Shades of Blue

by Bill Moody

  “That’s okay,” she says. “I just got back myself. What are you doing in the Valley at rush hour?”

  “I’m asking myself the same thing. It was a dead end. I’ll tell you about it when I get there.” Inching along I decide to use the time to make a couple of other calls.

  “I left those numbers of the musicians you said called on the table by Cal’s chair. Can you give them to me.” In the glove box, I find a pen with the rental car company logo.

  “Sure, hang on.”

  By the time she comes back on the line I’ve gone all of a hundred yards.

  “Ready? First one is Al Beckwood. The other is Mal Leonard.” I write the names and numbers on the front of the file folder beside me on the seat.

  “Okay, thanks, Dana. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I try Beckwood first but there’s no answer, not even a machine. I’m not sure but I think it’s a New York exchange. For Mal Leonard, there is only partial success.

  “Musicians’ home.”

  “Hello. I’m trying to reach a Mal Leonard. What is this place?”

  “Musicians’ Retirement Home,” a woman’s voice says. “Mr. Leonard won’t be back until sometime tomorrow.”

  “Does he work there?”

  “No, he’s a resident. He’s with his daughter on an overnight visit.”

  “I see. I’m returning his call. He left a message a few days ago. Can I get him tomorrow then?”

  “Yes, he’ll be available then.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I close the phone and drop it on the seat beside me. A musicians’ retirement home. I didn’t know there was such a place.

  ***

  Back at the house, I find a parking space fairly close and jog up the steps. Dana is in the kitchen, stirring a pot of sauce and I can smell shrimp sautéing in garlic and olive oil.

  “Hey,” she says. “Won’t be long now. Why don’t you open the wine.” She nods to a bottle on the table. A corkscrew is lying beside it.

  “Looks like you’ve done this before,” I say as I open the wine.

  “Oh I love to cook. Just haven’t had the time or opportunity for awhile.”

  I pour us both a glass. “Merlot.” I look at the bottle. “How did you know?”

  She smiles. “Just a guess. It’s about the only red wine I like.” She gives the sauce a final stir and turns off the fire under the shrimp. She’s in a t-shirt and jeans and sandals, her hair loose about her face. “So how did it go?”

  I catch her up on things as she drains the pasta, mixes in the sauce and adds the shrimp in a large bowl. She doesn’t ask any questions, just listens until we sit down at the table.

  “Well, here’s to it.” She holds up her glass and I tap mine against hers.

  “This is really nice,” I say. “How about some music?”

  I go in the living room and dig through Cal’s records and put on Birth of the Cool. I listen for a minute. It’s such an old copy there’s a lot of noise and static.

  “Cal used to play that a lot,” Dana says as I return to the table.

  “This is delicious,” I say as the band moves through the tricky little line called “Boplicity.” I tell her about the music sheets I’d found.

  She looks puzzled. “Does that mean anything?”

  “Well, they’re very old but it could mean two things. Cal was either just writing out the line for himself, or, he possibly had a hand in the composing.”

  “But wouldn’t his name be on the record?”

  “Normally, yes, but there are a lot instances where the wrong people got credit, or the rights were sold. Sometimes it gets complicated.”

  There had been a persistent controversy over “Blue in Green” between Miles Davis and Bill Evans on the record Kind of Blue. Both had claimed to have written it. And there were others. “The Chase,” by Wardell Gray and Dexter Gordon, who sold the rights for a hundred dollars. A similar story floated around about Oliver Nelson’s “Stolen Moments,” which had been recorded many times since the 1960s when it first saw light.

  “A lot of groups recorded those tunes in the past forty years. That means maybe thousands in lost royalties for the person who didn’t get credit.”

  Dana listens, takes a last bite, and pushes her plate aside. “So Cal might have written some of these tunes and never got credit?”

  “Who knows. It was a long time ago.” I listen for a couple of minutes, recalling the tunes then think of something else. “Is there a big record store anywhere near here?”

  “Yeah, Tower down on Sunset and a couple of others in Hollywood. Why?”

  “There’s a newer version of this, a two CD set with a little booklet. I’d like to see it, see who the musicians are.” I was mainly curious to see if Barney Jackson was listed.

  I pour us both some more wine and light a cigarette. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about, Dana.”

  Dana nods but looks a little wary. “You’ve changed your mind? You’re going to sell the house?”

  I laugh. “No, nothing like that. It’s about Cal.” I tell her about calling the Cremation Society, the scattering of ashes at sea. “It’s something I want to get over with and I’d like you to go with me, since you were the last person to see Cal.”

  I study her for a moment. She holds her glass in both hands and looks down.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Isn’t it really a more private thing for you? I mean I got to know Cal but—”

  “No, I understand if you don’t want to. Hell, I don’t want to but I just don’t like the idea of going by myself.”

  “It’s not that, I just don’t want to, you know, intrude.”

  “You won’t be and I’d really appreciate it.”

  She smiles. “When is it?”

  “I’ll have to call them tomorrow to make arrangements.” I feel an inner sigh of relief that I’ll have some company.

  “Look, let’s leave the kitchen and run down to Tower and then I’ll buy you a cappuccino or something. How about it?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  ***

  Sunset is crawling with cars full of cruising teens as we wind down toward Tower Records, past the clubs and restaurants. I manage to find a parking place in the crowded lot and we go inside. I almost wince as I hear the heavy, blaring band with a screaming vocal they’re playing over the store sound system.

  Dana sees my frown and laughs. “Not your thing, huh? Aerosmith.” She takes off. “I’ll meet you in the jazz section,” she says.

  Jazz is in the back, a couple of aisles worth with quite a selection. There’s plenty of Miles Davis in the racks and several copies of Birth of The Cool. It’s a two CD set and even includes a few of the tracks recorded live at the Royal Roost. I grab one and wander around looking randomly at all the new releases. Half the names I don’t recognize. So much music, so little time. I’d about seen enough when Dana comes by.

  “Find anything?”

  She frowns. “Nothing I don’t already have and nothing new I want.”

  I watch her browse through the jazz, her fingers dragging over several rows of CDs, then she lets out a little squeal. “Oh, look,” she says. “You’re here too.”

  I walk over and see she’s pointing at one of the tabs separating each musician. Right between Red Holloway and Bobby Hutcherson is one with my name on it and a single copy of Haiku, the recording I’d done before I took off for Europe. Cal had been in the studio that day. I didn’t even know Tower was carrying it.

  Dana picks it up and looks at the front with my photo. I guess I’d been trying to look pensive at the time, but seeing it now, I think I look more puzzled than anything. Dana looks from the cover to me and back several times. “Not bad,” she says, “but you look better in person. They’ll order more if I take this one, right?”

  “You don’t have to do that. I can get you one of the promotional copies.”

  She shakes her hea
d. “No, I want this one. I’ve never been in a record store and bought one with the guy who made it with me.”

  We both pause for a moment and then laugh at what she said. She even blushes a little. “Well, you know what I mean.”

  I start to take it from her. “At least let me buy it for you.”

  “No, this one I pay for myself. You can autograph it for me later.”

  We stand in line a few minutes and then a bored cashier in spiked purple and green hair rings up Dana. As the clerk starts to put it in one of the yellow plastic Tower bags, Dana points to me and says, “This is the guy who recorded it.”

  The clerk glances at me quickly, obviously unimpressed and says, “Awesome.”

  Dana waits by the door as I pay for mine. “Thanks,” I say to the clerk, but she’s already focused on the next customer.

  “She’s obviously not a jazz fan,” Dana says, nodding toward the cashier.

  “Yeah, there aren’t many of us.”

  I drive back up Sunset. It’s still warm as I pull into a spot in front of an old style ice cream parlor coffee house. Marble tables, wire chairs, and a white tile floor. It’s been such a long time, I decide to indulge in my all time favorite—a hot fudge sundae. Dana opts for a frozen yogurt. I get two coffees to go with the ice cream and we find a place at one of the outside tables.

  The sundae is delicious and I haven’t felt this relaxed in a long time. Dana watches me eat and smiles. “Hmm. Doesn’t like peas, loves hot fudge sundaes. I’m getting to know you, Evan Horne.”

  “You think?” I finish off the sundae and chase it with some coffee and light a cigarette.

  For a few minutes we both just kind of space out, watching the people walk by, the traffic, and occasionally exchange glances over one wild hairdo or outfit. Finally, Dana says, “So tell me about your girlfriend.”

  “Andie? Well, she’s an FBI agent. She was a profiler but now she’s on bank robbery detail whatever that is.”

  “Cal told me a little about her. I don’t think he liked her. He said you met when that serial killer thing happened. I remember seeing some of it on the news.”

  “Yeah, we did. She had to run a background check on Cal during that investigation. Just brought up some old wounds and bad memories I guess.”

  Dana continues to study me. “So, is this pretty serious?” She leans forward and touches my arm. “I’m sorry, I’m just curious. It is kind of a strange combination. A jazz musician and an FBI agent.”

  “Yeah I guess it is. I don’t know how serious it is really.” I suddenly realize I don’t. “We each have our own place but we’ve spent a lot of time together since I came back from Europe. I guess neither of us is sure where it’s going. We’re just kind of playing it by ear.”

  Dana nods and looks away.

  “How about you? No boyfriends on the horizon.”

  She shrugs. “There was a guy for awhile but it didn’t work out, and I’m so busy with grad school I don’t have time for a relationship. Casual dating is kind of boring and the only guys I meet now are as tied up with studying as I am.”

  “That’s too bad,” I say. “You have a lot to offer someone.”

  She smiles. “Why thank you. That’s very nice of you to say.”

  My cell phone rings then. I dig it out of my pocket and see it’s Andie.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself,” Andie says. “How’s it going?”

  “Well, I just had a hot fudge sundae. Trying to relax a little.”

  Dana gets up and points inside and mimes ladies room.

  “Sounds decadent,” Andie says.

  “I found out Cal had a life insurance policy with the musicians union, but I have no idea who the beneficiary is or how to find her.”

  “It’s a woman?”

  “Yes. Someone named Jean Lane. Any chance you could do some digging for me?”

  “Evan, I told you I’m swamped but when you get back and I can see that photo and all, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That would be good.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “Hopefully by the weekend. I’m going to go along on a boat to scatter Cal’s ashes. Have to call them tomorrow to set it up.”

  “I’m sorry, Evan, about all of it. That’s going to be hard. I wish I could be there with you.”

  “Dana is going to go. I figured since she was the last one to see Cal and all,” then regret it immediately.

  “Of course,” Andie says, a decided chill in her voice. Dana comes back and sits down and stares at the traffic.

  “Come on, Andie, lighten up.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated at not being there and I’ve been so tied up here.”

  “I know.” There’s a long pause where neither of us say anything. “Well, I’ll let you go.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got an early briefing. Call me tomorrow.”

  “I will.”

  “Night.”

  “Night.”

  I punch off the phone, and light another cigarette. Dana looks at me. “Everything okay?”

  I shrug. “Andie has a little jealous streak about her.”

  Dana nods. “I understand that. It’s good. It means she cares.”

  ***

  Wednesday morning I call the cremation society around nine and talk to the same woman. There’s a boat on Friday morning if I’d like to make a reservation, she tells me.

  “There will be two, another friend of Mr. Hughes.”

  “Fine, I think you’ll be glad you decided on this, Mr. Horne.”

  “I’m not so sure I am,” I say.

  “Trust me,” Mrs. Johnson says. “Friday morning at ten. The lower deck of Santa Monica Pier. One of our representatives will be there.”

  I hang up the phone and wander around the house for a bit. Dana is already gone and has left a note for me that she has classes but will be back later this afternoon if I need her for anything. She’s even drawn a little happy face on the bottom of the page.

  I have to admit her presence has made things much easier and she’s a bright attractive girl and…

  I don’t finish the thought when my cell rings.

  “So, am I picking you up sometime today?” Andie asks.

  I tell her again about the excursion to scatter Cal’s ashes. “It’s Friday. I just have to have some kind of closure on this, Andie, and this seems the only way.”

  I’d sat up late thinking about all this. Although it was a done deal and what Cal wanted, there would be no grave to visit in the coming years, no visible signs at all. But maybe it was best to remember Cal as I’d last seen him.

  Andie sounds disappointed. “You’re right.”

  “I have a couple of other things to run down while I’m here but I’ll try to make it back Friday night or Saturday, okay?”

  “Well I can’t promise I’ll be around. This case I’m on may get heavy by the weekend.”

  We’re both silent for a long moment. “Let’s just play it by ear then.”

  “Not much choice,” she says. “Let me know what you decide.”

  “Andie.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to pursue this thing with Cal and try to find the woman, the child in the photo, with or without your help.”

  “I know.”

  She’s quiet again then, “Evan, you may not like what you find.”

  I know what she means. I’ve heard it before.

  ***

  I call the Musicians’ Retirement Home again and try to catch Mal Leonard. I get the same woman who tells me he’s expected back around noon.

  “Are there any restrictions on visitors?”

  She laughs. “No, nothing like that. I’m sure he’ll be glad to swap stories with you.”

  “Good, just tell him I’m the friend of Calvin Hughes.”

  “Will do,” she says and hangs up.

  With time to kill I sit down
at Cal’s piano and go through some exercises and start thinking about tunes for the Roy Haynes date. That still hasn’t quite registered yet. A recording date with Roy Haynes. Big label, promotion, and very likely I’ll be in some very fast company with top flight bass players as well as Roy Haynes.

  I love playing ballads so it’s not hard to come up with several possibilities I can suggest to Haynes. For something more uptempo, I decide on “Solar,” the Miles tune, and a blues line I dredge up from memory called “Shifting Down,” by trumpeter Kenny Dorham that has a kind of quirky, rhythmic line I know Haynes would love to play on.

  It feels good under my hands and before I know it, a couple of hours have passed. I also get out the lead sheets I’d found that Cal had left and play them again. I’d have to check them with the recordings, but the chord changes all fit and sound like the original to me. What Cal was doing with them is something I still haven’t figured out, but as I leave I slip them into the file folder with the rest of the papers and photos.

  On the drive down to the musicians’ home, I stop at a Kinko’s and make several copies of both lead sheets.

  The young clerk picks them up. “Man, these are really old and in pencil. Can’t promise the quality is going to be very good.”

  “That’s okay. Do what you can.”

  He’s back in a few minutes with fairly clear copies. “I punched up the contrast,” he says. “Not bad really.”

  “Thanks.” I pay for the copies and drive down to the address of the home off Melrose.

  I’m not sure what I expected. A rest home? A convalescent hospital? But it’s neither. A couple of low stucco buildings with a courtyard and some grounds that look pleasant enough. There’s a large porch-veranda kind of affair in front and several men are playing cards at small tables. A few others are relaxing in chairs, some look to be dozing.

  Inside at a small reception area, the voice on the phone has a face, a woman in her fifties named Connie. She has glasses on a chain around her neck and is dressed in a long shirt kind of dress with music notes all over it.

  “Hi, I’m Evan Horne. I called earlier about seeing Mal Leonard.”

  “Right, right,” she says. “He just got back a while ago. He’s having lunch. Down that hallway, then to your left.”