says The Breeze.
There’s not a piano player in jazz who doesn’t list Bill Evans as an influence, and I’m no exception. Neither are Chick Corea, Keith Jarrett, and Herbie Hancock. It was Evans’s touch, sound, and voicings that led me to the piano.
The Breeze spins in the swivel chair, adjusts the volume to conversation level, and faces me. “One of the great ones,” he says, “but, hey, so was Wardell.” He picks up an album cover. “Maybe they’ll get around to reissuing this on CD.” He passes it over to me. I glance at the sidemen. Al Haig, piano; Tommy Potter, bass; Roy Haynes, drums.
“Yeah, great group. You have any more Wardell?”
“We got a few on vinyl in the back.” I’m still taking in the dichotomy of The Breeze’s dress and his radio persona as he asks me, “How come you’re so interested in Wardell Gray?”
I fill him in on the research I’m doing for Ace. He smiles and snaps his fingers. “Now I got it. You’re the cat brought down Lonnie Cole. Record scam, blackmail, or something. I remember reading about it. Hey, you gonna solve Wardell’s murder?”
Given Lonnie Cole’s popularity, coverage in the jazz press was extensive, and my name was thrown around a lot. I shrug. “In the first place, we don’t know it was murder.”
The Breeze just shakes his head. “No, man, he was whacked by someone in the mob. They were heavy here in the ’50s. Not like now, with the corporations running everything. Man, they don’t even have live music with these shows now. It’s all on tape.”
“Why do you say it was the mob?”
The Breeze glances at the CD player. “Hang on a minute, okay? Time to go live.” He swivels around, puts on headphones, and pulls the mike toward him. As the music stops, he hits another button on the board.
“Bill Evans on 91 FM, with Scott Lafaro on bass and Paul Motian on drums playing the Miles Davis tune ‘Israel’. I’ll be right back with more swingin’ sounds after these brief messages.” The Breeze presses another button to activate the tape carts that play public service announcements, then he’s back on mike.
“All right, back to the sounds and a nice ballad from my man Dexter Gordon.” He punches off the mike button as Dexter slides into “Darn That Dream.” The Breeze replaces a CD in the player, checks everything out, and turns back to me.
“As I was sayin’, man, Wardell was whacked. Figure it out for yourself. Young, good-looking dude like Wardell, comes up here with Benny Carter to blow his tenor for the opening of a new casino. Celebrities everywhere and lots of chicks. Wardell scores but with the wrong one. Turns out to be one of the wise guys’ women. Now they can’t have no brother hittin’ on one of their women. They know he’s a junkie, so it’s easy to give him a hot shot, and there you go. Wardell in the desert. Cops are in the mob’s pocket, and Wardell is just another colored-boy musician. This is a redneck town, man, was then, still is now. A real drag, man, a real drag.”
Except for The Breeze’s embellishments, it’s a story I’ve heard many times. Interesting, maybe even possible, but all speculation. As if reading my mind, The Breeze smiles. “Hey, it could have gone down like that, right?”
“I guess so,” I say. “How about a look at the other Gray things?”
“Sure. Follow me.” He takes me around the corner to a small room that houses the jazz library, floor-to-ceiling records and CDs in alphabetical order. “Help yourself, man. I’ll be in the studio.”
Even a quick glance tells me the station is well stocked. I find several of Wardell’s early records, made in the days when liner notes with detailed histories of the musicians and the music were written by people like Nat Hentoff and Leonard Feather and Ira Gitler. But reading the covers tells me no more than I already know. I slide the records back into the rack and head back to the studio.
The Breeze is lounging outside the studio again. We share a smoke, talk music, and generally strike a chord with each other. He glances at his watch. “I got to get organized, man. My relief will be in soon.”
“Well, thanks for your time,” I say.
“Anytime, man.” He digs for his wallet and pulls out a card. “Give me a call whenever.”
I glance at the card and do a double take. Now at least the dress makes sense. The card reads:
Jonathan Counts, Attorney
Specialist in Copyright Law
I look up and find The Breeze grinning at me. “Gotcha, eh, man.” The Breeze points a finger at me. “Yeah, this is my weekend gig, keeps me sane for dealing with the legal system. I’m good at that too.”
“I’m sure you are, Jon.”
“Hey, one more thing,” The Breeze says, now dropping the jazz character completely. “Have you thought of looking into the police records on Wardell’s death?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact.”
“Don’t bother. I already have.”
“And?”
“There’s no record of any investigation on Wardell Gray.”
CHAPTER FOUR
In a city known for its live shows and touted as the Entertainment Capital of the World, Las Vegas has made some abrupt changes to the contrary. The music for the production shows at the major Strip hotels is now tape, replacing the live bands with music prerecorded by musicians who are now out of work.
The majority of the other hotels that feature star policies—big-name singers and comedians—have reduced their house bands to skeleton combos or in some cases eliminated them altogether. The lounges for the most part hire self-contained groups with fewer and fewer musicians. Thanks to synthesizers, drum machines, and the weakening of the musician’s union, Top Forty groups dominate the entertainment for audiences that are only killing time between gambling and eating.
The jazz scene is another story. A handful of bars try jazz for a few weeks or a few months, refuse to advertise or pay decent money, then blame it on the musicians if it doesn’t pan out. The owners quickly move on to something else.
Despite the number of former big-band sidemen who flocked here after getting off the band buses and the grueling life on the road, there’s only one constant on the jazz scene—Alan Grant’s Monday Night Jazz at the Four Queens Hotel and Casino downtown.
Grant, a former WABC New York DJ, who came to town in the early ’80s, originally to open an ice cream franchise, was offered an opportunity to present jazz at the Four Queens. He agreed to try it for four weeks, but only if he could do it on Monday night. That was more than ten years ago. Grant knew Monday is a travel day for musicians, and figured he could catch enough of them on the way in or out of Los Angeles for a once-a-week schedule that would provide top names.
Grant, who discovered the likes of George Benson, the Thad Jones—Mel Lewis Band, and Grammy winner Joe Henderson, has missed only one Monday since he began at the Four Queens, and that was because he was in Sydney accepting an award from Australian radio. The Four Queens sets are recorded and broadcast on American Public Radio on a hundred forty stations here and overseas. If anyone knows anything about Wardell Gray, it’s Alan Grant.
I get to the Four Queens toward the end of the first set. Tonight it’s trumpeter Art Farmer, working with a rhythm section. The casino is crowded with gamblers who probably have no idea who Art Farmer is, much less care that he’s one of the world’s premier jazz musicians.
Near the lounge the air rings with the sounds of slot-machine bells and coins dropping into trays. Inside the French Quarter the faithful are in attendance. The bar is three deep with musicians, hard-core fans, and surprised tourists clutching coupon books and cups of quarters, who didn’t expect to fi
nd jazz in Las Vegas. Some have stayed around to see what it’s all about.
I know there are some musicians at the bar, but I don’t see any familiar faces. Scanning the audience for Grant, I find him in a booth at the back of the lounge, nodding his head in time to Art Farmer’s elegant lines. I envy the pianist feeding him chords. The bassist and drummer both look familiar, but I can’t place them.
Grant has become something of a legend over the years. When he was at WABC in New York, Alan Grant literally pushed some musicians through the door of labels such as Blue Note and Impulse, introduced them to record company executives, and got them recording contracts. There are more than a few musicians who owe the jump-starting of their careers to Grant.
I’ve met him a couple of times, but I’m not sure he even remembers me. When I catch his eye, he gives me one of those where-do-I-know-you-from? looks. He’s got a bushel of graying hair and thick glasses, but still looks nowhere near what must be his seventy-odd years.
I wave in response, get a drink from the bar, and wait for Farmer to finish his set. When the final note is played, Grant climbs up onstage to reintroduce Farmer and the group, give a rundown of coming attractions, and thank everyone for coming. The applause is genuine for both Farmer and Grant.
Grant clearly loves the spotlight as he grins at the audience. “In this day and age, jazz is probably the only thing that makes sense, so keep supporting live music. Thanks for coming by. We’ll have another set in about an hour.” The lights go up and the packed lounge starts to empty out while Grant lingers onstage for a couple of minutes, talking with the musicians.
I make my way to Grant’s booth and prepare to introduce myself. He beats me to it.
“Evan Horne,” Grant says, pointing at me as he walks up. “Piano with Lonnie Cole, one album on your own, but something happened.” He shakes my hand, then looks at it. “I got it. Car accident.” He drops into the booth and looks up at me as if he’s already asked me to sit down. “How am I doing?”
