Shades of Blue

by Bill Moody

  “My we are feeling better, aren’t we.”

  “You better believe it, Buster, and I hope you are later.”

  We get our food and drinks and go inside where animated conversations are going on all over the theater. Andie glances at her watch. “Isn’t it supposed to start at seven?”

  A woman next to her overhears. “Yes, hon, but the owners know everybody is always a little late, so they hold things up till everyone gets here.”

  “Of course,” Andie says and glances at me. “Isn’t it cute. Just like Mayberry.”

  The lights finally go down and we get ten minutes of coming attractions before the feature. Andie hooks her arm in mine and leans on my shoulder. “Wow, this is just like a date isn’t it?”

  Twenty minutes later she’s asleep. When the lights come up, she glances up at me sleepily. “Was it good?”

  “Come on, you, let’s go home.”

  Crossing the bridge, we stop and look at the lights, hear the low sound of the river flowing under us as a few cars pass by. Andie turns and kisses me. “Thank you for bringing me down here,” she says.

  “My pleasure.”

  “It will be as soon as we get home.”

  Chapter Eight

  By Tuesday, tired of bucolic life in Monte Rio, Andie is anxious to get back to the city and her own place. We’d spent the weekend lounging around—Andie napping, me practicing—eating out, exploring the shops in Guerneville, but I could see she was antsy. For her, it was like being on a cruise ship. She liked the ship well enough, but was anxious for the next port and home. We went for longer and longer walks along the river. She pushed herself, sometimes I thought too hard, like an injured athlete desperate to get back in the lineup, but it was good to see her recovering so quickly.

  My ticket and hotel reservation for New York had arrived by express mail from Larry Klein. I’d been booked on a red eye flight Wednesday night, so I’d have all day Thursday in New York, so said the note Klein had enclosed with the ticket. He’d signed it with a large flourished scroll. That made it all the more real. I am going to New York to record with Roy Haynes. The adrenaline rush makes me feel like I’ve won the lottery.

  As for Andie and I, we’d come to a sort of truce on the search for Jean Lane. She promised to do what she can when she returns to work, already moaning about being on a thirty day desk duty assignment the bureau mandates after an agent involved shooting.

  “I’ll have plenty of time,” she said, “and yes I’ll try to track down Cal’s file.” That was still the sticking point for me, that nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. Something was missing, even though she’s assured me there was nothing relevant or anything that could help with tracking down Jean Lane in the file. I haven’t mentioned it again.

  Since I’m going to be in New York, I decide to check in with my folks, maybe take a run up there while I’m in the area. While Andie wanders around the bookstore next to Guerneville’s answer to Starbucks—a wooden table and chairs place run by guys in tee shirts and pony tails—I call late Tuesday afternoon, hoping to catch them after dinner time. It’s my dad who answers.

  “Hi, Dad, it’s Evan.”

  “Evan, how are you? We got your postcards from Amsterdam. Sounds like you had a good time.”

  “Yeah, it was a good trip.”

  “Good, good. Well let me get your mother.”

  Still a man of few words, little interest, even less time I think to myself, although we never had much to say to each other since I was a teenager. He had no affinity for music, knew nothing much about what I did, and didn’t care to know more. I’d resigned myself to that long ago. My mother had once been a decent pianist, and I think once longed for a career in music, but life caught up with her and she transferred her enthusiasm to me, usually over protests from my dad.

  One afternoon when I was about twelve, I came home from school and found her at the piano, playing some classical piece, sheet music and books spread everywhere on the floor and tears streaming down her face. I watched her for several minutes. Then, I guess feeling my presence, she stopped suddenly and turned, looked at me, then just sat there till I left the room. I never knew why, but after that, she hardly played again.

  “Evan?” Her voice draws me back to the countless arguments between her and my dad, the peacekeeping attempts, the apologizing for my father.

  “Hi, Mom. How are you doing?”

  “Oh just fine. Where are you?”

  “Right where I live now. That’s one of the reasons I called, to give you the new address and phone.”

  “Great. I’ve got a pen and paper right here.”

  After she copies them down, she asks, “So how are you? Everything going okay with your music? How do you like living in San Francisco?”

  “I love it. Nice change from Venice. Just been going through a few things lately though.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah that old friend of mine, Calvin Hughes, died and made me his executor, so a lot of legal paperwork.” She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “Mom?”

  “What? Oh, sorry. Yes, the piano player from Kansas City.”

  “Yeah. He left me his house in Hollywood and some money. I found out there was a life insurance policy through the musicians union, and I’ve been trying to find the beneficiary. It’s all kind of a mystery.” I leave out the way Cal left the note and don’t even mention the photo.

  “Still playing detective are you. That always gets you in trouble.”

  “Well not this time, it’s just that there are no leads on the woman he named in the policy so I’m trying to track her down. Andie is helping me.”

  There’s another pause. “Well the FBI should be able to do that I would think.”

  “I’m going to give it a try. I owe that much to Cal. The other reason I’m calling is I’m going to be in New York next week for a recording session. I thought I might run up and see you guys if it’s convenient.”

  “Next week?” She pauses again, sounding unsure.

  “If it’s not, or you’re not going to be around, that’s okay. I just thought—”

  “No, no we’ll be here. That would be nice, Evan. You can tell us all about Europe. You’re dad may be away on business but I’ll be here. We haven’t had a good talk in a long time.”

  “No, we haven’t.”

  “Is Andie coming with you? I’d like to meet her.”

  “No. Ah, she was, ah, shot, during an attempted bank robbery.”

  “My God! Shot? Is she all right?”

  “Yes, she’s fine but she’s recovering well and going through rehab now.”

  My mother laughs. “Your life is like those television shows your dad likes.”

  “Who got shot?” I hear my dad say in the background.

  “Evan’s girlfriend,” my mother says, “but she’s okay.

  “Yeah I guess it is sometimes. Anyway, I’ll call you when I get to New York and see where things are.” There’s another long pause. “Everything okay, Mom?”

  “What? Oh yes, everything is fine. I look forward to seeing you, son.”

  “Me too. Bye, Mom.”

  “Bye. I love you, Evan.”

  Son? I can’t remember the last time she called me son. I press the off button and sit for a minute thinking about the call, like I’d missed something, something my mother had said, or hadn’t said, but I can’t put my finger on it. The pauses, the kind of unsureness in her voice, but maybe it was just the aging process. My mother is generally very sharp, but she’d sounded distracted, not quite with it.

  “Hey, earth to Evan.” Andie stands over me, passing her hand in front of my eyes. “You look like you were zoned out there.” She sits down next to me with a coffee and a paper bag from the bookstore. “I bought you a present.”

  She hands me the bag. Inside is a book called Kind of Blue.

  “Isn’t that the music Cal left that you’ve been talking about?”r />
  “Yes.” I flip through the book and quickly read the jacket flap that claims to tell the behind the scenes story of the recording session. On a whim, I quickly scan the index for Hughes, Calvin, but no. It isn’t going to be that easy. “This is fantastic. Thanks. I didn’t know about this.”

  She leans over and kisses me. “No problem. So what had you in a trance?”

  “Oh, nothing really. I just talked to my mother, told her I might visit her while I’m back East. She just sounded, I don’t know, funny.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know really. I told her about Cal dying, the insurance policy. There was something she said that was off, but now I can’t remember what it was that made me think that.”

  “Let it go. It’ll come to you when you least expect it.”

  “Yeah, maybe it will.”

  “C’mon, we got packing to do.”

  We have an early dinner, watch a movie, then Andie goes to bed around ten. I sit up late, listening to all the records I have of Roy Haynes playing, and finally fall into bed after midnight.

  We get the car packed up, stop for breakfast in Guerneville and two hours later, we’re on the road and just barely beat the rush hour along 19th Avenue through San Francisco. I’d packed clothes, the file folder of legal papers on Cal, and the copies of the music sheets I’d found in the piano bench at his house. I plan to read Kind of Blue on the plane, maybe do a little digging around while I’m in New York.

  We pull into Andie’s place in late afternoon. Her mail box is stuffed with several days of bills, junk mail, and a couple of things from the bureau which she goes through quickly. I watch her unfold one letter and read intently. Then she sighs and lays it aside.

  “I’m scheduled for a review board on the shooting Friday. Just as well we came back when we did.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No, just more bureau crap. I’ll wear a short skirt so they can see my bandage,” she says laughing.

  “Did the guy you shot, did he…”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I’ll have to call Rollins and find out.”

  I frown at her. “Give him my regards.”

  I shower and change, have a sandwich with Andie, and get ready to leave for the airport.

  “You want me to drive you?” she asks.

  “No, I’ll just leave my car in long term parking. You just take it easy.”

  She stands up and gives me a mock salute. “Yes, sir.” Then she folds into my arms and mumbles against my chest. “I’m going to miss you.”

  ***

  At San Francisco International, it’s relatively quiet, so even the security check doesn’t take as long as usual, although I do have to take my shoes off again. I make the long trek down to the gate and check in at the desk for my boarding pass with forty-five minutes wait till boarding. I grab a cup of coffee from a small snack bar and settle down with the book Andie bought me.

  As I sit down, I glance over at a man working on a laptop computer. He looks up and our eyes meet for a moment in one of those don’t-I know-you looks, then he’s back to his computer screen, and I start flipping through my book, trying to think where I might have seen him before. I scan the preface, but my mind isn’t on it. I glance at my watch, then grab my stuff and wander over to a corner and call Dana.

  “Dana, it’s Evan.”

  “Oh, hi,” she says.

  “Just thought I’d check in with you. I’m at the airport, getting ready to fly to New York. I’m doing a recording session there.”

  “I’m impressed,” she says. “Is Andie going with you?”

  “No, she’s still recovering but doing fine.”

  “Well, that’s good. How long are you going to be gone?”

  “Just a few days. If you need to get me, you can call on the cell or leave a message. Everything going okay? How’s Milton?”

  “Fine and Milton has settled in pretty well. He’s used to me now but I’m sure he’d like a visit with you.”

  “Well, who knows. Maybe I’ll get down there soon.”

  “I hope so,” she says. “Have a good trip, Evan.”

  “Thanks. Bye.”

  When I come back to the gate, the guy I thought I knew is waiting, looking at me.

  “Evan Horne, right?” He’s standing in front of me, the laptop in a case slung over his shoulder, a small carry on bag in his hand. He’s in jeans, a light sweater, and some expensive looking loafers.

  “Yeah, I was just trying to remember where—”

  “That party on top of the mountain.” He sets his computer case on the floor and sits down next to me. “Cameron Brody.” He holds out his hand.

  “Oh yeah, you were with that girl in the…dress.”

  He grins. “You remember her better than me, huh? Haven’t seen her since the party. So what are you doing in New York?”

  “Recording session with Roy Haynes.”

  “Whoa. That should be cool.” I explain the project and mention some of the other players. “Nice, very nice.”

  “How about you?” I remember his business card now, that he works in some kind of capacity for ASCAP.

  “Checking on some royalties, trying to track down a blues singer who has some coming and maybe doesn’t know it.”

  People are starting to gather up their things as the attendant at the desk makes the preboarding announcement.

  “Where are you sitting?”

  We compare boarding passes and discover we’re seated only a couples of rows apart. “Hey if you want to talk I’ll see if I can trade seats with somebody,” Brody says.

  “Sure, but I have to get some sleep too.”

  He notices my copy of Kind of Blue then. “Interesting story. Jimmy Cobb, the drummer is the only one left from that band.”

  Brody was right. Miles, Coltrane, Cannonball Adderley, Bill Evans, Wynton Kelly, and Paul Chambers were all dead. “Well, I have a kind of personal interest in this.” But before I can explain, we’re called for boarding. “I’ll tell you about it after we get on. Maybe you can even help me.”

  “Cool, I like mysteries.”

  We file on board and I find my seat about halfway down, by the window. I stow my bag in the overhead rack and settle in just as Brody comes up. So far, the middle seat is empty. A guy in a rumpled suit drops into the aisle seat and glances over, looking like he’s ready to sleep the whole way.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Brody says. “I didn’t know my friend was on this flight and we’d like to sit together and catch up. I have a window seat just a couple of rows up where you won’t be bothered.”

  “Hey, sure,” the mans says. “Lead me to it.”

  He gathers up his things and follows Brody, who is back before I can glance at the airline magazine. “Okay, we’re set,” he says, throwing his small bag in the rack and keeping his laptop to push under the seat in front of him.

  We buckle up, listen to the safety lecture, and settle back to wait our turn on the runway. “So,” Brody says, “How can I be of service.”

  Cameron Brody brims with confidence and congeniality. He has a quick disarming smile and the good looks to be very successful with women, I imagine, if that girl at the party was any example.

  In the twenty minutes or so we wait to take off, I briefly run down Cal’s legacy. The note, the photo, and the music sheets.

  “Have you got them with you?” Brody asks.

  I have everything in an accordion style plastic filer. He rubs his fingers over the thin, almost transparent paper, squints at the notes and chords and begins to hum. I watch him nod his head. “You a musician too?”

  He shrugs. “Not really. I thought I was going to be. Played a little in college, but…” His voice trails off, then he hands me back the sheets. “So you found these at your friend’s house?”

  “Yes, along with some other music from Birth of the Cool. You familiar with that?”

  “Sure. And
you think he might have written these?”

  “It’s possible.” I explain the other possibilities, I’d already gone over in my own mind. “Like I say, he could have just copied them off the records, but I found out he was in the Birth of the Cool Band, at least as a sub during rehearsals, and I have a photo of him with Miles.”

  He nods and grips the arms of the seat tighter as the engines rev and we start down the runway. Then we’re climbing out of San Francisco into the night sky. The plane banks slightly as we continue to climb and Brody starts to relax. “I hate takeoffs.”

  “I can tell.”

  We level off and over drinks and a light meal, we continue talking. He’s a good listener and obviously intrigued and fascinated by the whole idea. “Have you checked the copyright on these tunes?”

  “No. Not sure how to do that.”

  “There I can help you. I have access to several data bases—ASCAP, BMI, some independents, but I’m guessing these are mostly on BMI. They always did more jazz than ASCAP.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “You know there is some precedent for this. You’d be amazed at what I’ve found digging through recording dates, personnel. Record companies didn’t keep very good records in those days. A lot of people didn’t get what they were due. It adds up.”

  “Well, it’s not the money I’m concerned about. Cal is dead, just last week, but it would be nice to know if he was the composer of one of these tunes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Brody says.

  The attendants collect our trays and the cabin lights are dimmed. “Movie time,” Brody says.

  “I’m going to pass. I need some sleep.” Brody nods and adjusts the head phones and leans back. I cram the pillow between my seat and the window and try to get comfortable. I close my eyes, and try not to think of anything. I can usually sleep pretty well on planes. The darkness, the low whine of the engines kind of lull me, but tonight, there’s too much on my mind and it seems like a long time before I drift off.

  ***

  Voices, people moving about, and a sliver of sunlight in my eyes wakes me up. The sliver turns into a wide swath as the sliding port goes up and I hear Brody’s voice. “Hey, breakfast is on the way.”