by Bill Moody
“Hey, how about if I come along? Maybe we could tape him, you know, get an interview.”
“I don’t think so, Ace. This guy has been on some hard times. I don’t think he’s going to feel like being grilled by a college professor. Let me see what he has to say first.”
“Yeah, sure, you’re probably right,” Ace says, but I can see he’s clearly disappointed.
“Can I give you a hand with the dishes?”
“No, you go ahead. Listen, take the Jeep if you want. I’m just going to hang around here today. Lots of papers to grade, and I’ve got to write a test for Monday.”
The air-conditioned Cherokee sounds appealing. I go back to my place and dress in my tux. Standing in front of the mirror, flexing my hand a few times, I stare at my own reflection. A not-too-bad-looking thirty-five-year-old piano player who doesn’t know when to quit. In the clarity of morning Tony and Karl don’t seem quite so threatening. Tony was very cocky; he probably reported to his boss that their veiled threats were more than enough to let me know I should back off. Who the boss is still intrigues me.
The one aspect of their visit I don’t like is that they probably know where I live. The only way they could have known I was at the Hob Nob was to have tailed me from the Sands, which means they had to have seen me with Coop and John Trask. Coop they wouldn’t know, but they might have made Trask. Nobody—Trask, Coop, or Natalie—knew I was going to the Hob Nob. I didn’t know myself until Pappy Dean called me.
It’s a short ride to the Fashion Show. The Jeep rides smoothly, and the wonderful air-conditioning staves off the heat, which according to the radio is one hundred seven degrees. I park in back of the mall and take the escalator down to the piano just a minute or two ahead of Brent Tyler.
It’s much busier today. The shoppers are out in legions, and the food court is full. Long lines stretch in front of each outlet. A few of the curious watch me take my place at the white grand and kick off the afternoon with a Duke Ellington medley. Tyler is at my shoulder almost immediately.
“Doing great, Horne, just great.”
“Thanks, Brent.” I give him my best mall smile, but again, I know better. Tyler is typical of people who say something to the band when they come off about how good they sounded when the musicians know it wasn’t happening. Maybe ignorance is bliss.
I segue into “Sophisticated Lady.” Actually, my hand feels better today. There’s no cramping yet, but the two hours stretch ahead. Tyler, relieved that I’m on the job, waves and heads off to do whatever he does.
On an unscheduled break I find a pay phone and call Louise Cody. I get her on the third ring.
“Hi, it’s Evan Horne.”
“Oh, hello. I was going to call you today. Are you free this evening?”
“We must be on the same wavelength. I was going to invite myself to dinner if your offer is still good.”
“Of course, that would be nice.”
“No news on your daughter yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I know, it’s too soon,” Louise says. There’s a long pause, which I don’t fill. “I’ve been looking through that diary I told you about. I think I may have some information, something I forgot myself.”
“Sounds interesting. What time do you want me?”
“How about seven?”
“That’s fine. I’ve got a couple of things to do after my shift here.” She gives me an address in Desert Shores and directions to her house.
I grab a cup of coffee from one of the outlets, and when I get back to the piano, Coop and Natalie are standing just outside the velvet rope. Coop looks a little sheepish.
“Not my idea, sport,” Coop says. “Natalie wanted to hear you play.”
I nod, somehow irritated to see them there. This isn’t a gig I want advertised, even for friends. “Any luck on the machines?”
“I won fifty dollars,” Natalie says. “I’ve already blown it, though.” She holds up a Neiman Marcus shopping bag.
“Well, it’s time for me to go to work. Anything you’d like to hear? You, I mean,” I say to Natalie. “Coop would probably want a Willie Nelson song.”
Natalie has one trait I like already. Before she speaks, her eyes close, then flick open and almost catch you unawares. She smiles, thinks for a moment, and asks for a Charlie Parker line. “I’ll give it a shot.” I flex my hand and begin the intricate line while Coop and Natalie take a table in the food court area. For some reason I’m very aware of Natalie watching me, and when I look up, Coop has gone to get them both drinks. I get through the tune in fair style and finish just when Coop sits down again.
I play four more songs. When I look up again, Natalie is gone, probably for more shopping. She’s still not back when I finish the set and join Coop at his table.
“Sounds pretty good to me,” Coop says, “if you’ll take a compliment from an uninformed listener.”
“Thanks, Coop.” He watches me light a cigarette and rub my wrist. I realize this is only the second time Coop has heard me play.
“Still stiff, eh?”
I nod and look around the food court. The aroma of hamburgers, pizza, coffee, and frying onions permeates the air. Unconsciously, I’m looking for Tony and Karl.
“I had some strange visitors last night.” When I describe the dynamic duo’s visit to the Hob Nob, Coop’s eyebrows go up and down several times, but his response is uncharacteristically calm.
“Sounds like someone wants you to leave Wardell Gray dead and buried,” he says.
“What do you think I should do?”
“How important is this research you’re doing?” Coop asks. “Is it really just for your friend?”
“What do you mean?”
Coop sighs and stubs out his cigar in a black plastic ashtray. “What I mean is you’re calmly telling me you got some heat from a couple of goons—never mind who they are—but I don’t hear you talking about backing off or going back to L.A. like you should. We both know telling you to back off is like waving a red cape at a bull. You always have to know why, and you usually don’t give up until you find out, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Just hear me out,” Coop puts his hand firmly on my arm. “You remember in high school the campaign to get rid of Mr. Ortega, the Spanish teacher, when all the rumors were flying around that he was gay? You got up a petition and got all those students to sign it saying what a great teacher he was and then mailed it to the Board of Education. Christ, I signed it myself. And what did everybody tell you?”
I smile in spite of myself. I hadn’t thought about that for years. Ortega was reinstated, and I was labeled a “fag lover” for some time after the incident.
“Right,” Coop says, seeing me remember. “You were the only one who stood up to be counted. Jesus, you’re about as gay as Mel Gibson. Which reminds me, I don’t like the way Natalie is looking at you.”
“Aw c’mon, Coop.”
“Just kidding. Anyway, this Wardell Gray thing is something more for you, but keep this in mind. The past may seem safe, but sometimes there are things buried there people don’t want dug up. The deeper you go, the more you’ll find out, especially if it’s connected to the present.” He pauses again. “Somebody may not like that.” He takes out another miniature and pats his pockets. “You got a light?”
I hand Coop my lighter. “Okay, I think it’s more than just an article. Ace is getting a bit obsessed with it. I think it’s more than just wanting or needing to get published. He’s up for a promotion, and this could do it.”
“And you?”
“Okay, it’s more for me, too.”
“Fine,” Coop says. “Now we’re being straight. You want me to check out these guys? I can call Trask. He might know them.”
I’m surprised at Coop’s show of cooperation and tell him so. “Are you saying I shouldn’t worry about these guys?”
“You should worry about them plenty. What I’m saying is no matter how the piano is going, this has
got you out of your fog. You’re doing something you know and care a lot about, and that may be the best therapy. Face it, man, playing piano in a mall might be the best you can look forward to.”
I know Coop means well, but anger momentarily flares up inside me. “I don’t need you or anybody else to tell me that, Coop.”
“Maybe you do.”
We let a couple of minutes silence pass between us, both wondering if we’ve overstepped the fragile line of friendship. Coop puffs furiously on his cigar. I stare at the piano as if it’s mocking me. Coop finally breaks the impasse.
“Look,” he says, “let me know if you see this Tony and Karl again. Get a description, a license plate, last names if you can, and we’ll see if we can find out who they work for. Hired muscle isn’t Vegas style these days, but from what you tell me, I bet both of them have a rap sheet. There’s got to be something else going on for you to draw this kind of interest.”
“Thanks, Coop, I really appreciate it.”
“Hey, Wayne Newton will do it every time.”
“Okay, you guys, what are you cooking up?” Natalie asks as she joins us with yet another shopping bag. I wonder if she’s seen our exchange and waited for the right moment. She collapses in a chair. “That’s enough shopping for me,” she says. “Take me to the pool.”
I get up for my last set. “What’s on the agenda for tonight?”
“We’re going to have a sumptuous dinner at one of the finer establishments,” Coop says.
“Oooh, you didn’t tell me.” Natalie is all smiles, mocking Coop.
“Want to join us, sport?”
“No thanks, I have a previous engagement. You guys have fun.” I head for the piano.
“Give me a call tomorrow,” Coop says, turning serious again. “We don’t leave until tomorrow night. I might even take a couple of days sick leave and let this beauty go home so you and I can have some bachelor time before I go back to serve and protect the people of Santa Monica.”
“We’ll see about that,” Natalie says.
They wave at me as they go up the escalator, and I work my way into the last set on the beautiful piano at the Fashion Show Mall.
Late-afternoon downtown is slow. It’s too early for the serious gamblers, but the camper crowd with coupons and cups of nickels is out in full force, carrying drinks from casino to casino. I cruise the area for a few minutes and finally find a free space with a parking meter. I leave the Jeep just off Fremont Street and go looking for Sonny Wells.
Pappy had said he sometimes played in a storefront, so I start at the Union Plaza and work my way down the south side toward the Four Queens and beyond, checking doorways, listening for the sound of a saxophone. No luck anywhere.
I cross the street a couple of blocks beyond the Queens and start back up on the other side. Halfway up, I spot a thin black man unrolling a small piece of carpet in the doorway of a furniture store. He has a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard, a Dodgers cap perched on his head, and is wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and scuffed tennis shoes that are definitely not Air Jordans.
I watch for a few moments as he unpacks a battered tenor case and takes out a horn that belongs in a pawn shop window. He arranges the open case on the carpet, blows a couple of notes, adjusts the reed, and takes a deep breath. Sonny Wells is going to work.
Some of the tone is still there, but his fingers stumble over the keys. He’s trying for “Darn That Dream,” having a hard time with the melody. How did Sonny Wells end up here? I wonder. Drug abuse, prison, bad breaks? This is the same tenor player who stood toe to toe with Dexter Gordon and Art Pepper in the clubs on Central Avenue in Los Angeles.
A couple of college-age kids walking by pause for a moment, listening. “Blow, dad, that’s cool,” one of them says. They drop a silver dollar in the sax case and move on. Sonny raises one finger in acknowledgment, but his eyes never open.
How is it so many jazz players end up like this? If he’d lived, would Wardell Gray be here? Would Charlie Parker? It’s not likely a violinist from the symphony would be playing for change on a street corner. Jazz is always different.
I walk over and squat down in front of Sonny. He almost finishes “Dream,” then stops playing and takes out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and pats his pocket for a match. Only then does he glance at me. I offer him my lighter and light a cigarette of my own.
“You know ‘The Chase’?” I ask.
Sonny takes a deep drag of his cigarette, exhales a cloud of smoke, and laughs, shaking his head. “I know it,” he says. “Don’t mean I can play it.”
“I know the feeling.” He takes in my tux pants and white shirt, the bow tie loose around my neck.
“You giggin’ down here?” he asks.
“No, just hanging out. Pappy Dean said I should look you up. Evan Horne. How you doin’?”
He looks at me closely now, his eyes wary. He takes my hand gingerly. His fingers are long and thin, and his nails are clipped short. “You the dude wants to know about Wardell?” His eyes, clouded with fatigue, wander somewhere over my shoulder. “I think I was supposed to play with Pappy last night. You there?”
“Yeah, I waited for you. What happened?”
“Oh you know, man, I just-” He holds up his hands helplessly. “I’m just tryin’ to get my shit together, you dig?”
I sit down on the rug with him. “Mind if we talk?” I take out a twenty-dollar bill. Sonny’s eyes never leave the bill as I drop it in the sax case. He looks at me as if I might change my mind and take it away. When I don’t, he palms it deftly, and it disappears into his jeans pocket.
“Talk all you want, baby. I got nothing but time, and my audience hasn’t arrived as yet.” He laughs again, a mocking rattle of hopelessness.
“Pappy says you knew Wardell, you were around when he died.”
“The Moulin Rouge, Benny Carter’s gig,” Sonny says. “I almost got on that band.”
“What happened?” Cars roll up and down Fremont Street, and the casino lights cast neon shadows over both of us.
“What always happens. Somebody else gets the gig, or I don’t make it. You know how us junkies are.”
“Wardell too?”
“Wardell too, only he could stay straight enough to blow. Wardell was a smart dude, man. He was always reading books, but when he got here, he wanted to score some smack, thought I could connect for him. I knew Wardell in L.A.”
“I know.”
“What else you know?”
“I know Wardell died in the desert, Sonny. What I don’t know is how or why.”
“Yeah, I know that story, but I know the real story too.” He smiles slightly, as if he knows a big secret. “Yeah, there was smack, but there was a woman too. Wardell always had him a woman,”
“What woman?”
Sonny thinks it over. He seems to waver and looks out at the street. I look too, for Tony and Karl, but all I see are tourists in shorts and T-shirts. “Look here,” Sonny says, “I got my gig. You got a phone?”
“Sure.” I write my number on a card. Sonny looks at it and puts it in his pocket. I wonder if he’ll remember to call, but at least I know where to find him.
“You live around here, Sonny?”
“Later,” he says. He flips the butt of his cigarette in the street and picks up his horn. The interview is over.
I stand up, drop my cigarettes in his sax case, and head for the Jeep, dodging cars. Over my shoulder I hear the mournful strains of Sonny’s saxophone, struggling to find its old self, the cry of acceptance. I turn and wave at Sonny as I recognize the tune.
It’s an old standard Paul Desmond recorded with Dave Brubeck—”Don’t Worry About Me.”
CHAPTER NINE
I pick up the freeway downtown and head north on I-95 for Louise Cody’s house. Following her directions, I take the Lake Mead exit and continue west to the Desert Shores development, one of the many planned communities that has sprung up and out in Las Vegas to accommodate the nearly million people that
now live here.
Desert Shores, I think, is something of an oxymoron, but when I see the manmade lake, beach club, and sail boats moored in front of the waterfront homes, I don’t know. Lakes in the desert? And I thought there was a water shortage in Las Vegas.
I wind through a maze of streets with incongruous names like Shark Tank Way, Sail Crest, and Rusty Dock Avenue to Louise Cody’s home, a two-story stucco at the end of a cul-de-sac, painted some kind of southwestern pink. Louise’s Mercedes is parked in the driveway. The lawns are neatly trimmed, and some of the homes on her block sport desert landscaping, which seems strange with a huge manmade lake just a few blocks away.
Louise greets me warmly at the door. There’s music playing and wonderful smells coming from the kitchen. There’s no other word for her. Gorgeous. She’s probably put on a few pounds since her dancing days, but in a flowing pantsuit, large gold hoop earrings, and understated makeup, Louise looks gorgeous. She gives me a show-business kiss on the cheek. I catch a whiff of expensive perfume, and I feel like I’m going to have dinner with Lena Horne.
“How about a glass of wine?” Louise asks. She pours us both a glass of Merlot. “To the Moulin Rouge,” she says, clinking expensive crystal with me. “Make yourself at home. I’m just going to check on dinner. I hope you like lamb.”
“Sounds great.” Louise disappears into the kitchen while I wander around the living room. As I expected, her home is expensively decorated. A large white sofa is the room’s centerpiece, opposite two comfortable lounge chairs with a glass-and-chrome coffee table in the middle. The sound of pianist Gene Harris’s trio oozes from the speakers of a state-of-the-art stereo system next to a big-screen television.
Through the sliding glass patio doors I can see a small pool and Jacuzzi, lights shimmering in the water. Over the back wall is a view of the lights of Las Vegas miles away. The real estate business must be good.
“I got a good deal on this place,” Louise says, returning from the kitchen. “It was originally one of the models.”
I can easily imagine her showing homes, charming prospective buyers into signing on the dotted line in such a graceful way they probably think they’re doing Louise a favor. “Very nice, very nice.”
