by Bill Moody
Joey glances at Buzz. “Two bills okay?”
“I’ll have to get some cash. I’ll leave it with Buzz and enough extra for shipping. Can you Fed-Ex it to me?”
“Sure. I’ll do it here. Save me lugging this big thing around.”
Buzz says, “It’s cool, man. I’ll lock up the tapes here.”
“Great.” I write down my Monte Rio address and cell phone number and give it to Joey. “I really appreciate this, guys.”
“How do you want me to label the CD?” Buzz says.
“Miles and Cal—Boplicity.”
Chapter Fourteen
I get to the airport two hours before my flight, hoping it’s not crowded and I can have a couple of seats to myself. It’s not a red eye but my own are gritty at six in the morning. I’m ready to nap at 37,000 feet.
Larry Klein had arranged for a stopover in Los Angeles and had even waived the rebooking charge. It wasn’t much anyway, but it’s a nice gesture and makes me think even more highly of Roy Haynes.
“The way you played, Roy said anything you want,” Klein said when he’d called me with the flight information.
Now that I’m here, I’m almost sorry to be leaving New York, but at the same time I’m excited about meeting Maybeline Jones, and finally getting some real first hand information about Cal’s earlier life. The tapes are very much on my mind too. I want to sit down with headphones and listen to them over and over. The little bit I’d heard made me long for everything, and, in a couple of days, I’ll have them in CD form.
I have a last cigarette outside the terminal, watching people being dropped off for flights, saying their goodbyes, and head inside to run the security gamut, but again it’s fairly painless. Maybe it’s the time of morning, but I’m through and walking toward my gate in fifteen minutes.
I grab coffee at the nearest snack bar, then spend a few minutes browsing around a gift shop, skimming magazines, thumbing through the latest best-selling books. I finally take a seat in the boarding area, anxious to get on the plane. From the size of the crowd, it’s not going to be too bad and I’ve got a window seat. I’m already yawning when they finally make the boarding call.
I find my seat, stow my bag in the overhead compartment, and wait to see the draw on any companions. There are several close calls as people check their seat numbers and glance at me, but in the end I have a row to myself. I buckle up, put my head back and wait for the plane to taxi out and prepare for takeoff.
There’s an hour spent serving a light snack and drinks, then the cabin lights dim and a movie comes up. I lean back, close my eyes, and I’m asleep in minutes.
The descent of the plane is all that awakens me. I sit up and look at Los Angeles spread out below. I just have time to get to the restroom, splash some cold water on my face, and get back to my seat as the pilot makes the landing announcement. I feel groggy and stiff walking through the terminal and almost nod off standing in line at the car rental desk.
I turn on my cell and call Danny Cooper. He answers curtly. “This is Cooper.”
“This is Horne. Roger that.”
He laughs. “Hey where are you?”
“Waiting in line at Hertz at LAX.”
“Save some money. I’m on lunch down on Lincoln. Want me to pick you up?”
“No, stay there. I need a car for a couple of days. Have another doughnut. I’ll be there in half an hour. Norm’s?”
“How did you know?” He laughs again.
“Where else? See ya.”
I finally get a car and snake through the airport traffic, heading for Lincoln Boulevard, down past Marina del Rey, Venice, and finally, a right on Pico to Norm’s coffee shop. I pull in and find Coop staring out the window at me.
I barely get to this booth when his cell phone rings. “This is Cooper,” he says into the phone, holding up a finger. “Got it. Be right there.” He looks at me and shrugs. “Sorry. I have a situation as we say. I gotta go.”
“No problem. How about dinner. I have lots to tell you.”
He gets up, adjusts his coat, his gun flashing briefly. “Sounds good. I’m off at six.”
“Okay. Call me when you’re free and we’ll figure out a place.”
I wave off the waitress, saying I’ve changed my mind and get back in my car and head for Hollywood, deciding to go straight to the house, but I can’t resist a coffee place on Franklin. I pull in quickly and go inside, then stop suddenly.
Tucked away at a corner table, a couple catches my eye. Dana is sitting, her back to me. The guy facing her is Brent Sergent. He has his hand on hers across the table, his eyes traveling around the room as he talks, and eventually, lock on mine. He jerks his hand away from Dana and sits back in his chair, shaking his head.
I watch Dana look at him, then turn. Her eyes meet mine, then she drops her head again. I walk over and stand by their table.
“Well, well,” I say, looking from one to the other. I glare at Sergent. “Don’t you have someplace you have to be?”
He gets up, grabs his briefcase, glances at Dana. “I’ll call you,” he says to her. He carefully avoids me, skirting around another table and makes for the exit.
“Yeah, do that,” I say, watching him go. I turn back to l look at Dana. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“I…I didn’t know when you were coming,” she says, her voice almost a whisper.
“I can see that.”
“Evan, it’s not what it looks like.”
“Oh, what does it look like?”
“Please let me explain.”
“Yeah, sure. No, you know what? Don’t bother.” I shove a chair aside and walk quickly away. Pushing through the door I get outside but Dana follows me.
“Evan, please.”
I stop and turn around. “For what, Dana? I get the picture.”
“Just give me five minutes. Please.”
“This should be good. Okay five minutes.”
“I’ll be right back,” she says. “I left my purse inside.”
I find a vacant table, light a cigarette and wait. She comes back in less than two, carrying a coffee for me and sits down. I sit down, get a cigarette going and look at her. “How long have you known Sergent?”
She sighs. “Since college. We were in a couple of classes together, but that time he came to the house, it was the first time I’d seen him since.”
“So you’re just renewing your old acquaintance?” I make no attempt to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, and I see it pains Dana to hear it.
She leans forward. “I know this looks bad, Evan, but please, I can explain everything.”
I look away, take a deep drag on my cigarette and sip some coffee. “Yeah, sure. Everybody can always explain everything. Dana, I trusted you. At least I thought I could. Is Sergent paying you to hustle me? You have some kind of commission deal going.”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s not like that.”
“What is it like then?” I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe my instinct about her had been right when I’d heard her talk about Cal, rented her the house, but seeing her with Sergent now changes everything.
She runs her hands through her hair, winding up, considering what she’s going to say. “Brent saw me once, with Cal. He was up there scouting properties in the neighborhood, said he was working for this big developer, and anything I could tell him would be helpful. I didn’t see any harm in that. When I asked Cal about it, he just laughed. ‘They’ve been sniffing around here for years, but where would I go if I did sell, he said.’”
“Brent called a couple of weeks later but by that time, Cal was gone and I’d met you. That’s when he came to the house and talked to you. He said there would be a finder’s fee if I could talk you into selling, but by then, I was…”
Her voice trails off and she looks at me. “I know it’s crazy and I have no right, but that little time we spent together, well, you know what I’m talkin
g about. I was uncomfortable talking with Brent after that. He called several times, pushing me to persuade you to sell. I met him today to tell him I don’t want anymore to do with it. He even threatened to tell you I worked for him. He thinks you and I had something going on. That’s all that happened, Evan. Really.”
I’m quiet for a few moments, thinking, turning things over in my mind. I drink off half the coffee, feeling Dana’s eyes on me. When I turn to look at her again, I see her eyes pooling.
“I don’t know, Dana. I guess I’m feeling pretty sensitive about trust after what I’ve learned in the past few days.”
“Please believe me, Evan. If you want I’ll move out today, and you can find another tenant. I don’t want you to think I’m involved in any conspiracy with Brent. He gives me the creeps now.”
What choice do I have? I don’t have time to make new arrangements, decide what to do with Milton. There’s no place in my life now for a dog, and so far no harm done. I still own the house and after all, Brent Sergent can’t force me to sell.
“I want to believe you, Dana, and I don’t want you to move out either, but if I find out you have anything more to do with Brent Sergent other than hanging up on him if he calls, I’ll close the house down. I don’t want to do that but I will. I want to be clear about that.”
She nods and wipes her eyes with a napkin. “Thank you. I’m so sorry I did anything for you to doubt me, and don’t worry, I don’t want anything more to do with him anyway.”
She doesn’t say why, but at this point I don’t care. “Okay, fair enough. Let’s just forget it. It’s over and we’ll move on for now.”
She manages a smile and nods again. “Why did you come to L.A.”
“To meet with a woman who knew Cal pretty well. I went up to my folks when I was in New York, and my mother finally told me everything. Cal is my father and she was, is, Jean Lane.”
I catch her up quickly and drop her at the house, hoping I’m not making a mistake.
She gets out of the car then leans back in the window. “Are you sure we’re okay?”
I nod. “Yeah, we’re okay.” She turns away, obviously not sure. I watch her walk up the steep flight of steps, then turn and wave at me. For all I know, Brent Sergent is waiting around the corner, watching the house. I make a U-turn and go back to Beachwood Drive, turning left instead of back into Hollywood.
Driving up a few blocks, I turn around, go back and park a half a block or so from the house. I sit for half an hour, feeling sillier with every passing minute.
Dana’s confusion and remorse do seem genuine, so why am I still wary, checking on her? Why can’t I trust anybody anymore? Dana, my long time friend—so I thought—Ace Buffington, who sold me out to drug dealers in Amsterdam, even Andie. I realize suddenly what I’m feeling is probably only the beginning of a long road back to normalcy in my dealing with people close to me. My mother’s revelations have seen to that.
I glance at my watch and start the car. I have to go with it until something else proves me wrong. Turning around, I head back to Beachwood Drive, drop down to Franklin, and make for the Hollywood Freeway. Driving through the Cahuenga Pass, I dial Maybeline Jones.
“Where are you, baby?” she says.
“On the freeway heading toward the Valley. Just got in a couple of hours ago.”
“Don’t think I’m weird but can we meet someplace public? On Ventura Boulevard, Coffee Plus. You get one of the outside patio tables, okay?”
“I think I know the place. How will I know you?”
“Oh, I’ll know you, sugar. You just look for the best looking, sixty-one year old black woman you’ve ever seen.”
I laugh and close the phone. I like her already. The traffic is heavy at the Ventura Interchange. I go a couple of exits and turn left toward Ventura Boulevard. Coffee Plus is down a couple of blocks connected to a huge bookstore.
I park, get a large coffee, and go through the glass doors to the patio tables and wait. Fifteen minutes later, I see a tall black woman in a floral print dress and big sunglasses. I start to wave, but she spots me and comes over. She doesn’t say anything at first, just drops her bag and cell phone on the table, sits down and looks at me.
“I’d know you anywhere,” she says. “I’m Maybeline.”
I take her hand. “Nice to finally meet you.” She’s slim with caramel colored skin. Nails, jewelry, everything happening, but all very tasteful. She may be sixty one but she looks much younger.
She smiles. “It’s living good, baby. That’s the secret,” she says, as if answering my thoughts.
“I’ll try to remember that.” There’s a long moment of silence as neither of us seems to know where to start. I’m sitting here across from a woman who probably knew Cal as well as my mother did, maybe better. I have so many questions spinning through my mind. so much to cover.
She looks in my eyes and smiles warmly. “You’re hurting aren’t you baby. Well, I’m not surprised. I never thought we’d meet.”
“It’s kind of a shock to find out you’re not who you thought you were at this late date.”
She nods. “That used to worry Cal so much, wondering how you were doing, what you were doing.”
I feel a flash of anger. “Why didn’t he try to find out?” It comes out more harshly than I intend. “I mean he could have tried to make contact couldn’t he?”
She looks away for a moment. “Oh he wanted to, but the longer he let it go, the harder it was.” She reaches over and touches my hand. “He was afraid, baby, afraid you wouldn’t want to see him.”
“Hey, I didn’t even know he existed. When I met him, spent time with him, I still had no idea who he was. Why didn’t he tell me then?” I look away for a moment. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to go off on you.”
She looks surprised. “What, just come right out and say, oh by the way, I’m your father? No, baby. That wouldn’t have been Cal’s way. He was just glad you’d found him, even if it was by accident.”
“How do you know that?”
She leans back in her chair. “We had one phone conversation after you started taking lessons with him. I hadn’t seen or heard from him in ages but I knew his voice right away, like it had been only days instead of years. I don’t even know how he got my number and didn’t ask either. He just said, ‘I found him, Maybeline, but he doesn’t know.’”
She shrugs. “We talked for almost an hour. I told him he should tell you but he was afraid that would drive you away or you wouldn’t believe him. I think eventually he would have.”
I shake my head. “Maybe not.” I tell her about the note he left, the long buried secret, the chase he’d sent me on with nothing to go on but an old photo and a name.
Maybeline nods, watching me. “He wanted your mother to be the one to tell you. Remember, baby, he loved your mother.”
“Why didn’t you see him after that call?”
“He didn’t want it. He said our time had long passed and I could tell he wasn’t well. He was right. I had my life, he had his. It was better to keep those memories.”
“That’s what I want to hear about.”
“I know, and I’m going to tell you.”
“How did you meet?” I light a cigarette. “You want some coffee or something?”
“No, I’m fine. We were in New York. I was a singer back then. Not as good as I thought, but a singer.” She laughs. “I was auditioning at a small club and Cal was the piano player. He was so sweet, helping me with my music. I really didn’t know what I was doing. I just wanted to be Ella or Sarah so bad.”
Her face darkens as she remembers. “The club owner was a mean guy, sitting there with a big cigar in his mouth, a few tables in front of the stage with another guy who I guess was the manager. I barely got through the first chorus of ‘All of Me,’ when he turned to the other guy and said, ‘Jackie, tell that singer bye.’ I wasn’t sure I’d heard right, but Cal did.
“He stopped pla
ying and walked over and said, ‘Jackie, you can tell this piano player bye too.’ He gathered up my music and took my hand and said, ‘Come on. You don’t want to work here.’”
I smile, thinking it’s exactly the kind of thing I would have done.
“Just like that, he gave up his gig. I was just in shock at the whole thing. Nobody had ever done anything like that for me. He took me next door to a diner and bought me lunch. We ate lunch and talked and talked and talked. He told me, warned me about what I was in for if I wanted to be a singer, but he was honest too. Told me I wasn’t good enough yet for New York. Made me cry. Cal could do that sometimes. He’d just say right out what other people only thought.”
The story makes me smile again. How many times had I been told that? How many times had it got me in trouble?
“He offered to work with me, get my music together and we did, whenever he could. I went to his gigs, listened to him play, saw the burn in his eyes and right then I knew, I was wasting my time. I was never going to be good enough. When I told him that, he just nodded and said, ‘I know that, but you had to find out for yourself.’”
She puts her head back and laughs. “Didn’t change a thing about the way I felt about him though. I was already in love.”
She looks at her watch. “I got so much to tell you, but I have work to do too. How about you come over to my place later tonight, about 8:30. I have a business dinner but I should be back by then.”
I can’t keep the disappointment off my face, but she pats my hand. “Don’t worry baby.” She opens her purse and takes out a business card and pen and writes her address on the back. “I’m not far from here,” she says handing me the card. May Jones, it says on the card. Realtor–Broker.
She smiles as I look at the card. “Nobody is going to buy a house from someone named Maybeline.” She stands up, grabs her purse and phone. “I’m glad you called me. I’ll see you tonight.”
I watch her go and sit for a long time, smoking, finishing my coffee, oblivious to the shreds of conversation around me as people come and go. When I look up, most the tables have emptied, a bus boy is clearing tables, getting things ready for the after work crowd.
