Shades of Blue

by Bill Moody

  By the time “Freddie Freeloader” comes on my mind is totally focused, as Miles, Coltrane, and Cannonball state the theme. Two note phrases, the rhythm section like a rolling sidewalk under them. Three guys walking down the street, totally in sync, then they meet Wynton Kelly, and his solo is kind of an agenda for the conversation they’re about to have. Here’s what we’re going to talk about fellas, that crazy bartender Freddie, for whom the song was written.

  Miles goes first, slow, lots of space, measuring his words, but gives the others plenty to think about. Cannonball is next, like he’s saying, well that’s interesting but have you considered this? His alto so clean and bluesy, while Coltrane bides his time, impatient, finally jumping in like he’s arguing the point in complex lines. I picture them all joining in then, restating the simple theme and then walking away, disappearing around the corner.

  The solos never fail to knock me out. During the few moments of silence before the next track, I hear the faint sound of my cell phone ring. I pull off the head phones and flip open the phone, look at the window. Andie.

  “Well, finally,” I say. I reach up and stop the disk, a little relieved, a little annoyed to finally hear Andie’s voice.

  “I know. I got your messages, I just got hung up doing things and wanted to wait till I got home.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty good. Doing some rehab, walking a little, just short trips down the hill and back. The doctor says I’m doing fine.”

  “Well that’s good. Don’t overdo it though.”

  “I won’t.” She sighs. “I’m sick to death going over the shooting again and again. God, the bureau is so anal about this stuff even though Rollins was right there and saw the whole thing. His statement corroborates mine so it’s going to be okay.”

  “Speaking of Rollins.” I try not to let my voice bristle. “Has—”

  “No,” Andie says, “nothing on the file and that’s getting to be a sticking point. So far nobody knows about it but me and Rollins, but tell me about your trip. Is your mom okay?”

  “Yeah she’s fine.”

  “And?”

  “I hardly know where to start, Andie.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  I take a deep breath and reach for a cigarette, get it going. “I know just about everything now. Calvin Hughes was my father.” I say it slowly, still not used to the idea of the words.

  “Oh, Jesus, Evan.”

  I catch myself listening for genuine surprise in her voice and it’s there. “She showed me the birth certificate, told me the whole story. I also found out she’d been married briefly, a few months, before, before my Dad. Before Richard Horne.”

  “Baby, you caught it all. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah I guess. Just haven’t really got my mind around it yet.”

  “That file doesn’t matter now does it?” she says quickly.

  “Well, no I guess not, but—”

  “Believe me, Evan, all we were doing was running a check on—excuse the term—your known associates. Calvin Hughes was one, as was Natalie Beamer, but being a cop she was easy. We ran Hughes’ name, talked to a few people, looked for red flag items. Remember, we were bringing you in on a big case. It’s just standard procedure. Nobody would have cared who he was married to or paid much attention.” She stops for a moment, maybe realizing how fast she was talking, that turns into a long pause.

  “What?”

  “It’s been so long, hard to remember, but it would have shown he was married and…what’s your mother’s maiden name?”

  “Shaw.”

  “See I didn’t know that. I hardly knew you then. There would have been no reason for you to tell me your mother’s maiden name at that stage. I wouldn’t have connected it with you. See what I mean?”

  I feel a wave of relief sweep over me. Andie was right. All this suspicion, this nagging feeling that Andie was holding something back, I’ve been carrying around is groundless.

  “You said your mother married again. What was his name?”

  “Lane. James Lane.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell at all.”

  “No reason it should. I didn’t know about it till yesterday. I’m sorry Andie. The whole thing has just made me crazy trying to figure out everything.”

  “I’m sure. You’ve been hit big time. I don’t know how I’d handle something like that.”

  “You still have to account for the file don’t you?”

  She sounds more casual now, almost relieved. “Yeah, but truthfully, I was worried about it more for you than the bureau. Hey, files go missing for a lot of reasons.” She pauses again. “I wanted you to know that I wasn’t holding out on you. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “I know.” I put out my cigarette, feeling like some small crisis has been resolved.

  “God,” she says. “I forgot. How did the recording with Roy what’s his name go?”

  I laugh. “Haynes, and it went very well, even better than I expected.”

  “I was sure of that,” she says smugly. “So what are you going to do now?”

  Good question. Despite what my mother told me, there was still a lot missing, unexplained, and I want to pursue the music angle, determine once and for all if Cal had anything to do with either the Birth of the Cool or Kind of Blue recordings. Now, I realize I want it even more.

  What if I could show that Calvin Hughes, my father, was the uncredited composer of even one of those songs? It was something I could do for him. I also want to know as much as I can about Cal’s life and Al Beckwood is the only lead on that. I explain that much to Andie.

  “I can understand that. You might find some things about him you won’t like though. You know that don’t you?”

  “I already have.”

  “Anything I can do to help that would get you home sooner?”

  “Only if you could look up Al Beckwood without getting in trouble.”

  “Hang on. There are probably plenty of Al Beckwoods.”

  I wait, listening to her put down the phone and then come back on.

  “Okay. Let’s narrow it down. He’s a musician I take it.”

  “Yes, or at least was.”

  “A ballpark age?”

  “Like Cal. Late sixties, early seventies.”

  “If he’s alive.”

  “If he’s alive.”

  “You know I might run into a dead end,” Andie says. “You may never find out what you want to know.”

  “I know, but it’s important to me to try.”

  “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Andie.”

  “Evan?”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you. Don’t ever forget that, no matter what you find out.”

  “I won’t. I love you too.”

  ***

  I wake up to Cameron Brody’s voice on the phone.

  “I know, I know,” he says. “Hey I didn’t plan it.” He glances over at me curled up on the couch, notices I’m awake and holds up one finger, nods. “Cool. I want to pick it up by noon, so make the call. Yes, I reported it to the police.” He listens then says, “Thanks.” He hangs up the phone and turns to me.

  “I got ASCAP to spring for a new laptop. They’re sending authorization to a computer store here, so we’re in business.” He gives me a look when I don’t move or react. “Well come on, man, get up. We’re going to track down Al Beckwood.”

  I sit up and run my hand through my hair, check my watch. “What time?”

  “They said by noon so we got time to get some breakfast,” Brody says. He’s up, pacing around the small living room in boxers and a t-shirt.

  “I’m going to get a shower first.” On the way to the bathroom, I get my cell phone and charger and plug it into an outlet. Standing under the shower wakes me up and I feel refreshed, having had the best sleep in days. I change into some clean clo
thes—jeans, denim shirt, and light sweater, ready for whatever the day brings. Brody is dressed and ready when I come out, a small vinyl case crammed with computer disks.

  We go back to the diner where we’d had dinner and tear into a couple of omelets, with toast and several mugs of coffee on the side. I watch Brody. He seems none the worse for wear. “How’s the head?”

  “Better.” He touches the bandage. “Still got a headache but I’m cool.”

  “I was thinking, maybe we should get out of that apartment.”

  “Why?”

  “Well whoever stole your computer might be back.”

  Brody shakes his head. “I don’t think so. He got what he wanted and no way he could know I had everything backed up.”

  I nod and light a cigarette. “Maybe. Any idea who it could have been or why?”

  “I’m not sure. Main thing of interest is some royalty records, accounts owed, that kind of thing. I had a whole data base on there.” He pauses. “Course I did have some stuff on you too, but I think it’s ASCAP stuff he was after. I want to do a search on your dad too.”

  He looks at me. “You getting used to that idea now, that Cal Hughes was your dad?”

  “No, not yet.” And it was true. I’d have occasional flashes that it was all a mistake, but then I’d remember that birth certificate and it would all come flooding back.

  Brody nods. “It’s heavy, heavy stuff.”

  “Look, Cameron, I appreciate the help but this is not really your thing. I know you probably have plenty of other things to do and—”

  He leans forward. “Are you kidding. I’m so into this. If we can show that your dad wrote even one of those songs from Kind of Blue or Birth of the Cool, well, I want to be there.”

  We pay the check and head back to the apartment, so I can get my phone. I unplug it and I barely get it turned on when it rings. It’s Andie.

  “Hi, baby,” she says. “Got some news for you. Grab a pencil.”

  I motion to Brody for paper and pen and he shuffles through the desk for both.

  “Go,” I tell Andie.

  “Okay. This has to be your Al Beckwood. Played trombone and bass, about the same age as Calvin Hughes, lived in New York and Los Angeles at various times. All this came up because he has a record. He did some hard time for possession with intent to sell.”

  I listen and write fast as Andie spits out the information. “Where?”

  “Jean, Nevada. Medium Security facility near Las Vegas. In the seventies. Nothing much after that.”

  “Any last address? Is there any mention of—”

  But she cuts me off. “Shit. Gotta go.” She hangs up.

  I look at the phone for a moment. Maybe she was at her desk and someone came by she didn’t want to hear or see the printout if there was one.

  I tell Brody Andie’s news. “Good start,” he says. “We can check with the musicians union here. Maybe they have something.”

  My mind whirling now, excited at the prospect. If I can talk with Beckwood, someone who actually knew Cal. Maybe he was in the Cool band too.

  “Let’s go,” Brody says, already starting for the door. He locks up and we check the street before we step outside but it looks all clear. “Okay, let’s split up. You go to the union, I’ll pick up the computer and meet you there. We’ll get a taxi and I’ll drop you.”

  We step out in the street and flag down a cab without much trouble. “Musicians Union 802,” I tell the driver as we get in. “It’s by Roseland Ballroom on West 48th Street.”

  The driver nods and roars away, cutting off two cars in the process, and heads uptown through the heavy traffic. Brody and I sit back, each lost in our own thoughts. I try to keep from thinking that it could all be a wild goose chase but I have to do this, run down every lead, find Al Beckwood, and all I can about Cal. For once, I think, this is not a favor to someone else. This is only for me.

  At 32nd Street, we’re mired in a gridlock of honking horns and angry voices. The driver throws up his hands in disgust and slaps the steering wheel.

  “Fuck this,” Brody says, opening the door. “I’m going to grab the subway. Meet you at the union.” He slams the door and runs across the street, disappearing down the steps to the subway.

  “Your friend, he is in a hurry,” the driver says. He’s black but has some kind of West Indian accent. “Some music, yes?” He turns on the radio to some blaring reggae sound.

  We finally break free and in a succession of turns, back streets, alleys, we pull up in front of the union. I pay the driver and get out. “Say hi to Bob Marley.”

  Inside, the union is busy. New York is the largest local in the country governing everything musical in New York City and surrounding areas. The Philharmonic, Ballet, the pit bands of Broadway shows, recording, clubs—if you work as a musician in New York City, you have to come here, and today, it seems like half the musicians in New York have decided to visit.

  Nearby Roseland Ballroom was once used as a cattle call for casual gigs, weddings, parties, fashion shows, anything put together for a one time event. Out of work musicians crowded the ballroom while contractors on stage behind microphones would read off what was going.

  “I need a tenor saxophone for the Bronx Friday night,” the voice would say. Several tenor players would rush the stage, have a quick interview, get the details or be introduced to the leader and a deal was made. It was like longshoremen showing up for day labor. The glamour of the music business.

  I push my way through to the information desk and grab one of the directories attached to a chain. The listings are alphabetical or by instrument. I flip through the Bs quickly and find nothing. In the trombone section, there are three Beckwoods: James, William, and Joe “Killer Joe” Beckwood. No Al.

  I get one of the girls’ attention finally and point to the directory. “Hi, I’m trying to get Al Beckwood, trombonist and bassist. He’s not in here. Can you tell me if he’s still a member?”

  She nods hits a few keys on her computer screen. “Membership lapsed a year ago.”

  “Do you have a number for him?”

  She looks at me briefly and pauses. “You a member of 802?”

  “No, 47 in Los Angeles.” I take out my wallet and show her my union card.

  She glances as the screen again and writes a number on a post-it note. “That’s all we have.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll make sure he pays up his dues.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  I move away toward the door and look at the number, double checking my notebook, but it’s the same number I’d called several times without any luck. At least I know he’s in, or was in New York. I flip open my phone and try it anyway. It rings several times and just when I’m about to hang up, a woman’s voice answers in a frail soft tone.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, is Al Beckwood there, please?”

  “Who is this?”

  “I’m returning his call. We have a mutual friend by the name of Calvin Hughes.”

  “Al’s asleep,” she says. “He’s very sick.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you Mrs. Beckwood? It’s very important. Could you tell him I called and let me give you my number. I’m in New York for a few days.”

  “It’s nobody,” I hear her say as she half muffles the phone. She says something else, then I hear a man’s voice. “I’m awake woman. Who is it?”

  “Says he’s Calvin Hughes.”

  “No, I’m Evan Horne, a friend of Calvin Hughes.”

  “Just a minute,” she says and lays down the phone with a clunk.

  A few moments pass then the man picks up the phone. “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Al Beckwood? It’s Evan Horne. You left a message for me about Calvin Hughes. I tried to call you back and now I’m in New York and—”

  “I been sick.”

  “Is it possible we could get together? I need to talk to you about Calvin.”

/>   He pauses, coughs a couple of times. “I’m tired, having this nasty chemotherapy. You have to come here if you want to talk.”

  “Where is here?”

  I grab a pen from the desk and write down the address. “When, Mr. Beckwood? When is a good time for you?”

  “Ain’t none anymore.”

  Chapter Twelve

  It’s nearly a half hour before Cameron Brody shows up. He’s all smiles, a nylon computer bag slung over his shoulder. “Got it,” he says, patting the bag. “Sorry it took so long. I had to boot up and load my disks at the store, just to make sure things were working right. How’d you do?”

  “I found him.”

  “Al Beckwood?”

  “Yes.” I tell him about the phone call as we walk slowly away from the Musicians Union building. “It’s not good. He’s on chemotherapy.”

  “Oh shit,” Brody says.

  “Exactly. I need to go over there now.”

  Brody nods, looks away, thinking the same thing I imagine. Barging in on somebody in that condition, practically unannounced, isn’t cool. But, Beckwood did call me. “You want to come with me?”

  “Definitely, man. I…Jesus Christ, that’s him.”

  I turn toward where Brody is looking. He’s already hurrying over to a tall, heavyset, light skinned black man in a Mets baseball cap, dark coveralls, and boots.

  “Otis, Otis James,” Brody calls to him.

  The man turns at the sound of his name and faces Brody, looking for a moment like he’s about to run. His face tenses as Brody gets closer. “What about it?” he says, as if Brody might be a process server or a cop.

  Brody sets his computer bag down and digs in his pocket, hands the man his card and starts talking rapidly. James looks at the card, listens, doubt on his face but gradually, he breaks into a smile. I get there in time to hear him say, “You not jiving me? Cause if you are…”

  “No, no,” Brody says excitedly. “I’ve been looking for you. I have the check.”