by Bill Moody
“Promise,” Andie says.
“Okay.” The waiter brings the check, and she signs for it. I walk her to her car, a shiny, dark Saturn.
“Well, thanks, Evan. I enjoyed this, and you’ve been a big help. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
I look at my watch. Still early, and I don’t feel like going home. “Would you like to hear some real jazz?”
Andie is digging in her purse for keys. She hesitates for a moment. “I don’t know.” She looks at her watch.
“Yeah, you’re probably busy.”
“No, it’s not that. I, yes, I would like that. I can chalk it up to research.”
“Good, it’s not far from here. Piano player is an old friend of mine.”
“Fine, lead the way.”
Andie follows me to Bob Burns on Second and Wilshire. There’s a scattering of late diners, a handful of people drinking at the piano bar, and Howlett Smith at the keyboard. We manage a table near the piano and order Irish coffees.
Howlett Smith has been around Santa Monica for years. He usually works with a bassist, but tonight he’s solo. We listen as he effortlessly roams through a set of standards. On two of them, he sings. His plaintive tone makes more of the lyrics than the songs deserve.
Andie listens for a few minutes and notices Howlett’s movements as he sways back and forth. “He’s blind, isn’t he?” Andie says. She seems to really be enjoying the music.
“Yeah, and he’s really good with voices. Watch this.”
I go up to the piano. Howlett is noodling between tunes, talking with a couple at the bar. “Hey, Mr. Smith. You know ‘Melancholy Baby’?”
He turns toward me, cocks his head to one side. “Evan Horne. How you been, man?” He holds out his hand. I grip his long brown fingers.
“Pretty good, Howlett. How you doin’?”
“Hangin’ in, man.” He laughs and shakes his hand in mock pain. “I know your hand is better. You got a steel grip now. Next you’ll be trying to get my gig.” He feels for the microphone. “Sit down here and play one. If you play good enough, I might sing along with you.” He slides down to the end of the bench. I sit down and shrug at Andie. She’s brought her drink up to the bar.
Howlett pulls the mike in close. “Folks, we got a real treat for you. This here is Evan Horne, an old friend and a great pianist. What you feel like, man?”
I play a couple of chords. “How about ‘I Fall in Love Too Easily’?”
“Cool,” Howlett says.
I play a short intro. I can feel Howlett swaying on the bench beside me. He comes in with the lyric, then touches my arm, signaling me to play a chorus on my own. Howlett comes back, playing with the melody, and when I go for a substitute chord at the end, he’s right with me.
The crowd around the bar has grown, and they show their appreciation. I give Howlett’s shoulder a squeeze. “Thanks, man. I enjoyed that.”
Howlett smiles. “You make me sound good. You come by anytime, Evan.”
I rejoin Andie, and we go back to our table. “He’s great, isn’t he?”
“So are you,” she says. “He was smiling all the time you were playing. I can see why you’d rather be doing this than being hounded by the FBI.”
“Good,” I say. “I’ll probably remind you of that.”
We listen to the rest of Howlett’s set, and I catch Andie yawning once. “Sorry,” she says, putting a hand over her mouth.
“We’d better go, huh?”
“Yeah, it’s been a long day.”
I walk her outside. “Tell the FBI I said thanks for dinner.”
“Thank you for bringing me here. I really enjoyed it.”
We shake hands. Is it my imagination, or does her hand linger a second longer than necessary? “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have something to show you,” she says.
I nod and start for my car, then turn back as I remember something I wanted to ask her earlier. “When these killers deliberately leave clues, what do you think they’re saying?”
“Catch me if you can.”
I drive home thinking about what Andie Lawrence said. My mind should be on recording, the next gig, and new tunes, not serial killers and bird feathers, but there it is.
At home I pour myself a Dewars on the rocks and go through my CD collection. I dig out Keith Jarrett and Bill Evans, looking for inspiration. For comparison, I play my own album, which I’ve made a cassette of. Lots of room for improvement. I’ll have to do better on this one.
I lie on the couch for a long time listening to Keith Jarrett moan and groan his way through a selection of standards that includes a wonderful version of “Just in Time.” Wouldn’t be Keith without the sound effects.
It’s too late to call Natalie, but Cal Hughes will still be up. Teacher, mentor, even friend—I can always count on Cal for the truth. He answers after several rings.
“Cal? It’s Evan.”
There’s no sign of surprise in his voice, even though we haven’t talked in months. “I thought you’d call,” he says. I hear the sound of a match striking. “There’s been another murder. Just saw it on the news.”
“What? Who?”
“You haven’t heard? Another one of those wannabes who call themselves jazz saxophonists. Smooth jazz. They ought to call it jazz light. It’s less filling. What rocket scientist came up with that term? Is there anything more smooth than Miles doing ‘Freddie Freeloader’? Christ, this guy can’t even play the blues.”
“Cal, who was it?”
“Called himself Cochise or some fucking thing. Long hair, wore a headband. About as Indian as I am. Probably from the Bronx.” There’s a few moments while Cal coughs into the phone.
“It’s Native American now, Cal. How are you feeling?” The last time I talked to Cal, he told me he was dying, but I think he’s too mean.
“Yeah, whatever. I’m better, so the doctor tells me. Wants me to quit smoking though. Imagine that. Milton doesn’t like me coughing though.”
“Cal, Milton is a dog.”
“He still doesn’t like it. If the Humane Society finds out, they’ll probably bust me for secondhand smoke.”
“Where was this murder?”
“San Francisco.”
“What else?”
“Nothing. Read the papers tomorrow. I hear your gig went okay at the Jazz Bakery.”
“More than okay. I got a recording date. Quarter Tone Records.”
“Good—small, but they do some nice stuff. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. Any suggestions?”
“Yeah, for starters, stay out of this one.” He laughs amid another fit of coughing. “It is kind of weird though, somebody knocking off these pop jazz jerks. C’mon by, we’ll talk about it. Your album, I mean.”
“See you, Cal.”
“If you’re lucky.”
I hang up and turn on the TV, but the local news is already into the weather.
Well, at least this wasn’t Coop’s problem, but Andie Lawrence, Wendell Cook, and Ted Rollins are probably working overtime.
What was in San Francisco? In the ’50s and ’60s it was the Jazz Workshop, the Blackhawk, premier West Coast jazz clubs that hosted many live recordings. Miles—Friday and Saturday Night at the Blackhawk, 1961 was one of the most famous.
I know I have a reissue of Saturday Night someplace. I find it in a stack of CDs and put it on. Miles, with Hank Mobley on tenor; Paul Chambers, bass; Jimmy Cobb, drums. Wynton Kelly on piano romping through Monk’s “Well You Needn’t.”
In small print, there are Ralph Gleason’s original liner notes about Miles, but almost as much about the club and its owner, Guido Caccienti, an eccentric who wrote the names of coming attractions in soap on the windows of the club—Guido’s on-purpose mistakes, calling saxophonist Illinois Jacquet “Indian Jacket;” the one-dollar cover charge; the feature on the club in Time magazine; the no-reservations policy even for the Time reporters.
A leaky roof, wooden tables, and
hard chairs, but acoustics so good the Modem Jazz Quartet could work there without microphones. And Guido left the musicians alone. The only important thing was the music, and now, like so many jazz meccas—Birdland, the Five Spot, Shelly’s Manne Hole—the Blackhawk was gone.
I stop reading and listen to Wynton Kelly race through “So What” with Chambers and Cobb bearing down on him, the three of them swinging so hard Miles was probably standing at the bar listening, wondering why he was even there.
Did Cochise’s killer know all this? I wonder. And if he did, would it make him mad enough to kill someone?
CHAPTER FOUR
Jeff Lasorda’s house is at the western end of the San Fernando Valley in Woodland Hills. Even though rush hour is a memory, it’s slow going at the San Diego-Ventura Freeway interchange. Every time I come out here I think of one more reason why I live in Venice. Someday I might like to leave L.A. altogether. But where? That’s the big question. New York? San Francisco? Europe is always looming somewhere in the back of my mind.
Maybe it’s the Dexter Gordon in Paris I’m listening to while an endless line of cars stretches ahead of me. I have KLAN, the jazz station from Long Beach, on in the car. As Dexter’s big horn fades, there’s a brief traffic and news update, another mention of Cochise’s murder in San Francisco. Nothing I haven’t already read about in the morning papers.
I woke early, went out for coffee, bought USA Today and the L.A. Times, and stayed with CNN for most of the morning, but the story never changed. There was the requisite photo of Cochise, a mention of his ancestry. Cal was wrong; he was Native American, but Cherokee and only a smidgen at that, apparently. His real name was Bobby Ware. The rest was about his hit records, his sellout concerts, and his “jazz influences.” Cochise claimed to like Cannonball Adderly and David Sanborn. The possible link to Ty Rodman’s murder in Santa Monica was also discussed.
CNN interviewed someone from the FBI, but got mostly denials of any connections between the two murders. Later the other California serial killings—the Hillside Strangler, the Night Stalker—were rehashed, and the talking heads predicted there were surely more to come. But these, I knew, were different. They were not random—someone was targeting specific people—but unless someone played jazz, and a certain kind of jazz at that, they had nothing to fear from this killer. The media smelled a big story here. It wouldn’t take long for someone to connect the New York killings with Rodman and Cochise.
I had taken it all in, and given the coverage, I’d been surprised at not hearing from Coop or Andie Lawrence. Thinking better of it made me realize I was not really a part of this investigation. All I’d done was explain a couple of dates for Coop and kick around some ideas with Andie Lawrence over dinner. Andie probably wouldn’t even call me back about the profile, and in some strange way I can’t explain, that kind of disappointed me. But what stung more was not having heard from Natalie for two days.
There’s finally a break in the traffic, and as is so often the case, there’s no sign of what caused the delay. Just too many cars. I take the Shoup exit off the Ventura Freeway and head north, looking for Jeff’s street. I spot the church he’s given me as a landmark, just past Oxnard. I don’t have to look for the number. I spot Gene Sherman’s station wagon in the driveway and Gene in jeans, T-shirt, and a Dodger baseball cap, unloading his drums. He waves as I pull the Camaro in behind him.
I offer to carry his cymbal bag and leave him to the bass drum and trap case. “You piano players are all heart,” he says.
Inside Jeff is sitting at the stripped-down baby grand piano, going over some chord changes. The wild tangle of hair and thick glasses bring to mind a mad scientist. “Hey, man,” he says. “Got a tune I want you to hear. Might be able to use it.”
I set down the cymbal bag and join Jeff at the piano. “What’s it called?”
Jeff shrugs. “I don’t know. ‘Wailing in Woodland Hills’? I’ll name it later.” He shows me the lead sheet, with the notes of the melody scribbled in pencil. I listen while he plays the changes.
When I called Jeff and Gene, they were as enthusiastic as I’d hoped. The Bakery gig had gone well, and although the three of us had only worked together a few times before, we had meshed quickly. Both agreed with me that we should keep it a trio. Adding a horn would just be one more problem. They were also happy to hear about the possible gig at Chadney’s.
“I like it,” I say to Jeff. His face contorts and his head tips to the side like he’s discovered some new formula as he finishes with a wildly altered chord.
“Hear it?” Jeff says. His hands are spread out over the keyboard. Jeff has written several songs, but what I like best about him is, he always plays in tune. Somebody told me he’d once showed up for a rehearsal wearing a T-shirt that read “Tune Up or Die!” The leader, thinking it was meant for him, didn’t see the humor and fired Jeff on the spot.
Jeff and I talk over the changes for a couple of other tunes as Gene gets his drums set up. When I sit down at the piano, I can’t believe how good it feels to be rehearsing my own trio, prepping for a recording date.
I give them both a list of tunes I’ve written out. “Let’s try ‘When I Fall in Love.’ I’ll start, then you guys come in the second chorus. Keep it pretty free for a couple more, then we’ll push into it on about the fourth chorus.”
Jeff and Gene both nod. With musicians like these, I don’t have to give many directions. They’re both talented and have been around long enough that I can rely on their judgment.
I slip my glove on and ease into an intro. Jeff adds some color notes, and Gene follows suit with mallets on the cymbal. By the time they both enter, it’s so subtle I can’t tell when they decided to go to tempo. Exactly the effect I want. My hand feels fine, and Jeff is reading my mind.
Three choruses in, I stop. “Okay, that’s great. Now Gene, I don’t want to just do eights all the time. Maybe you can take a chorus or two, just see how it feels, and Jeff, just let me know which tunes you want to play on.”
“This is going to be cool,” Gene says, nodding.
We play around with several tunes for a couple of hours, trying out arrangements, just getting more used to each other. If we can get the Chadney’s gig before the date, we’ll be pretty tight by recording time.
“Okay, thanks, guys, that’s enough for today I think we have the concept down. If either of you come up with anything you want to do, just let me know.” I gather up my music and start to go when Gene stops me.
“You heard about that Cochise dude getting whacked in San Francisco?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Jeff says. “Getting dangerous to be a musician.” He’s running a cloth over the fingerboard of his bass. “I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday, works with this group, Monk’s Dream.”
“Oh shit,” Gene says. “I heard them on the radio. They sound like every other band.”
“I don’t know the group,” I say, “but with a name like that, it can’t be all bad.”
“They play some straight-ahead stuff, but mostly they’re in the smooth bag,” Jeff says. “This friend of mine told me the leader is freaked by these murders. Thinking about canceling some gigs, and they have a lot.”
“Tell your friend to stick to bebop,” Gene says. “Whoever is doin’ these guys is a bebopper. Mark my words.”
“What guys?” I ask Gene.
“Cochise and Ty Rodman.” Gene looks up from his packing. “Who else?” He looks at me strangely, then he and Jeff exchange glances.
“Hey.” Jeff suddenly looks at me. “You’re not in this, are you, Evan?”
I feel both of them watching me closely. Gene has a cymbal stand halfway collapsed. Jeff is standing by the piano.
“Not at all.”
Driving back to Venice, I’m still wired from the rehearsal. Jeff and Gene are going to be great for the recording, and there seems to be a real musical connection between the three of us. No egos, just a concerted desire to make good music. If we get the Chadney’s
gig, we could really get locked in.
I let myself in, still allowing the earlier relief at not hearing from Coop or the FBI to stay with me, but it’s ended by the answering machine. There are messages from both, and also one from Natalie. “I’ll cook you dinner tonight if you like,” her voice says with a tone that I hope means forgiveness.
I know she’s at school, but I call and leave her a message. “Yes, I like.”
Next I call Coop at police headquarters, but the desk sergeant tells me he’s signed out for the day. “I can give you his voice mail if you like.”
“That’s okay. I’ll catch him at home.”
“He’s definitely not at home,” the sergeant says.
“That’s okay, thanks.”
I think I know where Coop is. I call Andie Lawrence’s beeper number. Her return call comes almost as soon as I hang up the phone.
“Evan, it’s Andie.”
“Yeah, got your message—”
“We need to see you right away.”
“Look, Andie. About the profile, I don’t know if—”
“Wait, hang on a minute,” she says.
“Hey, sport, you need to get down here right away.”
“Coop? Where are you?”
“Federal Building. I think you recall its location.”
“What’s going on?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“Cochise’s murder, you mean? Yeah, I heard, but—”
“Okay, then just get down here. They need your input, and Special Agent Lawrence has a profile for you to look over.” Coop puts an extra spin on “Special Agent.”
“And what if I don’t? What if I have other plans?” FBI or not, I don’t like being on call. Next they’ll give me my own beeper.
“Change them.” Coop’s voice is getting more irritated by the word. I think I know why. He’s sitting there in front of Andie, maybe Wendell Cook as well, assuring them he’ll get me there.
“Okay, okay, but we’re going to have to get a few things straight—you, me, the FBI.”
“See you then,” Coop says and hangs up.
