Shades of Blue

by Bill Moody

  I light a cigarette and roll down the window as we get to Andie’s exit. Winding back under the freeway, I drive the few blocks to her street in silence, angry but trying to keep it together. I know she’s been shot, drugged, had surgery, but the big question still looms heavily in my mind. We pull in the drive of her apartments and I park.

  “Well, here we are.” I get the crutch out of the back seat and open the door for Andie. She swings her legs out and stands leaning on me, then hobbles to the stairs.

  “Shit,” she says, looking up. “I don’t know if I can make that.”

  “No problem. Put your arm around me.” I pick her up and carry her up the short flight of stairs.

  “Oh, Mr. Horne, this is so romantic,” she says smiling at me.

  “Don’t make me laugh or we’ll both go flying.” I set her down, get the door open and she makes it inside and to the couch where she plops down and sighs.

  “God, I’m going to hate this,” she says. She puts her hand on her leg and rubs it. “Can you get my bag out of the car. I need some drugs. My leg is throbbing.”

  “Sure.” I get the bag and set it on the coffee table. Andie rummages around inside and pulls out a small zippered plastic bag and finds the bottle of Percodan. I bring her a glass of water and she swallows a couple and takes a gulp of water.

  “Do you want to get in bed?”

  “No, I’ll stay here for now.” She stretches back and lets me take off her shoes. I get two pillows and a blanket from the bedroom. I put the pillows under her head and cover her with the blanket. Before I finish, she’s almost asleep.

  I make some coffee and wait a few minutes, then go back down to the car and get the file box and bring it upstairs. I sit at the kitchen table and go over everything again to see if I’ve missed anything, but an hour later I haven’t found a single mention of Cal anywhere.

  I go out on the balcony to smoke and think about it. Why? The whole case is in that box, everything but what was supposedly a routine background check on Cal. Why is that one thing missing? Do I believe Andie? I want to, but with Rollins involved it’s difficult.

  Before I can form another thought the phone rings. Ted Rollins.

  “How’s she doing,” he asks without even a hello when I answer.

  “Okay. She took some pills and she’s sleeping now.”

  “I need to talk to her again. Okay if I come by? Couple of points we have to go over her statement.”

  “Do we have a choice?”

  “Actually no.” I can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

  “You know where she lives I assume.”

  “Yeah. Let’s say around five.”

  “See you then,” I say, and hang up.

  I let Andie sleep another hour or so then wake her up with some hot tea.

  “Hey,” she says blinking her eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Going on five. Rollins called. He’s coming over. Something about your statement.”

  She closes her eyes for a moment and then sits up and takes a sip of the tea. “God I hate this,” she says, then smiles. “Nurse Horne. You’re taking such good care of me.”

  “Can’t you put him off?”

  “No, report has to be filed, Bureau policy and all that jazz. Better to get it over with.”

  I nod. “You hungry?”

  “No, maybe later, after Rollins leaves.” She looks over at the kitchen table and sees the file box then looks at me. “You find anything.”

  “You know I didn’t, but I had to see for myself. Are you going to ask Rollins about the missing info on Cal. Because if you don’t I will. I—”

  She puts her hand up to stop me. “Yes, I’ll ask.” She puts the tea down and starts to stand up. “I’ve got to pee and wash my face.”

  I help her up and she hobbles to the bathroom. I stuff the files back in the box and put it in the bedroom closet. A few minutes later she comes back looking slightly refreshed. “God, my mind is so fuzzy. All I want to do is sleep.”

  “How’s the leg?”

  “Not so bad.” She stretches out and props her leg on the coffee table just as the doorbell rings. I go to the door and let Rollins in. The suit is gone and he’s in khakis, tee shirt, and a windbreaker.

  He walks in, nods to Andie and looks around. “Well this is cozy.”

  I watch him, pretty sure he’s never been here before, then wonder why I thought he might have been.

  “How you doin’, babe?” he asks Andie.

  “I’ve been better, babe,” she says, bristling a little.

  Rollins takes a pad and pen out of his jacket and looks at me. “Can you give us a little time? This is FBI business.”

  I look at Andie. She shrugs. “It’s better, Evan really.”

  Rollins watches me, that smirk beginning again.

  I grab my jacket and head for the door. “You got thirty minutes.” Then I’m gone, jogging down the stairs to the parking lot, remembering then I don’t have the car keys. I decide to walk off my anger at Rollins and at Andie for going along with it. At the bottom of the hill there’s a small strip mall with a dry cleaners, a convenience store, and a small book shop. I go in and wander around, aimlessly looking at titles, warding off a bored clerk who is ready to close up.

  I grab a Coke at the convenience store and stand outside, looking at the headlines in the newspaper racks, checking my watch every couple of minutes. I decide to persuade Andie to go with me to Monte Rio for her recuperation. I want to get to the piano, make calls, and I can’t do either at her place. I check my watch again and start back up the hill.

  At the apartments, Rollins’ car is still in the guest parking, but as I reach the stairs, he’s coming down and I hear Andie’s door shut. We meet halfway.

  “Get what you want?”

  Rollins pauses a couple of steps above me and looks down. “Yeah, we got it pretty tied up now. Just the formal report to file.”

  “Good.” I brush past him up the stairs.

  “Horne?”

  I stop and turn around.

  “I’m just doing my job.” He goes on down to his car and I watch him drive away.

  Inside, Andie is on the couch, her head back, her eyes closed. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I’m just tired of talking about it.”

  “You hungry now?”

  She opens her eyes. “Something light maybe. Eggs and toast?”

  “Sure. Coming up.” I go into the kitchen and get things started. Andie uses the crutch and makes her way to the table. “Scrambled?”

  “Perfect,” she says, watching me. “I missed you last week.”

  I look up at her and smile as I beat two eggs in a bowl. “Me too.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t with you, Evan. I know that must have been rough.”

  “It was okay.” I stand waiting for the toast to pop up, stirring the eggs. “How about some juice with this?”

  “Sure, that would be nice.”

  I bring it all over to the table and sit down opposite her, watching her eat with some gusto. She finishes and pushes the plate aside. “Wow, that was good. Hospital food sucks.”

  I don’t say anything for a moment, just letting her do it in her own time. She downs the last of the orange juice and looks at me.

  “Okay. Ted says he doesn’t know what happened to the file,” she says finally.

  Well, there it is. I could push it, but to what end? Either Ted Rollins or Andie or both don’t want me to see whatever was in that file on Cal, and that’s that. I try to give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was just lost, except it’s too much of a coincidence that it’s Cal’s file that’s missing. I don’t believe in coincidences like that, and the FBI doesn’t just misplace files.

  “Thanks for asking.”

  Andie looks at me to gauge whether I believe her or not. “Look, when I get back to the office I’ll check around some more myself. I promise.”

>   “Okay, no problem.” It’s hard to be mad at someone who has just been shot. “You need to get some more sleep, eh?”

  Andie nods and pushes back from the table. “I want some more Percodan and my bed.” She tries on a weak smile. “This is not how I planned on your homecoming.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I help her get undressed and into bed and bring a glass of water and her pills. “Night, babe,” I say. I kiss her lightly on the lips.

  She smiles. “I’ll get better fast,” she says. “I promise.”

  Chapter Seven

  Persuading Andie Lawrence to do anything she doesn’t want to do is not easy. She’s tough and fiercely independent, but as an FBI agent, she has to be. It takes a lot of coaxing, logic, and reasoning to get her to agree that a few days at my place would be good for her recovery both physically and mentally. She’d be away from bureau business, Ted Rollins, and reminders of the shooting.

  She hadn’t talked about it much, but I know, tough or not, the shooting had shaken her. How could it not? I wanted to hear about it myself. But on the way to Monte Rio, despite my cheerful, tour guide efforts, she alternately dozes and complains about the drive.

  “Are we there yet?” she says, in a whiney, little girl voice, stretching and sitting up in the seat. “God it’s such a long trip.”

  We’re on River Road now, heading toward Guerneville. “That’s the idea,” I say. “It’ll do you good to see some beautiful scenery, breathe some fresh air. This is wine country, babe. People come from all over to vacation here. We’re on the home stretch now.”

  “It feels like we’ve come from all over.”

  From just about anywhere in San Francisco, Monte Rio is about a two hour drive, depending on the traffic and time of day. A lot of people had vacation places there for long weekends or summer getaways, but over the years the area had changed a great deal according to my crusty landlord, morphing finally into a varied blend of artists, writers, musicians, old hippies trying to hang on to the days of Haight Ashbury, a significant gay population, a share of good ole boys with pickup trucks and dogs, and a small drug culture. It’s a strange mix but so far, everyone seems to get along and mind their own business and accept one another for what and who they are.

  Between Guerneville and Monte Rio, about a mile from my place, is the Northwood Golf course. Lush, green, dotted with towering redwood trees the nine-hole course is surrounded with an eclectic variety of expensive homes. My plan is to show Andie as much as I can while we’re here. Until now, she’s only been down a couple of times and both were at night.

  As we pass the Korbel Winery, I glance over and see her use two hands to move her leg around in a more comfortable position. “How is it?”

  “I’ll be ready for a pill when we get there,” she says, “if we ever get there.” She leans back and stares out the window as I hit the play button for a CD. The first sound is a clean, crisp, crackle of sticks on a snare drum, playing an intricate little pattern then the intro to “If I Should Lose You” by bass and piano. I turn up the volume as the trio goes into the first chorus, the cymbal beat clear and sharp nudging behind the piano and bass.

  Andie turns her head. “Let me guess. That’s Roy Haynes, right?”

  Nodding, I smile. “Very good. How did you know?”

  “Because he’s the guy you’re recording with and that’s about the tenth time I’ve heard it.”

  “Sorry, thought you were asleep.”

  “It’s okay. It’s growing on me. I kinda like it,” Andie says. She leans back against the seat and closes her eyes again.

  I’ve been thinking about and listening a lot to Roy Haynes, the upcoming recording session, so I’m trying to familiarize myself with his playing. The time is always there, but it’s often just implied, broken up, floating behind the soloists. Haynes is a master at it. After the bass solo, Haynes rips off two deceptively simple choruses, then brings the piano and bass back in for the fade out as we slow and glide through Guerneville.

  Andie sits up again and looks around. “Ah, civilization. Look, a Safeway, a pizza parlor, a pharmacy.” She sees me frown and laughs. “Relax, I’m just pushing your buttons.”

  We leave Guerneville and continue on the curving two lane road toward Monte Rio with the Russian River on our left. Even Andie is impressed with the greenery and the way in some places the big redwood trees on either side of the road lean toward each other, almost forming a tunnel.

  We pass the golf course and finally round a bend into Monte Rio. Andie takes in the convenience store, Chinese restaurant, the two cabin like motels, and a hardware store. At the stop sign, the road splits. On my left is a large Quonset hut with a mural painted on the side.

  “What’s that?” Andie asks.

  “Movie theater. First run movies too.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “If we were to continue down 116 about ten miles or so, we’d be at the ocean.”

  Andie swivels around and looks back. “That’s it? That’s Monte Rio?”

  I laugh and drive on under the large sign that says Monte Rio Vacation Wonderland, then turn left over the bridge spanning the Russian River. “Oh no there’s more.” On the other side of the bridge I turn right and show her the Pink Elephant Bar and the small grocery store and make a U-turn. “Now you’ve seen it all.”

  “This is like the Twilight Zone,” Andie moans.

  I turn back onto the bridge road, left again on Bohemian Avenue and pull into the drive. “Now we’re here.” I get out of the car and stretch and walk around to Andie’s door. “C’mon, I’ll help you up the stairs.”

  “No,” she says. “You go ahead. I have to get used to doing this myself.”

  I shrug. No point in arguing with a determined FBI agent. I get the bags out of the back and drag everything upstairs and open the doors to the deck. The sun has broken through and it’s warm enough to sit outside. I pull one of the big chairs I’d rescued from a thrift shop in Guerneville outside, facing the sun and finally, Andie’s head appears at the top of the stairs.

  “That’s a lot of stairs,” she says, hobbling over to me. She sits down in the chair and props her leg up on the ottoman and sighs. “Okay, this is where I’m staying for awhile.”

  I get a blanket, some water, and her Percodan from her purse. She gulps down a couple and leans back. “You’re right, this is nice.”

  “You need anything else?”

  “No, I’m fine. You go ahead and do whatever you have to do. I’m going to get a nap.”

  “Okay. Just holler.” I get the file folder with all the papers and the lead sheets I’d found at Cal’s and go up to the loft room and sit down at the piano. I’d given up on the idea of getting a real piano up here and had settled on an electronic keyboard. They’re greatly improved from the days of the old Fender Rhodes. This model has a surprisingly good piano sound and the keyboard action is very close to a real piano feel. With headphones, I can play day or night and not bother anybody.

  I keep the volume low as I run through some exercises before I try out a couple of tunes, wondering how much say Roy Haynes will have in the final selection. I want to do one ballad and finally settle on “My Foolish Heart,” “If you Could See Me Now,” and “Goodbye Porkpie Hat.” All three feel good under my fingers.

  I get the lead sheets I’d found at Cal’s then and play through them again, confirming my original reaction that they are from Birth of the Cool and Kind of Blue. They’re on onion skin paper that’s almost transparent, the kind you hardly see anymore, but they’ve held up considering they’re over forty years old. I’d have to check with the records, but I’m sure the chord changes are exactly right.

  I stop then, lean back and stare out the window at the towering redwoods, trying to come up with a valid explanation for these tattered lead sheets, done in pencil from recordings that were made over forty years earlier.

  Had Cal simply written out the mel
ody and the chord changes for his own reasons, taking them from the records, or was it just the opposite? The recording was made from these sheets that were actually used at the session. Another possibility was these were rehearsal sheets Cal had just kept as souvenirs of dates he hadn’t made. Did Miles Davis, Gil Evans, Gerry Mulligan, John Lewis, or anybody else on the sessions write these tunes? The best bet was if I could try to find some of the musicians who had done the dates, if that was possible, and ask. The thought that Cal might have written one or more of these tunes and not been credited haunts me, makes me want to pursue it until I find out for sure. I put the sheets away and turn off the piano, and go downstairs to check on Andie.

  She’s asleep, her head turned to the side, but it’s a little cooler now, so I cover her up with the blanket and make a pot of coffee. I drag a chair out for myself. When the coffee is ready I take a mug outside, put my feet up on the railing, light a cigarette, and think about the other problem—finding Jean Lane.

  I hear Andie stir on the chair and turn and look at her. “Hey, sleepy.”

  She sits up and stretches. “Mmmmm, that was delicious,” she says, eyeing my coffee. “Got some for me?”

  “Sure.” I bring her back a mug and turn my chair facing her.

  She takes a sip and looks out at the trees. “Okay,” she says, “maybe this was a good idea.”

  I smile. “I won’t even say I told you so.”

  “Good. Don’t. You know what else? I want a cigarette.”

  “What? You never told me you smoked.”

  “There’s a lot I haven’t told you.”

  I give her one from my pack and light it for her. She takes a deep drag, coughs a little, but doesn’t give up.

  “Been a long time.” She takes another drag, and makes a face. “I don’t like menthol.”

  “You’re not thinking of starting up again are you?”

  “No, just wanted to see if it’s as good as I remember.” She takes another couple of drags and stubs it out in the ash tray. She takes another drink of coffee, her expression a faraway look. “Half a cigarette is nothing to compare with a shotgun. Instead of relaxing here I could be…” Her voice trails off.