Evan Horne [04] Bird Lives!

by Bill Moody

  “Good to see you up and around, Coop.”

  We make the long walk to the baggage area past the slot machines and get on the moving walkway, where announcements from the stars tell us to stay to the right.

  Outside, there’s a white stretch limo for Nicky and Karen, a truck for the instruments and other equipment.

  “High noon, guys,” Nicky Drew says. “At the park.”

  Andie goes with Cook for the short drive to our hotel. Two of Trask’s men get in the limo with Nicky and Karen. Buster and the rest of the band pile into taxis. Coop and I get one of our own.

  We’re at a chain hotel just off the Strip. I just have time to explore the room a little when the phone rings.

  “Evan, Ace. Tell me it isn’t true.”

  “Afraid so. Stay away, Ace. This is not for you. I’ll call you after.”

  “Oh, shit,” Ace says. “You’re really going to do it aren’t you? They’ve made you a decoy.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ace.”

  “Nothing else would get you with a band like Moontrane.” He pauses for a moment. “Well, I hope I don’t see you on the six o’clock news. Good luck.”

  “Thanks, Ace. I’ll call you later.”

  I go downstairs. Nicky’s limo is already gone, but there are a couple of cars to take us to the park. I grab Buster. “C’mon, ride with us.” We get in one of the cars with Coop, and I introduce Buster.

  “Ah, so this is Buster Browne,” Coop says, remembering the Lonnie Cole case.

  “What happened to your arm?” Buster asks.

  Coop winks at me. “An unknown assailant. Got in the way of a knife.”

  Buster glances at me. “Jesus. I should have gone out with John Tesh.”

  We go west on Tropicana past the New York, .New York, one of the newest hotels, and merge onto I-15, passing behind the Strip hotels. In daylight there’s a surreal quality about Vegas. At the 95 interchange we head north and are soon on the Summerlin Parkway and the turnoff for Hills Park.

  The cars pull in beside Nicky’s limo and a motor home that will serve as a portable dressing room. The park itself is large, flanked by an elementary school and a baseball diamond. Seating is on grass in front of the circular cement stage. A white canopy covers the top and back. The stage is a blur of activity, with sound techs running cables, setting up microphones. Too many people, too open, I think. Gillian will never get close to this.

  I spot Ted Rollins in a yellow jacket with “Security” printed on the back, briefing a similarly dressed group. They fan out over the grounds. One of them shows us to the motor home parked behind the stage, and I flash on Ty Rodman’s dressing room at Santa Monica Civic. There are two guards outside, scanning everyone who comes near.

  I wander back to the stage, where the electronic piano is being set up. “Want to try this out?” the tech asks.

  “Not really.” I sit down and turn it on. We’re flanked by six-foot-high speakers and large monitors in front. I try a few chords, but it feels funny. Touch doesn’t matter with these. No matter how hard or light you hit the keys, the sound is the same. The action is too easy.

  I glance up at the drummer as he sits down behind a massive kit, quickly obscured by half a dozen cymbals. A tech with a headset speaks into a microphone and looks toward the center of the park where the soundboard is located. He reaches over my shoulder and taps on a key.

  “Let’s see what we got,” he says to me.

  I run through some chord changes, trying to get used to the keyboard’s action. The sound echoes back at me from the monitor speakers. I see the top of the drummer’s head nod. He peeks at me from beneath a cymbal and smiles. Buster joins us and plugs his bass into a huge amplifier, and we check each instrument for twenty minutes or so. Only then does Nicky turn up in jeans and a T-shirt, his alto hanging from his neck chain.

  He walks to the front microphone and blows a Bird-like flurry of notes, mainly for my benefit, waves toward the sound booth, then turns to face us.

  “Okay, let’s do one,” he says. “‘New Blues’.” He stamps his foot for the tempo, and I’m nearly deafened by the sound of Buster’s bass. It churns and rumbles around the stage and comes to rest in my stomach. Buster glances over at me and mimes, “Sorry.”

  The drummer bashes away as the stage lights come on and catch the gleam from his cymbals, swaying precariously on the stands. Golden, the guitarist, dips the neck of his guitar toward Nicky, then bends backward and stomps the wah-wah pedal as his strings scream to life. Welcome to fusion.

  Nicky walks around the stage, blowing easily, stopping by each of us to listen. When he gets to me, he stops and leans in. “Cool, man. You’re going to like playing this shit.” He roams around the stage, then ambles back to the microphone and blows two choruses before pivoting toward us like a basketball player, holding up his hand to stop. Suddenly the cacophony ceases, but the echo lingers for a moment.

  Nicky steps forward and pushes his sunglasses up on his head. “Hey, didn’t I tell you, this guy can play.” He lets the horn dangle and claps his hands together. “Great, Evan, great. We’ll smoke ’em.”

  I stare at Nicky for a moment, then glance at Buster. “I didn’t do anything, Nicky. I couldn’t even hear what I played.”

  Nicky manages to keep his grin in place. “Cool, man, really cool. Guy doesn’t even know how good he sounds.” He looks at his Rolex. “Okay, guys, we got an hour. Loosen up. We hit at three.”

  On his way offstage, Nicky stops and speaks quietly to me. “That sucked, Evan. You can’t just sit there hunched over the piano like you’re Bill Evans at the fucking Village Vanguard. You’ve got to get into this shit, man.”

  “Is there a problem?” I’m halfway up off the piano bench, and neither of us has heard Andie come up behind us.

  “No problem,” I say.

  Nicky turns to glare at Andie. “I don’t care if you’re FBI or not,” he says. “Nobody fucks with my concert. Everybody has to be into it, or it doesn’t work.”

  Everybody onstage freezes for a moment at the sound of Nicky’s voice. “Don’t worry, Nicky. I’ll figure out some way to make it look good.”

  “And you understand something, Nicky,” Andie says. “We’ll shut your concert down if necessary. We’re here for two reasons. To protect you, and to make it look as normal as possible.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Nicky says. He turns and walks off. “Well, what are you all looking at?” he yells.

  “Charming,” Andie says. “You going to be able to get through this?”

  “Yeah, if I can figure out how to turn up this thing,” I say, pointing at the piano. “If you can’t beat them, join them. In this case it’ll be self-defense.”

  “Want to go for a walk?”

  “Sure. I need to clear my head.”

  We walk down steps, out onto the grass. A section right in front of the stage is roped off, and Rollins and several other security people are talking. Scattered about are some early arrivals, staring up at the dark, cloudy sky, blankets spread, lunches laid out, unaware perhaps they’ll be blasted by the speakers. Or maybe they don’t care.

  Andie and I walk around the perimeter toward the far end of the park. “Hang on a minute.” I jog over to the sound booth, which today is a board on a table in a picnic area taken over by Moontrane for the concert. There’s one guy in a security jacket and two guys at the board in jeans and T-shirts. One of them listens to something through headphones.

  The security guard gets up as I approach. “I’m the keyboard player,” I say, holding up my hand. “Can you guys give me a little more monitor?”

  The first guy taps the one with the headphones. He lifts them off and glances at me. “He wants more monitor, Steve.”

  “I’ll try,” Steve says, “but we’ll get into feedback if we punch it up too much. It sounds okay out here. Take a listen.”

  He hands me the phones, and I put them on. It’s the blues we did during the sound check. Nicky’s alto
dominates, of course, but the keyboard comes through clear, an almost professional mix.

  “I’m impressed. Just having trouble hearing up there.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Steve says. “If it’s still a problem, just give us an up sign.”

  “Thanks.”

  When I get back to Andie, she’s talking on her cell phone. “All right, we’ll keep an eye out for him here,” she says and hangs up.

  “Who was that?”

  “One of the guys back at the hotel. Greg Sims wandered off. He was with Coop.”

  “Greg? He’s here? Why?”

  Andie shrugs. “Wendell thought he might be useful if Gillian shows.” Andie sees my apprehension. “Don’t worry, we’ve got everything covered. I’ll be in the wings and in communication with Wendell at all times. Rollins and his people will be right in front of the stage. We have people at all the entrances. Nobody will get through.”

  “And the—”

  “Motor home? We’ve already got two men on it.”

  I nod. “Let me know if Greg shows up here. I’d like to talk to him.”

  “All right,” Andie says. “I’m going to check at the main entrance.”

  “Okay.” I walk back to the stage area around back to the motor home. The park is filling up quickly. Looks like a sellout; Nicky should be happy. I find Buster Browne leaning against the wall in a black shirt and black pants.

  “What’s with the Zorro outfit?”

  Buster smiles. “Welcome to rock ’n’ roll. There’s one for you too.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Audience has to know Nicky is the good guy. He’ll be in white. Hey, it’ll be over soon,” Buster says.

  “Yeah, like a root canal.”

  I leave Buster and head for the dressing room. My black outfit is hanging on the back of the door with my name pinned to it. Nicky has thought of everything I change, check myself in the mirror, and shake my head. How will I ever live this down?

  On the way to the stage, I run into Nicky. Buster was right. He’s all in white, some kind of jumpsuit. “Hey, Evan,” he says. “I’m just going out to the limo for a minute. Want a little toot?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself. Few minutes, man, and I’ll be making history once again.”

  I watch Nicky leave and listen for a minute to the taped music playing through the speakers. Outside I can see the park is now nearly full. Some people are up and dancing around in anticipation of the concert. In the wings a guy in a KUNV Radio T-shirt is smiling, nodding his head to the music, one of Nicky’s recordings.

  He sees me come up and sticks out his hand. “Hey,” he says. “Don Gordon, I’m emceeing today. You guys are great, you know.” He almost sounds genuine.

  “Thanks.”

  Buster, the drummer and the guitarist come up behind me. “Guess this is it,” Buster says.

  We walk out onstage and take our places. I look for Gillian. Buster turns on his amp. “We vamp till he comes out,” he says. “We might be a while.”

  “I can’t wait,” I say, sitting down at the piano. There’s no music to worry about, so I look for Gillian.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Are you ready, Las Vegas?” shouts the emcee. He paces around the front of the stage with a cordless mike, glancing at us to make sure we’re ready.

  “Yeaaaaaaaah,” the crowd responds. It’s dark, and rain threatens, but that hasn’t kept the people away. With the stage lights I can’t see very far back, but by the sound the park is probably full.

  “All right then, Las Vegas, give it up for Nicky Drew and Moontrane, right here!”

  Buster stomps his foot for the tempo, and we’re under way. I see my hands on the keyboard, but between the crowd noise and the roar of amps and speakers, I can’t hear a note. The earsplitting guitar screams, the drums pound, and the drone of Buster’s bass resonates and slaps against the plastic canopy covering the stage. A three-chord vamp is all we have to play while the guitarist bends strings and sends his body into quasi-convulsions for nearly five minutes.

  The keyboard is facing at an angle, so I can see Andie opposite me, standing in the wings, the radio transmitter in one hand, the other covering her ear. Coop is just behind her. He holds his arms out to his side in a shrug, meaning there’s no sign of Greg Sims, and for the moment anyway, no sign of Gillian.

  Golden shuffles toward me, pointing the neck of his guitar like a shotgun, then swings it wildly upstage and mercifully lets go with both hands to the roar of the crowd. My turn to solo?

  Buster and the drummer look toward me, Buster like he’s wondering what I’m going to do and hoping it’s not going to be anything he’ll be sorry for. I raise my head, then slice my arm through the air, cutting them off, and continue alone. Dropping the volume to a whisper, I work my way through the vamp, playing off the three chords. I sneak a look at the Golden, who is staring at me dumbfounded, feet flat, hands on his hips. He spins around, looks toward the wings for Nicky. This is not part of the plan, but Nicky is not there.

  I ignore him and pull out every funk lick I’ve ever heard, gradually increasing the volume, then give another arm signal, my palm flat, to Buster and the drummer to join me but lightly. I catch a grin from the drummer. Buster fingers his bass lines and nods his head slightly as the three of us hit a groove and lock in. I keep it up till I hear the crowd start to catch on to what we’re doing. When we’re back to nearly full volume, Golden jumps in and joins us. In the wings I can see Nicky Drew now, talking to Andie, his alto around his neck, his body rocking, pointing at me.

  He takes the cap off the saxophone, rocking more now, his eyes locking with mine for a moment, then starts shuffling onstage. He comes straight toward me. A TV crew tracks him onstage, a cameraman and a bleached blond with short hair and dark glasses guiding the cable trailing him. A few people catch sight of Nicky, and the roar goes up.

  At center stage, Nicky pivots to his left and strolls toward the front microphone, the porkpie hat tilted back on his head, the horn held out in front of his body, blowing off the three chords. By the time he reaches the mike, the crowd is on its feet, chanting, “Moontrane, Moontrane,” almost in tempo.

  Nicky, rocking back and forth, rips off line after line on the vamp; then, as he holds one long note, his fist goes in the air. He drops it to his side, cutting us all out. For a moment the last note echoes in the silence around the stage. Buster and the drummer wipe their faces with towels. Buster leans toward me and says, “Big chords coming up.”

  Nicky’s cadenza probably includes everything he learned at Berklee, every lick he’s heard. He finally runs out of gas and half turns toward us. He jumps in the air, and we hit three chords each time his feet hit the stage. The only thing he doesn’t do is drop to his knees and bend over backward, but maybe that’s coming later.

  Nicky backs up, bows from the waist, waves a hand in our direction, and basks for nearly a minute in the crowd’s ovation. It’s a carefully choreographed performance, and this is only the opening number.

  “Thank you, thank you very much,” Nicky says to the crowd. “All right, Las Vegas, are we having fun yet?” He puts his hand to his ear for the predictable response of the crowd, as if he can’t hear them. While they get control of themselves, he turns toward us and shouts, “Flowers.”

  It’s a fast Latin number, almost a samba. Buster sets the pace while the drummer hammers out the beat on the bell of his cymbal like a blacksmith on an anvil. I play the changes down while Nicky dances around in a mock samba step, Golden hovering at his side. After three choruses he steps aside, waves at the crowd, and points at me. The crowd settles down during my solo, then Nicky rejoins us and takes it out.

  We do two more up numbers. Nicky whips the crowd into a frenzy, then takes them down with the kind of slow, mournful blues that David Sanborn has made a career of. I’m still having trouble hearing anything but Nicky’s horn, the drummer’s bashing, and Buster’s throbbing bass. When we end t
he blues, Nicky steps up to the mike and introduces Buster, Golden, and the drummer.

  “I’ve saved this keyboard guy for last,” Nicky tells the crowd. “This is a special night for me, to have an old friend playing with me again. Give it up, Las Vegas, for one of the great keyboard players in jazz, Evan Horne.”

  Nicky turns and claps his hands, then turns back to the front. “I’m so excited I’m going to let Evan have it while I cool down.” He takes a few steps toward me. “Anything you want, man.”

  I nod, guessing he was going to do this. Over the crowd noise I cup my hands over my mouth and shout, “‘Mercy, Mercy’,” to Buster. How can I go wrong with Cannonball Adderly? Buster nods and passes the word to the drummer. I start with Joe Zawinul’s intro. Buster joins in, and the drummer picks it up till we’re all in synch.

  I glance up at Andie, who is shaking her head no. Nicky has backed off to the side listening, fiddling with his horn. This would be the perfect time for someone to grab him, but I don’t see anyone or anything out of the ordinary.

  I play two more choruses with the cameraman kneeling to the side, pointing the lens up into my face. Out of the corner of my eye I see the blond girl, her eyes on me, crouching behind him, letting out cable as she duck walks around the keyboard. She seems to be paying more attention to me than to the cameraman.

  Nicky jumps in and does his Cannonball impression for two more choruses, then suddenly, from offstage, we hear another horn. It’s coming from behind me, loud but off-key. I glance across at Andie and Coop. Both are leaning forward, pointing. I look over my shoulder. Greg Sims is walking on from the wings, blowing his tenor. He sidesteps the girl holding the television cable. She slips, falls backward, and stares after him.

  Nicky hears Greg’s horn too and looks behind him. His eyes get big as he spots Greg, who now stands next to him, blowing hard, desperately trying to negotiate the changes but not making it. Nicky shoulders him aside and takes it out. The crowd applauds, but they’re as confused as we are. Rollins and three security guards are already onstage, escorting Greg off past me.