Shades of Blue

by Bill Moody

  “Well thanks anyway. Any chance I can find the homeless guy, maybe give him something for his trouble.”

  “He hangs out around 10th Street. Shopping cart full of junk, wears a Jets football jacket most of the time. Calls himself Boomer.” Charles motions to the smashed computer. “You want to take that with you. We have no way of disposing of it.”

  Brody rolls his eyes, looks at me and grabs the computer.

  Outside we stand in front of the station. “What do you make of all that?”

  “Weird,” Brody says. “Goes to all that trouble, doesn’t take the hard drive.”

  “Can you really recover all the info?”

  “I don’t know, maybe. Let’s go see if we can find Boomer. Maybe he can tell us something.”

  We start walking toward 10th Street, looking down alleyways, side streets for a guy in a Jets jacket. At a bank, Brody pulls up. “Hang on, I want to get some cash.”

  He slides his ATM card in the machine. I step to the side and open my cell phone and call Andie. No answer, just her voice mail. I leave a message for her to call me and then try Dana at the house. No answer there either.

  “All set,” Brody says, and we continue walking.

  Off 10th Street, we see an old guy squatting down, leaning against the building, a shopping cart piled with junk next to him. He’s smoking a cigarette, a green and white Jets jacket zipped up to his neck.

  “Boomer?” Brody calls to him. Boomer looks up, squints at us through a haze of smoke and eyes the computer under Brody’s arm.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name is Cameron Brody and I just wanted to thank you for finding my computer.” He squats down next to Boomer.

  “I didn’t break it,” Boomer says.

  “I know,” Brody says. “Did you see who did?”

  Boomer nods but doesn’t offer anything more.

  “Could you show us where you found it?”

  Boomer silently nods again and stubs out his cigarette on the pavement. He looks at me. “He a cop?”

  “No,” Brody says and smiles. “Just a friend.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a hundred dollar bill and hands it to Boomer. “I just wanted to thank you for finding it.”

  Boomer’s hand snakes out of his jacket and pockets the bill as he rises to his feet, his eyes wide.

  “This way,” he says, looking at the broken computer again. “You need that?”

  “All yours,” Brody says.

  Boomer takes the computer and carefully wedges it among the other stuff in his overflowing cart and then starts walking ahead of us, pushing the shopping cart, the wheels noisily banging on the pavement. We go down 10th and follow Boomer as he turns into a small alleyway at the back of some stores. At the end is a large dumpster, covered in graffiti. Boomer parks his cart next to it and opens the lid. “Right in there.”

  Brody glances in, then lets Boomer shut the lid. “Did you see who it was?”

  Boomer nods. “Kinda skinny white guy, dressed okay, nice leather jacket. He had a jack handle. He was really mad. Opened it and smashed the glass, pounded on the keys, then threw it in there.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I was back there, behind the Chinese restaurant.” He points back down the alley. “I waited till he left before I got it out.”

  Brody looks at me and I just shrug.

  “Well, Boomer, thanks for turning it in. I appreciate it.”

  Brody turns to go. “You take care now, Boomer, okay?”

  Boomer nods and starts off, pushing his cart. At the end of the alley, he turns and waves to us, then disappears around the corner.

  “So what do you make of that? Any idea who it could be?”

  “None,” Brody says. “None at all.”

  ***

  Back at the apartment, I call Mavis Beckwood to check in and see how Al is doing.

  “Not good,” she says. “He took a bad turn. He’s back in the hospital.”

  “Oh I’m sorry, Mavis. It wasn’t because of our visit was it?”

  “No, no,” she says quickly. “Seeing you and talking about the old days was good. It’s just this damn cancer.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” I don’t have the heart to ask her about the tapes she mentioned, but she beats me to it.

  “Al said no matter what he wants you to have these tapes. You call me in the morning and we’ll see what’s what.”

  “I will, Mavis. You hang in there.”

  “I’ve been doing that for a long time, baby.”

  Brody has been listening and looks up from his computer, open on the coffee table in front of him. “Al?”

  “Yeah, he’s back in the hospital. Mavis wants me to call in the morning.”

  Brody nods and shrugs. “Nothing we can do.” He frowns at the laptop screen, his finger moving on the cursor button. “I’ve gone over everything and I can’t see anything worth knocking me on the head and stealing the computer for.”

  I sit down next to him and look at the screen. “What is this?”

  “It’s the master list, names of artists with ASCAP accounts who are owed royalties.” He scrolls up and down the list. The amounts range from a few hundred dollars to several thousand.

  “Wait,” I say. “Back up there a minute. Isn’t that—”

  “Sonofabitch,” Brody says. “Otis James.”

  Besides James’ name, and several others, there is an asterisk. I point to it. “What’s that mean?”

  “Just my own code. Those are accounts I’ve been working on personally that haven’t been cleared yet.” Brody sits back and gazes at the list on the screen. “You know what I’m thinking? Somebody wanted to find Otis James as much as I did but for different reasons.”

  “That’s a stretch isn’t it? How would they know you had this information?”

  Brody considers. “I don’t know. I’m not exactly in the witness protection program. Lot of people know what I do.”

  “Who knew you were coming to New York?”

  Brody shrugs. “The office of course, some other contacts.”

  “Okay, but the money owed James, it was a lot to him but not enough to warrant a mugging and stealing your computer. And then smashing it up and dumping it too.”

  “Unless…” Brody trails off and thinks for a moment. “Somebody who thinks James shouldn’t get the money, somebody with a grudge of some kind, somebody who thought he was owed money.”

  We puzzle it over for awhile but don’t come up with anything useful. “There are a lot of uncredited song writers, aren’t there?”

  “Sure,” Brody says. “That tune ‘Walkin.’ It was credited for awhile and assumed to have been written by Miles, but it was a guy named Richard Carpenter. You know how many people recorded ‘Walkin’?”

  I didn’t have to answer. “Walkin’” had become a jazz staple, recorded by probably scores of musicians since it first turned up in the fifties. I remember then what Al Beckwood had told me about “Boplicity.” “What happens when another name is used other than the actual composer? Beckwood told me ‘Boplicity’ was done by Miles and Gil Evans, but on the record it says Cleo Henry. Miles’ mother.”

  “Get out!” Brody laughs. “That’s the first time I heard that.”

  “It’s like a writer using a pen name. The account would officially, legally, be Gil Evans and Miles Davis.”

  Brody studies me. “You’re really hoping something like that happened aren’t you, that your dad wrote even one of those tunes and didn’t get credit.”

  I look at Brody and nod, suddenly realizing just how much I do want that to be true. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  Brody shakes his head. “Don’t get your hopes up. If that were true, it would have come out a long time ago.”

  Brody is right. If the rehearsals were as haphazard and varied as Beckwood says, anything could have happened. I watch as he taps a few keys, the scr
een goes black, and he closes the lid.

  “So, any plans for tonight?”

  “Hadn’t thought about it really.”

  Brody rubs his head. “I’m going to take a nap. Maybe later we can grab some dinner, go hear some music, catch a movie?”

  “Sounds good. You go ahead. I’m going to take a walk. Be back in a couple of hours.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mavis Beckwood calls early while I’m out getting coffee for Brody and myself. I’d tossed and turned on the couch most of the night, my mind reeling with everything I’d taken in during the past couple of days. I’d doze off, then wake up suddenly, remembering something.

  “You better come now, darlin’,” Mavis says. “Al ain’t doin’ too good.” There’s nothing but resignation in her tone, like she’s given up.

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to disturb his rest.”

  “He’ll have plenty of time to rest.” There was a catch in her voice. “He told me to be sure and call you.”

  “All right, Mavis. I’ll be right over.”

  I cram lids on the coffees and walk quickly back to Brody’s place. He’s already up and dressed.

  “C’mon,” I say. “Mavis just called, wants me there as soon as I can. You can occupy her while I talk to Al again.”

  “Got it.”

  New York Memorial Hospital is teeming with activity as we get out of a taxi and rush inside. We find Mavis on the fifth floor, sitting, her hands folded in her lap, staring straight ahead in a chair in the waiting room. Brody and I sit down on either side of her.

  “You okay, Mavis?”

  She looks up and smiles. “Thank you for coming,” she says, shaking her head. “He ain’t going to make it this time, but it’s all right. I know that.” She points down the hall. “You go on in. He’s in 514.”

  Brody takes her hand. “Let’s you and me take a walk, okay Mavis?” She nods and gets up, letting him take her hand, as I go down the hall to Al Beckwood’s room.

  There’s a curtain drawn across the center of the room, separating Beckwood from another patient. His eyes are closed, his breathing seems shallow, and he’s hooked up to various monitors, IV drips, and oxygen. I pull up a chair near the bed and lightly touch his arm.

  “Al, it’s Evan Horne.”

  He opens his eyes slowly and focuses on me, grimacing as he starts to cough. “That button on the side,” he says. “Raise the bed.”

  I find the button and press it. The bed whirs as the upper half slowly inclines till he nods. “That’s good.”

  “How you doing, Al?”

  He tries to smile. “I been better.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  He shakes his head. “I told Mavis she’s got to let me go. I can’t do this no more.”

  “Is there any family you want called, or anything?”

  “No, it’s just Mavis and me. Got some relatives in California. Mavis called her sister…” His voice trails off. He grips my hand as a shudder of pain runs through his body for a few seconds “Damn.” He groans and then relaxes his grip. “That was a big one.”

  “Al—”

  “No, I gotta tell you something first. Maybeline Jones. You have to go talk to her if you want to know more about your Daddy.”

  “Who?”

  “She was a singer at one time. She knew Cal, they lived together for awhile. She can tell you a lot more if you want to know.” He turns his head toward the tray table alongside the bed. “I told Mavis to write it down for you.”

  I look at the scrap of paper. There’s an address and phone number with a New York area code.

  “That’s her sister’s place. If Maybeline isn’t there, her sister will know where she is. You go see her.”

  “I will. Thanks, Al. I really appreciate this.”

  He waves his hand aside. “Mavis has the tapes. Cal used to bring this old tape recorder to some of the rehearsals and listen to them later. He left them with me when he went to California. Better you have them now.”

  He coughs again, grimacing as the cough wracks his body.

  “Al, let me get the nurse.”

  “No,” he says. “Get Mavis.”

  I stand up, placing his hand down on the bed, but he reaches over and touches my arm. “You see Maybeline.”

  “I will. Thank you, Al.”

  I go out, back down the hallway to find Mavis and Brody sitting in the chairs again.

  “Al wants to see you, Mavis.”

  She nods and gets up. “Can you stay awhile?”

  “Sure, long as you want.”

  I drop in a chair next to Brody and we watch her walk away.

  Brody looks at me.

  “He’s in a lot of pain.” I sigh, wishing it didn’t have to be this way but there’s nothing any of us can do. “He gave me the name of a singer, Maybeline Jones. Said she lived with Cal for some time. The tapes are from the band sessions. Cal made some recordings.”

  “Wow.” Brody leans forward. “Can you imagine what those would be worth to a collector or maybe some jazz collection? Hell, man, the Institute of Jazz is over at Rutgers. I wonder if anybody knows about them.”

  “Maybe. Depends on what’s on them, what the quality is like.”

  “Lot can be done now days. They can be transferred to CDs, cleaned up. You never know.”

  I thought about that. Hearing Cal playing with Miles Davis. The casualness and looseness of a rehearsal, snatches of conversation among the musicians, Miles himself talking. But it was Cal I wanted to hear. Cal’s voice.

  Mavis comes back in a few minutes. “I told the nurse I want to talk with Al’s doctor. Al just wants the pain to stop and…go. You think that’s right?” She suddenly looks like a little girl, asking for approval.

  I look at Mavis, not knowing what to say. “Oh, Mavis, that’s for you and Al to decide. See what the doctor says.”

  She nods and sits down again. Amazingly, a doctor appears in less than five minutes. I don’t like doctors, hospitals, clinics. I don’t even like to visit hospitals. I had enough of them after my accident with surgery, rehab, follow-up visits. But this doctor is okay.

  A tall Asian man, he’s dressed casually in running shoes, cotton pants, and has a white coat over a golf shirt. He doesn’t look any older than me. The stethoscope hanging around his neck sways as he approaches.

  “Mrs. Beckwood. You wanted to see me?” He leans over her and smiles.

  Mavis gets up and walks with him. They talk for a couple of minutes. He nods and I catch, “That’s probably best.” He puts his hand on her shoulder. Mavis glances at me, then goes off toward Al’s room.

  The doctor turns toward me. “I’m Doctor Chang. Mrs. Beckwood said you’re a close friend of the family. There’s really nothing more we can do. The cancer has spread too much.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “The best we can do is a morphine drip to ease the pain and let him go. That’s what I’d do if it was my own father.”

  “How long does he have?”

  Doctor Chang shakes his head. “I’ll be surprised if he lasts the day.”

  I nod. “I’m sorry,” he says. He walks over to the nurse station to begin writing up the necessary instructions. I walk back to Al’s room and peek in. Mavis is sitting on the chair, holding Al’s hand. I back out before she can see me and go back to where Brody is waiting.

  “You can go,” I say. “I’m going to stick around for Mavis.”

  Brody nods. “This sucks, man.”

  “Yeah it does.”

  “Okay I’ll see you back at the apartment. Call me if you need anything,” Brody says.

  After Brody leaves, I tell the desk nurse I’m going outside for awhile, and to tell Mavis I’ll be back. I take the elevator down to the main floor and go out in the parking lot, light a cigarette and dial the number Al gave me for Maybeline Jones. A woman answers on the second ring.

  “Hello, is
this Maybeline Jones?”

  “No, she’s not here anymore.”

  “Oh, do you know how I can get in touch with her?”

  “Not unless you go to California. She lives out there now. Can I ask your name?”

  “Evan Horne. I was a friend of someone she knew. Calvin Hughes. A friend of Calvin’s gave me this number. His name is Al Beckwood.”

  There’s a pause, then, “Well I don’t know you. I’ll call her and give her the message and she can call you if she wants.”

  “Fair enough.” I give her my number. “It’s very important. Are you her sister?”

  “Yes I am.”

  “Okay. Well thank you. I’d really appreciate it if you contact her as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll try,” she says, then hangs up.

  I walk around a while longer, having another cigarette, then go back in the hospital. Mavis isn’t in the waiting room, but I find her still sitting with Al. She sees me and comes over to the door.

  “I’m going to stay with Al, darlin’. Thank you for staying.”

  “I’ll be here or outside, Mavis.”

  She nods and squeezes my hand, then goes back to Al’s bedside.

  A half hour later my cell phone rings. I press the answer button.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Evan Horne?”

  “Yes. Maybeline Jones?”

  “Yes. How can I help you? My sister said you called. You know Calvin Hughes?”

  “Yes, well it’s more than that. Al Beckwood gave me your number—your sister’s number.” I pause for a moment. “I thought you’d want to know. Calvin died recently.”

  Her turn to pause. “Oh my. I didn’t know. You said Evan is your name?”

  “Yes. I’ve just recently found out Calvin was my father.”

  “Honey, I know who you are. Where are you?”

  “I’m in New York now, but I live near San Francisco. I was hoping we could meet, talk.”

  She sighs. “I know you have lots of questions. Calvin and I, we lived together for a few years.”

  “Yes I know. Can we meet?”

  “Sure. You call me when you get back out here.” She gives me a number I recognize as the San Fernando Valley.

  “Cal was living in Hollywood when he died. Did you know that?”