by Bill Moody
Buster looks at me. “Who was that?”
Nicky recovers and makes another announcement. “Well, that’s jazz. Never know who’s going to drop in. Now I know why I love Las Vegas so much,” he says, “but hey, we gotta take a little break. Just kick back, have a brew, and we’ll be back shortly.”
The crowd cheers again as the emcee runs onstage to remind them who they’ve been listening to and starts a pitch about CD giveaways.
As I stand up from the piano, Golden unplugs and runs over to me. “Man, that was so fucking cool, what you did on the opener. How did you think of that, man?” His eyes are glazed, and the long blond hair is falling over his face.
“Just lucky, I guess.” I brush past him and head for Andie. Nicky gets there at the same time and he’s livid.
“Who was that? Horne, if you had anything to do with that—”
“Shut up, Nicky.” Andie’s on the two-way radio. “Okay, okay,” she says into the radio. “Well, we know where Greg is.”
“Who the hell is Greg?” Nicky shouts. “Goddammit, somebody talk to me.”
Coop steps forward and pulls Nicky away. He jerks out of Coop’s one-handed grasp and walks off.
Again something nags at me, but I can’t place it. I look back at the stage. The television cameraman has set down his gear. He’s talking to one of the sound techs, but his assistant is gone.
Andie sees me staring at the cameraman. “What?” she says.
“The blond girl, with the cameraman.” I push aside some sound techs and get to the cameraman. “Where’s your cable girl?”
He looks around. “I don’t know, she was here a minute ago. She’s a sub, and—”
I start running backstage, toward the motor home, knowing I’m going to be too late. The door is shut but not locked. I listen for a moment, then open it slowly.
She has Nicky in a chair, her arm around his neck, a glittering blade held to his throat. Her eyes burn into mine. “Get out of here, Evan,” she says.
“Gillian, don’t do this.” I close the door behind me and try to push the lock button.
Greg stands to the side, staring at Gillian. His saxophone lies on the countertop. Nicky Drew, his eyes squeezed almost shut, his body stiff, grimaces in terror. He tries to say something. Gillian tightens her grip, touches the blade against his throat. A thin trickle of blood oozes out.
“We’re going out, Evan, Greg and me.”
“No, Gilly, you can’t do this,” Greg says. “Let him go.”
“Shut up, Greg, just do as I say.”
Greg takes another step forward. “No, Gilly, I’m not doing that anymore.”
“Greg, don’t move,” I say. Nicky’s eyes search out mine in panic. Greg hesitates, looks at me, then back to his sister. “Gillian, I can get you out of here, just let Nicky go.”
Behind me, someone is pounding on the door. Gillian’s eyes glance toward it, but her grip on Nicky tightens. One slip of that blade, and Nicky Drew joins Ty Rodman and Cochise.
“Call them off, Evan,” Gillian says. “You’re going to get us both out of here. Greg, you come with me now, or I’ll cut his throat right in front of you.”
“She’ll do it, Greg. You better do as she says.”
Greg stops, glances at me. He doesn’t know what to do. He looks at his saxophone, then back to Gillian.
The pounding on the door stops, but someone is shouting. “Evan, we’re coming in.” It sounds like Wendell Cook, but I know Andie, Coop, and probably Ted Rollins and half the FBI are all out there.
“Wait!” I shout at the door. “Let Nicky go, Gillian. That’s the only way they’re going to let you out.”
Gillian looks at Greg. “You’re going with me. It’s not too late for you. You heard the crowd out there. They loved you. It’ll take some time, but you’ll get it back.”
“No, Gilly, there’s nothing to get back. Listen.” Greg grabs his horn and starts to play. Long, painful notes seep out of the horn. He points the bell of the horn at Gillian and moves closer until he hovers over Nicky’s trembling body.
Gillian stares at him, mesmerized by the sound as he struggles to make something come out. The horn is so close it’s almost touching Nicky. Then everything happens at once.
As the door bursts open, Greg hinges toward Gillian and shoves the tenor into her face. She puts her hand up to ward him off, just enough for Nicky to squirm free. He slides under Greg to the floor and crawls away, his hand going to his throat.
Somebody pushes me aside. As I go down, I see Greg reach Gillian. There’s a flash of the blade. Gillian trips, falls toward Greg, and catches him in the neck. A stream of blood spurts out over her as she screams.
Greg collapses to the floor as if the air has been let out of his body, his feet cut from under him. Gillian stares for a second as Ted Rollins and three agents slam into her. They throw her to the floor on her stomach, yank her arms behind her, and have her cuffed in seconds. Rollins kneels on her, his knee in her back, holding her by the hair as she screams.
“Somebody help him! Help him!”
I get up to my feet and watch three agents kneel over Greg. One grabs a towel and presses it like a compress to his throat, but it quickly soaks through, bright red. Another agent radios for paramedics. They arrive shortly and take over, but he’s losing a lot of blood.
Rollins and the other agents pick up Gillian and carry her out past me. She’s still screaming and trying to get a look at Greg as he’s loaded onto a stretcher.
“I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to,” she sobs.
Rollins glances at me. “Well, we did it, Horne. We got our loony tune.”
“How did Greg get in here?”
Rollins shrugs. “Security thought he’d be safe in the trailer.”
I sit down in a chair and stare at the puddles of Greg Sims’s blood on the floor. Nicky Drew crawls out from under the counter and wobbles past me without looking, his hand still to his throat. For once he has nothing to say.
Then I’m alone with Andie. I look up at her, hardly seeing anything. She touches my shoulder.
“It’s over, Evan.”
But of course it’s not over. When I finally come out, there’s a crowd backstage. Nicky, still shaken, a light bandage over his throat, is talking to a TV reporter. I duck around them and take the back steps down onto the grass behind the stage, where Coop and Andie are talking.
The ambulance is pulling away, its lights flashing. “How is he?”
Coop and Andie turn toward me. “Not good,” Coop says. “She hit an artery.”
I sit down on the steps and light a cigarette, feel myself let go.
“What was going on in there?” Coop asks. “We heard the saxophone.”
I nod. “Greg did it. She finally snapped, kept talking about how he could still play. He picked up his horn and started playing, then rushed her. Nicky got away, and she fell into Greg, and—”
“So Nicky Drew owes his life to Greg,” Coop says.
“And you,” Andie adds. “How did you know it was her?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t register at the time, but when Greg came on stage, I remember how shocked she looked.”
“We got a call,” Andie says. “Metro found the real cable girl tied up in her car in a parking lot.”
We walk around to the front and stand by the edge of the stage. Before TV lights, Nicky steps up to the microphone and asks for quiet. There won’t be any more concert, and the crowd still doesn’t know what’s happened.
“I’m sorry, everybody. We had something really bad happen here tonight, and we’re not going to be able to do the second half.” The crowd boos and yells as Nicky holds up his hand for quiet again. “Hey, I know, I know, you’re disappointed, but when you see the news tonight, you’ll understand why. Tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to see to it that you get a refund out of my pocket, and Moontrane will be back for another concert as soon as we can book it. Okay, Las Vegas? Thanks for coming.”
&
nbsp; The audience cheers as Nicky waves and walks off.
“What a guy,” I say.
Nicky hops off the stage and comes over. “I guess you were right, Evan. Thanks, man, thanks.”
“Greg Sims is the one you want to thank.”
“I know. Is he going to make it?” Nicky looks at Coop and Andie.
“Too early to tell,” Andie says.
“Well, his hospital tab is on me, that’s a promise.” He turns back to me. “Evan, anytime you want to gig with me, you got it, okay?”
“Sure, Nicky, good luck.”
We walk to Andie’s car for the drive back to the hotel. Lost in my thoughts, I watch the Strip lights go by. I should call Ace, Cal, but right now I don’t want to talk to anybody.
“What happens to Gillian now?”
Andie turns in the seat. “We’ll be taking her back to L.A. She’ll be charged with the four murders and the attempt on her brother, assault on Nicky Drew. There’s plenty.”
“Unless she gets a good lawyer and pleads insanity,” Coop says.
“I don’t even want to read about it. I just want to go home.”
CODA
The voice in my headphones says, “‘Haiku Blues’, take one.” Jeff and Gene look to me for the silent count—in, but there are two false starts—Gene and I coming in a beat too soon—before we’re on track for the last tune of the day. After that, we’re like three speed skaters leaning into the curves. I can imagine what it was like for Bill Evans and his trios. We haven’t done more than two takes on any of the tunes, and this one is no different.
Jeff is nodding and smiling as I flip off the headphones and stand up at the piano. Through the glass I can see the engineer in the control room saying something to Cal and Paul Westbrook. Both are nodding their approval. The engineer leans forward and flips on the intercom microphone.
“Great, Evan. If you like it, we do.”
I don’t know if it’s the atmosphere of the recording session, or the expectant looks of Jeff, Gene, and Paul Westbrook when I arrived. Maybe it was the sight of Milton, wagging his tail, letting me know Cal had come after all. I suspect, though, the euphoria I’m feeling is not from the music alone. I’ve survived Gillian and seen her brought to jail.
While we listen to the playback of the other tunes, I tell Cal what I’m planning to do. “Best idea I’ve heard in a long time,” he says. He glances toward the studio monitor. “I won’t be here tomorrow. You don’t need me, Evan. You’re playing good.” He snaps on Milton’s leash and walks toward the exit. “Send me a postcard,” he calls over his shoulder.
I spent Sunday and Monday walking on the beach, coming closer and closer to deciding what I want to do next, ignoring phone messages, just clearing my mind. I’m sure the papers were full of the story of Gillian’s capture, but I didn’t look at even one or turn on the TV.
It took me until today, as I was driving to the studio, to finally come to a decision. Maybe I’d been waiting to see how the recording was going to go.
In a couple of days, I pack up my books, CDs, and some other things and take the boxes to Coop’s for storage. The furniture I donate. I’ll leave my car with Coop as well.
Natalie and I meet once, and it’s only slightly uncomfortable. She’s read all the stories and now knows everything.
“I guess I let you down, didn’t I?” she says. It’s not really a question. She knows, but it may already be too late. We talk, and she halfway agrees with my decision. At the moment, things just aren’t the same with us. Maybe they’ll never be again, but I’ll have a lot of time to think about that.
Two days before I’m scheduled to leave, I hear from Andie Lawrence, the first time since Las Vegas. “It was close, but Greg Sims is going to make it. I thought you’d want to know,” she says.
“Thanks, that’s good news.”
“We flew Robert in from San Francisco, and we’ll help them relocate once Greg’s fully recovered.”
“And?” I know there’s more, I can feel it.
“Gillian. She wants to see you,” Andie says.
I hold the phone tightly. “What do you mean?”
“Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, Evan, but—”
“No way.”
“The knife matches the entry wounds, and she’s going to give a full statement, but she insists on seeing you first.” There’s a long pause, then, “It’ll help our case if we have her full cooperation.”
I think for a moment. Maybe I want to see her too. “It’ll have to be before Saturday. That’s when I leave.”
“Where are you going?”
“Little vacation.”
“All right, I’ll make the arrangements.”
Coop picks me up. On the drive down to the jail, he says, “You know you don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do, Coop. I want this really over.”
“I know,” Coop says. “Just thought I’d throw that in.”
Andie is waiting inside. They take me to the visitor area. Four guards ring Gillian as she’s brought out in the jail coveralls. I sit down opposite her and stare through the glass. We both pick up the phone intercoms.
She glances once over her shoulder, then speaks into the phone. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry, Evan. I did what I did, but I’m not sorry, except for Greg.”
After all those phone calls, the face that went with that voice now stares at me. Her voice changes again, takes on the quality it had on those calls. This is how she must have looked when she talked to me.
“What do you want, Gillian?”
“I just wanted to see you once, under different conditions, thank you for finding Greg, see that you understand.”
“I’ll never understand what you did, Gillian. I don’t think you do either.”
“No, I guess you don’t. But think about it, Evan—are you so different from me?”
“I’m going, Gillian.” I put down the phone, but she motions me to pick it up again.
“What?”
She starts to speak, then stops. “Nothing,” she says. Her smile is chilling as she puts down the phone. Accompanied by the guards, she gets up and walks out of my life for the last time.
Coop drives me to LAX. I get my bags out of the car and check them at the curb for the New York flight. We shake hands. “You have a direct connection to London?”
“No, might stop over for a couple of days, just kind of lose myself.”
Coop nods. “Well, don’t let me see you around here for a while.”
“You won’t. See you, Coop.”
I make my way to the United gate and check in at the desk. No delays, but there’s time to kill. I find a coffee cart in the corner and wait in line.
“Let me get that.”
I turn and see Andie standing beside me. We get the coffee, sit down, and wait for my flight to be called.
She sips her coffee and stares straight ahead. “You know how much I’d like to get on this flight with you?”
“I know. It probably wouldn’t work out though, would it?”
“Maybe not now,” she says, “but I’d like to think it could have.”
“I know.” I see the disappointment in her face, hear the regret in her voice for what might have been.
“What are you going to do in Europe?”
“Play some music, I hope. They like jazz over there. Then see.”
We both look toward the gate as the flight is announced. “Well, that’s me.”
We stand up. Andie hugs me, kisses me briefly. “Goodbye, Evan.”
“Bye, Andie.”
“Oh, wait.” She reaches in her purse, takes out an envelope. “You can read it on the plane.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
I find my seat, stow my carry-on bag in the overhead compartment, and settle in the window seat, anxious to put L.A. behind me. I take out the envelope and open it.
Dear Evan,
You do have a lot of time to think. I hope some of
your thoughts will be of me. One last thing from Gillian. She asked me to give it to you. Safe journey.
Love,
Andie
Another piece of paper, three lines on it
Dizzy Atmosphere
Miles Smiles in a Silent Way
Bird Lives!
I look up and glance across at the flight attendant when she stops.
“Sir, could you fasten your—”
She’s a mane of blond hair, a ready smile, and blue eyes that meet mine. “Evan?”
“Cindy?”
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks once again to Captain Tom Mapes, retired, of the Santa Monica Police Department for advice and procedural insights; Michael Seidman and George Gibson for continuing to allow me to write about jazz; and Philip Spitzer for being a friend as well as a great agent.
And of course, the music of Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, Charles Mingus, Tadd Dameron, Art Blakey, Bill Evans and Keith Jarrett. It will always be here.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jazz drummer and author Bill Moody has toured and recorded with Maynard Ferguson, Jon Hendricks, and Lou Rawls. He lives in northern California where he hosts a weekly jazz radio show, and continues to perform around the Bay Area. He is the author of seven novels featuring jazz pianist-amateur sleuth Evan Horne and two spy novels. Additionally, Bill has also published a dozen short stories in various collections.
BillMoodyJazz.com
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OTHER BOOKS BY BILL MOODY
Evan Horne Mystery Series
Solo Hand
The Death of a Tenor Man
The Sound of the Trumpet
Bird Lives!
Looking for Chet Baker
Shades of Blue
Fade to Blue
Other Works
Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz
