Shades of Blue

by Bill Moody

  She laughs. “Hardly. That’s about the last thing on my mind.”

  “What then?” We pass the 405 Interchange and head east toward Hollywood.

  She sighs and leans back. “I was just thinking, these last couple of nights, seeing you play tonight. I’m going to miss you being around.” She sits up straighter and turns up the volume on the radio. “Who is that? It sounds kind of like you.”

  “Thanks. That’s Bill Evans.” I stare straight ahead, light a cigarette and crack the window. “Are you going to be okay in the house?”

  “You mean am I going to be spooked?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  She smiles. “No, I’ll be fine and I’ll have Milton.” She looks over at me till I feel her gaze. “Andie is a lucky woman.”

  Neither of us says anymore till we get to the house.

  ***

  I wake up early in spite of sitting up for over an hour, just thinking, letting my mind run over things. Dana is gone when I get up. I make coffee and sit at the kitchen table with a pad and pen, trying to write Cal’s obituary for the Musicians International. I look at what I’ve written so far.

  Calvin Hughes—pianist, composer, teacher, died in his Hollywood home of natural causes. Born in Kansas City, MO, Hughes’ career spanned six decades, as a pianist with a number of territory bands before moving to New York. In 1949, he became a member of a rehearsal band that eventually led to the recording of Miles Davis’ Birth of the Cool.

  Hughes later moved to southern California where he was a staple at Los Angeles jazz clubs while teaching youth groups in Watts. In the early 80s, Hughes retired from active playing and lived quietly in Hollywood. Hughes is survived by

  I stop there. Who? Jean Lane? An unknown child? How to fill in those blanks? I stare at the pad for several minutes before I continue.

  No funeral services were held. Messages, condolences can be sent care of Evan Horne.

  I add my address and phone in Monte Rio and as an afterthought, Cal’s home address and phone. Not much but it’s all I can think of.

  I get a second cup of coffee and sit down to think about it some more when the doorbell rings. I go to the door and find a man in a three piece suit and tie. He’s about thirty and carries an expensive looking tan briefcase. “Yes, can I help you?” I don’t open the screen door.

  He flashes me a big smile. “Evan Horne?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hi, I’m Brent Sergent with Erwin, McCullough, and Bowers Developers. Do you have a few minutes?” He holds up a business card. I glance at it through the screen door and look back at him.

  “What’s this about?” I open the screen door and let him in.

  “Thanks.” He steps inside and gives the living room a quick once over. “Smaller than I imagined,” he says. He looks back at me. “I understand you just inherited this place from a Mr. Calvin Hughes.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. What about it?” I already don’t like Sergent. He’s just too slick, too presumptive. I know he’s selling something. “How did you know?”

  “Public record, Mr. Horne,” he says almost too quickly. “My company is prepared to make you an offer, a very considerable offer I might add. I’m sure you are aware of property values in this area. Frankly, this place isn’t worth the cost of razing it. But the land is extremely valuable.”

  “It’s not for sale,” I say.

  He gazes at me. “Can we sit down for a minute?”

  I shrug. “Sure, but you’re wasting your time.”

  Sergent sits down on the small sofa and snaps open his briefcase. He takes out a document and hands it to me. “Just take a glance at this, Mr. Horne. Please.”

  I take it from him and look it over. It’s an offer for sale and the amount is mid six figures. I look up at Sergent. “Are you serious?”

  “Very,” Sergent says. “Of course that offer is negotiable.”

  “Of course.”

  Sergent frowns. “Did you have a higher figure in mind?” he says cautiously.

  “I had no figure in mind. Like I said, it’s not for sale.”

  “But surely, Mr. Horne, you can’t—”

  “Yes I can. There’s really nothing to talk abut. I’ve already rented the house and the new tenant has moved in.”

  “I see.” Sergent gives me a disappointed sigh. “Well, will you just hang on to that, think it over maybe, and get back to me.”

  “I can do that, but I’m afraid my answer will be the same.”

  Sergent nods and closes his brief case. “Thanks for your time.” He heads for the door, pauses as if he’s going to say something more, then thinks better of it.

  “Mr. Sergent.”

  “Yes? Brent, please.”

  “Okay, Brent. Call before you come next time.”

  “Certainly.”

  He goes out and I stand at the door for a minute watching him walk down the steep steps. He brushes past Dana, then turns, and gives her an appraising look.

  “Who was that?” she says, nearing the door.”

  “Some builder’s rep, wanting to buy the house.” I hand her the offer.

  She takes it from me and scans over it then her eyes go wide. “Oh my God. $650,000?”

  “They want to tear it down and build condos probably.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said it’s not for sale.”

  “I may be cutting my own throat, but Evan, are you crazy? That’s a lot of money.”

  It was. More than I’d ever seen or probably ever would see, and I admit I felt more than a twinge of temptation, but it didn’t feel right. Why hadn’t Cal sold it? He must have had similar offers over the years and I bet from the same people.

  “I know but, I hadn’t even thought about it until he showed up. I’m just not comfortable with the idea, at least not now, so soon after Cal’s death.”

  Dana nods but still looks skeptical, shaking her head. She sets the document down on the table.

  “Where did you go anyway?”

  “Oh just down to get some donuts.” She hands me a bag.

  I look inside. “Mmmm chocolate. How did you know?”

  “I watched you wolf down that sundae the other night, remember?”

  “You are very observant. Okay, well let’s do these in. Coffee is already made. Then we have a boat to catch.”

  ***

  There’s no easy way to get to Santa Monica from Hollywood. I could either go south to the Santa Monica Freeway, which meant a lot of traffic signals, or take Sunset to the San Diego Freeway. At this time of morning, I opt for Sunset.

  We get lucky and make the drive to Santa Monica in record time. As I start down the steep incline of Santa Monica Pier fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, I begin to feel some misgivings about the whole thing. Maybe I should just skip this part entirely, make a U-turn and…

  Dana touches my arm, sensing my thoughts. “It’s going to be okay, Evan.”

  I nod and sigh and keep going. It’s less crowded than I thought and I manage to find a parking space in a lot by the merry-go-round. How many times had I ridden that as a kid?

  We get out and I lock the car and start walking toward the end. The pier has always had a special feeling for me. I‘d spent a lot of time here as a kid. Riding the carousel, eating snow cones and hot dogs, even once jumping off on a dare. But not all the memories were good.

  At the end of the pier, I catch sight of a man in a dark suit. There are several small boxes stacked near him. His tie flaps in the breeze and behind him, the water looks choppy. The sky is slate gray and getting darker. I catch his eye as we near. “Are you from the Society?”

  He steps forward. “Yes,” he says. “Arthur Cummings.” He holds out his hand.

  “Evan Horne,” I say. “This is my friend Dana Trent.”

  He nods at Dana and checks off my name on a clip board he holds in one hand. “We’re waiting for one more person,” he says.
He turns to the small boxes, picks one up and hands it to me. There’s a typed label with Cal’s name and the logo of the society. “If you’d like to join the others.” He indicates several other people standing nearby. “We’ll be underway soon.”

  “Thanks.” We walk over and nod, exchange sympathetic looks with each other and wait. Nobody is talking much. I light a cigarette, glad I’d brought a jacket as the wind whips up. I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that all that remains of Cal is in this small box.

  The box is dark maroon plastic with a flip top lid sealed shut with a notice stating the state of California’s regulations regarding disposal of remains. Inside, in a clear plastic bag, are the gray ashes of Calvin Hughes. There’s a label on the top with the Society’s address. I close the lid and look around for Dana. She’s gone over to the railing, her hair blowing all over, staring out over Santa Monica Bay.

  A few minutes later, a woman rushes up, slightly out of breath and checks in with Cummings. He comes over with her. “Now if you’ll just all follow me,” he says, “we’ll be on our way.”

  We follow him down a flight of steps to a ramp below the pier at water level and step aboard a small motor launch with bench seating in the back and a small enclosed area in the cabin. The motor is already running and the captain, a craggy faced man in a baseball cap is manning the wheel.

  We all get aboard and find seats. I count nine people in all. The captain guns the motor, gets a nod from Cummings, and we pull away from the pier heading for the break in the bay.

  With the wind and chop, the ride is pretty bumpy and a couple of people already look queasy. I begin to have second thoughts about this again as we clear the bay and head for the open sea.

  Cummings stands by the wheel house, talking with the captain, his white hair blowing in the wind, hanging on to the side of the door, periodically checking on all of us.

  We go probably a mile or two then the boat makes a looping turn. The engine slows and finally we come to a stop and idle, the boat rocking up and down. No sound but the water lapping against the boat and the low rumble of the engine. Instinctively we all took toward Cummings, awaiting his cue. I feel Dana’s hand on my arm.

  Cummings bows his head for a moment, says something but his words are lost in the wind. He looks up then and smiles.

  “Take your time ladies and gentlemen. We’re in no hurry.” One by one we stand up and get close to the side of the boat. I look down at the box. It weighs maybe five pounds. There’s a sliding top. I pull it back a few inches and see the gray ash. A woman next to me suddenly starts crying as she opens her box and holds it up. The wind catches the ash and blows it quickly away in a small cloud. I follow suit, numb, not quite knowing what to think. “Good bye, Cal” is all I can manage in a soft whisper, as Dana grips my other arm to steady herself in the rocking boat.

  Everyone except one man finishes in about ten minutes. He just sits, unable to move. Cummings watches and moves toward him, talking quietly. The man doesn’t look at Cummings, but his head bobs up and down. He finally stands up and opens his box, Cummings’ hand on his shoulder, and flings it up in the air. Ashes and box fly, both whipped by the wind. There’s a small almost unseen splash as the box hits the water, then the man sits down again, his head in his hands.

  Cummings gives the captain a nod and we start back. Nobody talks. Total silence except for the whine of the engine, the water crashing against the hull, a few squawking gulls until we get back to the pier. Cummings has a bag to dispose of the boxes and I wonder if they are used again. I start to put mine in the bag but at the last minute, I decide to keep it. A few other people cling to theirs. The final bit of ceremony is Cummings handing us a small card with the latitude and longitude of where the ashes were scattered.

  Dana and I climb back up the stairs with the others. I walk over to the end of the pier and stare out toward the spot where we just were. Two men alongside me have fishing lines in the water and coolers filled with beer and bait. Finally, I turn back to where Dana is waiting and we walk to the car. We get in and I just sit for a moment, thinking, lighting a cigarette. The whole process has taken less than an hour.

  “You okay?” Dana says.

  “Yeah, I guess so.” I sit up and start the car.

  “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”

  ***

  We’re both quiet during lunch at a Mexican restaurant in Santa Monica, sitting somberly, sipping margaritas, eating chips as we wait for our order.

  After awhile, Dana reaches over and touches my arm. “Tell me to shut up if you want, Evan. But really, there’s nothing more you could do. Cal was sick a long time and he knew what was coming.”

  I smile at her and nod. “I know. I guess my reaction is fairly normal, huh?”

  “Of course it is. I only knew him a short time so I can imagine what it’s like for you.”

  We order another margarita when our food comes and lapse into silence again as we eat. Finally, I push my plate aside. “I’m going back today, Dana. If I can’t get a flight, I’m going to try standby.”

  Dana just nods, avoids my eyes. She leans back in the booth and sighs. “You want to get home, see Andie. I understand.”

  “Well, yes. I—”

  Dana gets up quickly and heads for the ladies room. “I’ll be right back,” she mumbles.

  I get the check, pay it, and stand outside smoking, waiting for her. When she comes out she’s more together and smiling.

  “Okay, I’m ready,” she says.

  We drive back to the house without talking, the radio playing, both of us lost in thought. Inside I call Southwest and get reasonable assurance I can get on standby to Oakland at four. I check my watch and start gathering up my things.

  “Can I drop you off?” Dana is watching me throw things in my bag.

  “Well, no. I have the rental car to return.”

  “Oh, right. Well, I guess we’ll say goodbye here then.” She looks away and shakes her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m being stupid.”

  “No you’re not.” I walk over and hug her. “Thanks for being here and thanks for taking care of Cal, and thanks for taking over the house.”

  She nods, then her arms go around my neck. She leans back, looks at me and kisses me lightly. “You take care of yourself.”

  “I will. And you call me if you need anything. Promise?”

  She nods. “Now get out of here.”

  I grab my bag and turn and go out, jogging down the steps. I get in the car and look up the steep stairs. Dana is standing at the top, looking down, waving.

  I wave back and pull away, wondering not if I’ll see her again, but when.

  At Burbank Airport, I return the rental car and check in with Southwest. Still looks good for standby the attendant at the gate tells me.

  “Stay close,” she says, as she types into the computer. “We’ve had a few cancellations so you’re in luck.”

  “Thanks,” I say and go looking for coffee.

  Now that I’m here at the airport, I’m anxious to get back, see Andie and hope I can get her to dig a little for me on Cal’s background. If anybody can find Jean Lane, it should be the FBI.

  I pace around the gate waiting for the plane to arrive, drinking coffee and wishing I could slip outside for a quick smoke. Finally the arrival announcement is made and I watch the passengers getting off in Burbank. A few minutes later, boarding begins. Another ten minutes passes, then the gate attendant calls me and four other passengers on standby.

  Before boarding, I make a quick call to Andie and leave a message on her voice mail, hoping she’ll get it before I arrive in Oakland. I turn off my cell and grab the first available seat. I doze off once we’re up, miss the drink service. When I look out the window, we’re already on final approach into Oakland.

  Hurrying through the terminal, I finally make the baggage claim exit and scan the cars lining up for Andie. But getting out of a car and walking over is
not Andie but a man in a dark suit, who I know immediately means trouble. Ted Rollins, another agent who worked with Andie on the Gillian Payne case in L.A—I’d clashed with him from the start. Rollins had disapproved of me being involved in the case and even more so, when Andie and I started to hit it off.

  His face is grim as he comes up.

  “What?” I say, setting my bag down and digging for a cigarette.

  “I’m here to pick you up,” Rollins says. “Car’s over there.”

  “What happened?” Rollins is maddeningly laconic.

  “It’s Andie,” Rollins says quietly. “She’s okay but she was involved in a shooting this morning during a bank robbery. She’s going through debriefing now.”

  “Dammit, Rollins, is she okay?”

  Rollins smiles. “She’s fine but the bad guy isn’t.”

  Chapter Six

  We get in Rollins’ car. He swings into the traffic flow, ignoring the security guy’s hand waving as a light drizzle starts to make the street wet and send people scurrying for cover, dragging bags, holding briefcases and purses over their heads. Before I can ask him anything, his cell phone chirps. He stabs at a button.

  “Rollins. Yeah, he’s right here.” He listens for a moment. “About forty minutes depending on the traffic.” He listens again, glances over at me then says, “Right, I’ll tell him.” He turns off the phone and slips it in his coat pocket, his eyes straight ahead, his hands gripping the wheel as we snake out of Oakland Airport and onto the access road for I-880.

  “Well? Tell me what?”

  “That was Andie’s supervisor,” Rollins says. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  “The hospital? You said Andie—”

  “I said she was okay. I didn’t say she wasn’t injured. She’s out of surgery and doing fine.”

  I shake my head and smile. “Nothing much has changed has it Rollins?” I dig for my cigarettes and light one.

  Rollins looks sharply over at me. “This is an official FBI car,” he says. “That means no smoking.”

  I roll down my window halfway. “I’m not in the FBI. Guess you’ll have to charge me.”