Fade to Blue

by Bill Moody

  She glanced at me, recognized my look as she pulled on panty hose. “Hold that thought,” she said. “I’ll be down late this afternoon.”

  “That won’t be hard to do. No pun intended.”

  “I hope not.” She finished with a dark skirt, white blouse, and casual dark blue jacket. She stuffed all those things women stuff in their purses and added one most don’t: her gun. “Okay, jazzman, I’m outta here. Just little paperwork to catch up.”

  “I know.” We both had avoided any mention of Gillian Payne, but I knew she was mainly going in for an update on Payne’s escape and the search for her.

  Now, as I sit on the deck with my second beer, I try to avoid it too. But it’s there, lurking in the back of my mind, the memories struggling to come to the surface. How could she have escaped without help? A twenty-five-to-life sentence and here she is out there somewhere, hopefully more concerned with her freedom than looking for me.

  In the morning, I straighten up a little, have breakfast at a diner in Guerneville, and stop by the vet’s to pick up Milton, the basset hound I’d inherited from my old friend Calvin Hughes, who I’d discovered was my birth father only a couple of years ago, a fact I still find hard to believe at times.

  “He’s missed you,” the assistant says, as she brings him out. Milton lumbers over to me, inspects me with his big dark eyes, and thumps his tail on the floor. I thank the vet and take him out to the car. He sits on the passenger seat next to me, and before I pull away, he gives me a look.

  “Okay, pal.” I lower the window halfway and he sticks his head out for the drive home. I fill his dishes with fresh food and water and check my messages. Only one from a number and name I don’t recognize. When I call back, a man’s voice says, “Studios.”

  “Hi, it’s Evan Horne. I just got your message.”

  “I’m Steve Wolf,” the voice says. “Thanks for getting back to me. I have a small studio in Santa Rosa. I know it’s short notice, but thought I’d give you a try.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m doing some recording tonight. Nothing big, just some demo tracks, but my pianist canceled on me. Pays two bills, shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours if you’re interested.”

  I think for a moment. Why not? It’ll be good to get back in the swing, do some real playing after tutoring a movie star. “Okay, you’re on. How do I get there?” I copy down the rather strange directions. “What time?”

  “About nine,” Wolf says. “Bass player can’t get here before then.”

  “No problem. See you then.”

  I spend the day doing nothing other than taking Milton for a long walk along the river, and checking for mail at the Monte Rio post office. Nothing but bills and junk. I take a nap on the deck, awakened only by Andie calling and telling me she can’t get away after all.

  “I’m playing catch up here,” she says.

  “Just as well.” I tell her about the recording gig. “Tomorrow?”

  “I think so,” she says. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Anything new on—” she cuts me off.

  “No, nothing.”

  I grab a sandwich and coffee at a deli in Guerneville, and head east on River Road, then south on 101. I take the Todd Road exit in Santa Rosa and continue west. Following the directions, one street past the stop sign, I turn right and go slow past a school, looking for a driveway. It’s so dark, I almost miss it, but turn in sharply and stop. My headlights illuminate a tall dark fence maybe ten feet high with a solid wood sliding gate. Nailed to the gate are at least a dozen CDs, and a small sign proclaiming Wolf Lair Records. I’m a long way from the plush Avatar Studios in New York where I’d last recorded with Roy Haynes and Ron Carter.

  I get out of the car and slide the gate back. There’s a small yard with two cars parked near what looks like a barn. A single light burns over the door. I get back in my car, drive in, park off to the side, and as instructed, close the gate. There’s another sliding door on the barn that sticks a little as I pull it open.

  Inside, in dim light, among cables and power cords strewn on the floor, are a couple of instrument cases, a partial set of drums and stacks of electronic equipment. Along one wall is a low table and what looks like blank discs fanned out over the surface. Farther down to the right, I see a grand piano, mixing board and more equipment, more wires and cables in no particular order. A computer is perched on a large table.

  “Hello. Anybody here?”

  “Hey, you’re early.” I turn and see a thin wiry man in thick glasses with black rims walking in from a back room. He has a Styrofoam container of soup in his hand. He stops and spoons some to his mouth with a plastic spoon. “Welcome to Wolf Lair,” he says.

  He puts the soup down on a scarred Hammond Organ, wipes his hands on his jeans and steps closer, offering me his hand. “Steve Wolf.”

  “Evan Horne.” We shake hands and he picks up the soup container again and looks at me. “Want some soup?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I got some coffee going in the back.”

  “That I could go for.”

  He turns and walks to the back. I follow him to a tiny kitchenette with a microwave on the counter next to a small coffee machine with a full pot. Wolf puts down his soup, rummages in a small cupboard for a mug, and pours some coffee. He pushes a half-full bowl of sugar toward me, and digs a pint of half-and-half out of a mini fridge. “Help yourself.”

  I add cream and sugar and take a sip and lean on the counter. Just beyond the kitchen, I can see a small room and a twin-sized bed piled with clothes.

  “Sorry for the mess,” Wolf says, following my gaze. “I’ve been editing all day. I do a lot of crap stuff to pay the bills. Wannabe singers, demos, that kind of thing. You have any trouble finding the place?”

  “No, your directions were fine.”

  “Good. The other guys will be here soon. Why don’t you try the piano. I just had it tuned recently, so it should be okay.”

  I nod and walk back into the studio area, taking my coffee with me, and sit down at the piano. The action is a little stiff, but it is in tune. Wolf comes in and starts setting up microphones, running cables, and turning on the computer. He’s all business, working fast, and seems totally at home. He looks up at me only when I take my cigarettes out.

  “Have to do that outside,” he says.

  “No problem.” I open the sliding door and step out into the yard just as the outside gate opens and a pickup truck with a camper shell pulls into the yard and parks. A tall slender man gets out, opens the back and drags out a bass in a padded cover. He walks over to me, leaning the bass on his shoulder.

  “Hey, Bobby Warren.” He sticks out his hand and we shake briefly. “You must be Evan Horne.”

  I nod and watch him fish cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and light up to join me. “Yeah, I caught you at Yoshi’s a few weeks ago.” He bobs his head. “Awesome, man. I’m looking forward to this. You haven’t been here before, right?”

  “No, first time.”

  Warren smiles. “It’s a little weird but Steve gets a good sound. This will be low-key. I think he just wants to lay down some tracks for a future project.”

  We turn as the studio door slides open and Wolf peers out. “You guys come on in,” Wolf says. “I want to get level checks before the drummer gets here. How you doin’, Bobby?”

  “I’m cool,” Warren says.

  We go inside. While Warren unpacks his bass, I sit down at the piano again and run through some chords and one-hand runs to warm up. Warren plugs into an amp that has suddenly appeared as Wolf adjusts a microphone then sets down at the mixing board and begins to adjust the slide controls.

  “Give me something, Bobby,” he says. Warren plucks the strings then begins a walking line for a minute or so. “Okay, sounds good. Evan, play something.”

  I play a minor blues line and go for a couple of choruses till Wolf stops me. “Got it,” he says. “L
et’s try something.” Wolf flips open a case near him and pulls out a tenor saxophone. He adjusts the mouthpiece, blows a few notes, and smiles. “Close enough for jazz, huh?” He gazes up at the ceiling for a moment, the overhead lights catching his glasses. “‘Just Friends?’” Warren and I both nod. Wolf counts us in at a good clip.

  And just like that I’m back doing what I do best, what I love best, laying down the chords for Wolf, taking in Warren’s bass line, which is surprisingly solid. Wolf’s sound is kind of rough, a bit like Sonny Rollins. He runs through the changes effortlessly for three choruses, his body rocking, displaying ample technique, but I get the feeling he’s holding back. He turns then and nods to me.

  During my solo, Wolf makes some adjustments on the mixing board, then listens to Bobby Warren, squinting, bent over the bass as he takes two choruses. Wolf listens, head down, then glances at me, twirls his index finger in the air as a signal to take it out. We close just kind of fading at the end on a long tag, letting the notes and chords just disappear in the air.

  “Wow, man, those changes,” Bobby Warren says. “You gotta write them out for me.” He lays his bass down and comes over to the piano. As I show him, Wolf taps some keys on the computer and we get a playback. All digital now, no tape, and Warren was right. The sound is good even unmixed.

  We start to talk about some other tunes when the sliding door opens and a young girl in tattered jeans, a sweatshirt, and long blond hair walks in. Wolf walks over to her and they talk by the open door.

  “No drums tonight,” Warren says quietly to me. “That’s his girlfriend.”

  Wolf comes back. “Guess we’re without drums.”

  “Your call,” I say. Warren nods in agreement.

  We talk over several tunes, decide on keys, chord changes, and head arrangements. For the next two hours we get five more tunes done. Wolf plays, works the board and the computer. A little after eleven, he plays everything back. “Okay, guys, that should do it. Thanks for hanging in.”

  Warren packs up his bass and Wolf walks us to the door. “We can do some more of this if you feel like it. I’ll give you a call,” he says to me. He slides the door shut, leaving Bobby Warren and me in the yard. We exchange numbers and I follow his truck out. I close the yard gate, glancing again at the CDs nailed to it. I head back for 101 and think about what an unusual session it’s been.

  When I turn in the driveway, I’m surprised to see Andie’s car. I go inside and find her asleep on the couch, a blanket over her, the television on low, playing an old black-and-white film. It’s Fred McMurray and Barbara Stanwyck verbally sparring in Double Indemnity.

  Andie stirs a little as I gently lift her legs and sit down on the end of the couch, her feet across my lap. I reach under the blanket and lightly stroke her calf, then move up higher and feel her bare thigh. Her eyes flutter open and she looks at me.

  “That’s a nice way to wake up,” she says. “I’ll give you twenty minutes to stop that.”

  “I thought you weren’t coming down tonight.”

  “I changed my mind.” She sits up a little and stretches. “How was the session?”

  “Weird. I’ve been to the Wolf’s lair. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.” I slide my hand up higher on her thigh and watch her eyes half close.

  “You’re not going to stop are you?”

  “No. I’ve still got fifteen minutes.”

  In the morning, we drive up a twisty back road to Occidental for breakfast at Howard’s Landing. Over coffee, I tell Andie about the Wolflair recording session.

  She listens, nodding, devouring an omelet and hash browns. “You musicians are a strange lot. What was the deal with nailing CDs on the outside gate?”

  “Who knows. I’ll ask Wolf if I go back again. Maybe they were recordings that went bad or music he doesn’t like. I didn’t check the titles.”

  “Would you go back?” Andie wants to know.

  “Sure. The surprising part was he got a good sound, and not only played, he set up the microphones and ran the board all at the same time. You never know where it’s going to happen. Don’t forget, Margo Highland and Chet Baker recorded in her basement a mile from my place during a rainstorm. There was water on the floor. They could all have been electrocuted.”

  “Hot jazz.” Andie grins. “Come on, let’s pick up your mail.”

  We drive back to the Monte Rio post office, and along with a couple of bills is a flat express envelope. The clerk hands it to me and I go back out to the car. “Too thin for a script,” I tell Andie. “Probably the contract.”

  “Let’s see, let’s see,” she says, trying to grab it out of my hand.

  I pull it back from her grasp. “You know it’s a federal offense to tamper with somebody’s mail.”

  “No problem. I’m a federal agent.”

  We get back to the house. I sit at the dining table and rip the envelope open. The contract is fifteen pages, full of standard legalese and some paragraphs are highlighted in yellow. One is a confidentially clause, binding me to this as yet, unnamed film.

  “Ah,” Andie says, looking over my shoulder. “You can’t kiss and tell.”

  “Funny.” I push the contract aside and light a cigarette.

  Another is the fee. One-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars, to be made in three payments. One at signing, one at completion of the score, the third when the film is released. There are three places marked with post-it arrows where I’m to sign and a note from Grant Robbins, reminding me to return it immediately.

  “What’s the matter?” Andie sits down opposite me.

  “I don’t know. I just would have liked to see the script first.”

  Andie taps her fingers on the contract. “Does it really matter? This looks pretty legit to me. I don’t think you can complain about the money either. They’re going to make this movie whether you like the script or not.”

  I know she’s right, and I’ve never heard of a composer having any say about the script. But something nags at me I can’t quite explain.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I don’t want to score a movie I don’t like.”

  Andie takes my hand. “Look, this is your first time out. You still get screen credit and it could lead to other things, take you a new direction. You want that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, yes I do.”

  Maybe I didn’t know how much until now. I think about all the years I’d spent scuffling for gigs, the rare recordings, the accident that set me back and sent me into rehab, all the missed opportunities. How many more would I have? I was getting a bit old to be discovered. Maybe this was it, a way out of the maze of the struggling musician. It didn’t mean I had to give up playing. I’d never do that.

  I blink as Andie waves her hand in front of my face. “Earth to Evan. Sign it. Let’s celebrate. You’re going to be a film composer.”

  By almost return mail, I get a check from Grant Robbins for the initial payment, and a note of thanks, promising me I’d done the right thing. We’re busy with casting and preproduction, his note said. The screenplay, however, isn’t as fast in arriving.

  I’d kept the check around for a week or so, just glancing at it occasionally, a reminder that this was the first time I’d been paid for simply signing some papers. Finally, succumbing to Andie’s prompts to put it in the bank, I gave in, smiling as I noted the look on the teller’s face as she took in the Ryan Stiles Productions, Inc. logo on the check. She hardly blinked at the amount.

  I’d spent my days practicing, doing the occasional gig with new contacts I was making, and taking long walks along the river; my nights, with Andie, whenever she could get away from the Bureau. I’d even begun to play around with writing, thinking whatever character Ryan Stiles played he would need a signature theme.

  The one dark spot was still there. Still not a word on the capture of Gillian Payne. Not even a lead. According to Andie, she’d simply gone underground.

 
; “Don’t worry,” Andie told me repeatedly. “We’ll get her.”

  ***

  On the second Saturday after receiving the check, I get an unexpected call. “Evan? It’s Bonnie Stiles, Ryan’s mother.”

  I try to keep the surprise out of my voice as I answer. “Hi, Bonnie. What can I do for you?”

  “Believe it or not, I’m in San Francisco, visiting an old friend. I wondered if you might be free.”

  My impression of Bonnie and Tom Stiles was not one of them taking separate trips. “Well, yeah I guess. Something on your mind?”

  “Yes,” she says, sounding a little tentative. There’s a slight pause. “I’d rather not talk about it on the phone. I hoped maybe we could meet, get together.”

  “When?”

  “Today, if possible. I’m going back home this evening. I know I should have called earlier. If you’re busy, it’s okay.” She tells me her friend is in North Beach.

  “No, that’s fine. There’s a coffee place near you called Cafe Greco. It’s on Columbus Avenue, near City Lights Bookstore.”

  “Oh, I know City Lights,” she says, almost relieved. “One o’clock?”

  “Sounds good.” We both pause for a moment. “Bonnie, can you tell me what this is about?”

  “It’s about Ryan.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Even a little before noon, The Golden Gate Bridge is crawling with traffic heading into the city. The temperature has already dropped fifteen degrees, and the looking across the bay, I can see the city through hazy white clouds, the water dotted with sailboats. I finally make it to the tollbooths, then merge with the traffic heading toward downtown. I take Bay Street, then turn toward North Beach at Columbus, noticing the huge Tower Records store is now vacant and deserted. Yet another ominous sign of the music scene.

  I circle around the jammed North Beach streets a few times before finally finding a parking space I can squeeze the VW into, lock the car, and walk down to City Lights Bookstore. I spend a half hour browsing, getting reacquainted with the store, and pick up a paperback copy of Elmore Leonard’s Be Cool. I pay for the book and walk back up Columbus. I find a free table in front of Cafe Greco and sit down to wait for Bonnie Stiles with a few minutes to spare, still puzzling over her call.