Fade to Blue

by Bill Moody

  My first order of business is to find a home for Milton. I’d thought about it a lot. He was Cal’s dog. I’d grown attached to him, but he was never really my dog, and I was going to be gone even more now the movie was underway. But when I stop by the kennel to broach the subject with the vet, Carrie, it’s easier than I expected.

  “I was almost hoping you’d say that, “ Carrie says. “I’ll take him.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I’ve gotten kind of attached to him myself, and you can visit him anytime you want.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Milton is no trouble at all. He’s just a sweetheart.” She reaches down and pats his head.

  I shrug and hand over the leash to Carrie, kneel down, and look into Millton’s big sad eyes. “Okay, pal, you’re in good hands. Thanks, Carrie.”

  When I get back to the house, Andie is already there, puttering around the kitchen. She’s in her big white terry cloth robe, fresh from the shower. “You’re not cooking are you?”

  “Hey, I can make a salad and heat things up with the best of them.” She opens the oven door and looks inside. “I got one of those bake-at-home pizzas. About ten more minutes.”

  “Sounds good.” I sit down at the table and watch her toss the salad.

  She stops for a moment and looks around. “Where’s the puppy?”

  I tell her about leaving Milton with the vet.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m going miss him, too.” She brings the salad and two beers to the table. She stands in front of me, her hands on her hips. “So, did you talk to the Hollywood brain trust?”

  “I did, but first tell me about Gillian.”

  “Hang on.” She goes back to the stove, retrieves the pizza, and brings it to the table. I cut it up into slices and we dig in. “Not bad, eh?”

  We both finish our first slice and lean back for a moment. “Okay,” Andie begins. “Gillian is back in maximum security and isolation, where she will stay. No privileges, no special favors, nothing, and that’s how it’s going to stay. We’ve heard the last of her.”

  “Good to know,” I say, feeling the relief surge through my body. “What about Wendell Cook?”

  Andie grabs another slice. “He’s happy. He’d like to give you some credit for her capture publicly, but I told him you probably don’t want it.”

  “I don’t. In fact, after this conversation, I don’t want to talk about Gillian again.”

  Andie nods. “Wendell knows that, but he’ll probably give you a call.”

  “What about her brother?”

  “Nothing. We figure he’s been through enough with a sister like Gillian.”

  “Good. He deserves some peace.”

  Andie finishes her second slice and takes a long pull of beer. “Now, let’s hear about Hollywood.”

  I bring her up to date about my conversation with Grant Robbins. “They want me to see the new script, and shooting starts very soon. I’ll have to go back to L.A., probably next week.”

  Andie studies me for a moment. “You okay with this?”

  “I’ll know better when I meet with them, but yes, I’m okay. Kind of anxious to get working on it.”

  “Just remember what I said about Ryan. I’m still looking into that.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  “There’s one other thing.”

  I look up at her. “What?”

  “I don’t know what the arrangements will be while the movie is shooting. I’ll visit the set if I’m invited, I’ll visit with you, but I won’t stay at Ryan’s house again.”

  I nod. “I didn’t think you would. I’m not sure I want to, either.”

  When I arrive at LAX, I scan a group of waiting drivers in dark suits holding name placards, expecting to see one for me. Instead, I see Coop, dressed in jeans and a jacket holding a card with my name on it.

  “What’s this?” I say, grinning at him.

  “Just trying to blend in.”

  “Your limo is outside?”

  “No, but my car is parked at the curb on police business.”

  “Works for me.”

  Outside, Coop leads me to a late-model silver Audi. He grins and shrugs when I look at him. “One of the perks for my position as security consultant. Mr. Robbins is a generous man. I thought a BMW or Mercedes would be too pretentious.”

  “Wouldn’t want that would we?” We throw my bags in the trunk, leave the airport, and head into Santa Monica. “Where are we going first?”

  “You have a reservation at the Marriott. Soon as you’re checked in, they want you at a meeting.”

  “You taking me there, too?”

  “No, they’re sending a car for you.” Coop looks over and grins. “You’re getting star treatment, pal.”

  I wonder why they’re laying it on so thick. When I start to ask Coop, he reaches behind him on the back seat and plops a magazine on my lap. “Guess you haven’t seen this.”

  It’s a copy of People and smiling on the cover is Ryan Stiles. Inside is a story and more pictures of Ryan. I scan over the article. It’s about Ryan’s movie that includes a few sentences about Darryl McElroy’s death and Ryan’s brief involvement.

  When I turn to the next page, I see a photo of myself. It’s from a CD cover taken a few years ago, and a second photo of Ryan and me at a piano in Ryan’s living room in Malibu. The caption reads: Ryan and jazz pianist Evan Horne. I don’t remember anybody taking it, unless it was Melanie.

  “That might get you some gigs,” Coop says. “Hey, maybe you can autograph it for me.”

  When we pull up to the entrance of the hotel, a bellman takes my bags inside. “Let’s catch up later,” I tell Coop. “Maybe have some dinner.”

  “You got it. Give me a call.”

  At the front desk, I get checked in with more than the usual greetings from the manager. “Mr. Stiles’ company made your reservation. Anything we can do during your stay, Mr. Horne, just let us know.” He hands me a key card and a message slip. I’m to be picked up in thirty minutes.

  The room is a seventh-floor mini-suite on the ocean side of the hotel. I open the drapes and look down on Santa Monica Bay and the path along Ocean Avenue, usually busy with joggers and people walking their dogs. The mini bar is well stocked, and there’s a carton of my brand of cigarettes on a side table. They seem to have thought of everything.

  I hang up a few things, grab a bottle of water, and go back down to the lobby to wait for my ride. While there, I call and leave a message for Andie, telling her where I am. Outside, I have a smoke and take in the breeze from off the Bay. Just as I finish, a Lincoln Town car arrives. The driver, a young blond guy in a dark suit and tie, waves off a bellman and walks over.

  “Mr. Horne?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Jerry. If you’re ready.” He opens the door for me and I get into the backseat.

  “I’m Evan. So what do you do, Jerry? Besides drive, I mean.”

  He smiles at me in the mirror. “Like everyone else in L.A., this is temporary. I’m an actor. You?”

  “Musician. I’m here to score a film.”

  “No shit. Oh, wait a minute. For Ryan Stiles’ new pic, right?”

  “Right, but don’t tell anyone, Jerry.”

  “Too late for that,” he says. “It’s been on TV.”

  At the studio in Culver City, Jerry stops at a security gate while a guard checks my name off a list he has on a clipboard. He waves Jerry through and we stop at the Sidney Poitier building.

  “Here you go.”

  I get out. “Is this where I tip you?”

  Jerry smiles. “All taken care of, but you can put in a word for me with Mr. Stiles if you want.”

  “I’ll try but I don’t think it would carry much weight.”

  “You never know.” He waves and drives off.

  I go inside and give my name at the desk to a gorgeous dark-haired girl who directs me to meetin
g room twelve with a big smile.

  Ryan, Grant Robbins, and two other men are seated at a conference table. They all stand when I walk in. Ryan comes over and gives me a hug. “Welcome back, dude.”

  “How you doing, Ryan?”

  “Much better now,” he says, clapping me on the back.

  Robbins shakes hands. “Really good to see you,” he says. Dennis Mills and Sandy Simmons are already seated. I shake hands with both of them.

  “Looking forward to working with you,” Simmons says. He has dark curly hair and a beard and a slender lean body that makes me think he’s a runner. Clark is shorter, more compact. Both are dressed casually in jeans and sport shirts.

  We all sit down then and Grant Robbins looks around. “Well, gentlemen, let’s begin.”

  We all open our copies of the screenplay. I’d read it through quickly on the flight to L.A. after Robbins had overnighted a copy to me. It was greatly changed. There was no specific mention of my previous adventures, but they had kind of used parts from all of them, and made up the rest. It wasn’t enough for me to really mount a major protest.

  In fact, I found myself detached now. Maybe it was being pushed back into things when Gillian resurfaced. Words on paper didn’t come close to reliving the experience until her recapture, and Robbins’ words did even more to make me feel removed.

  “We’re going to rely on you to help with the music scenes, Evan. We want those absolutely as authentic as possible.” He glances at both Simmons and Mills. They both nod their agreement. “We’d like you on the set for those scenes, and of course, more if you want.”

  I look around the table, see them all looking at me expectantly, as if I’m the one they have to please. It’s not like I’m Quincy Jones or some other well-known film composer. I don’t quite get it, but I nod. “That’s what I’m here for, and of course the music,” I add.

  There’s almost a collective sigh of relief, then smiles and nods from everyone.

  “I told you, man. Evan is cool,” Ryan says. He gets up. I see he’s about to leave. “Well, you don’t need me for anything else.” He points a finger at me. “Thanks for being here, dude.” Then he’s gone.

  Robbins smiles and takes Ryan’s exit with ease. “So let’s look at the opening, page one.”

  I’d read this scene on the plane a couple of times and I liked it.

  FADE IN

  INT. CLUB. NIGHT

  Fingers on a keyboard. The SOUND of a jazz piano trio. We pull back, gradually revealing the small club with photos of jazz greats on the wall, the small stage and grand piano, then face of CHASE Hunter, his face in concentration as he nears the end of a set. Eventually we see the whole trio and the AUDIENCE, listening in rapt attention. The song ends to applause. Chase announces the trio and stands.

  CUT TO:

  “Tell Evan your idea,” Robbins says to the director.

  “All this is happening over the opening credits,” Simmons says. “What I’d like is for you to be playing until Ryan’s face comes into view, then we digitally cut in from your hands to Ryan. We stop there, Ryan takes your place at the piano and the scene continues as outlined. It’s easier than you might think. You won’t be seen, just your hands on the keyboard.”

  “What do you think, Evan?” Robbins wants to know. “Can’t be more authentic than actually having you playing, can it?”

  “No, I guess not.” It takes me by surprise but I don’t see any reason not to go along. I have no doubt the technical side of it can be easily handled. I shrug. “Yeah, sure. Fine with me.”

  “Great,” Robbins says. “The transition will be seamless. You’ll see.”

  Again there are more smiles and nods, as if they were uncertain I would agree. Simmons and Mills close their scripts and get to their feet, clearly by plan. They both shake hands with me again.

  “Look forward to working with you,” Simmons says.

  “Likewise,” Mills chimes in.

  Then they both leave. I look at Robbins. He smiles at my obvious surprise.

  “Little overwhelming, eh? We’re not shooting in sequence, so you have plenty of time to come up with that opening music.” He studies me for a moment. “Maybe you’ve already been working on it a little?”

  “Yeah, actually I have.” I’d been listening to a lot of music. I wanted something specific, something striking that would be playing whenever Ryan was on screen. I remember Quincy Jones using two bassists for the two killers in In Cold Blood. So far I was leaning toward something between Benny Golson’s tune “Killer Joe” and Herbie Hancock’s “Dolphin Dance.”

  “I’m working up a theme for Ryan and variations, motifs of it when he’s in the scene.”

  “Excellent,” Robbins says. He glances at his watch. “I’d like to show you the jazz club set. It’s almost complete, then I’d like to talk with you about a few things.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Robbins and I ride over to one of the sound stages in a golf cart. In one corner half a jazz club is being finished. It’s open on one side but the rest is all there. The stage, a grand piano, two walls with photos and posters, and about ten or fifteen round tables and chairs. There are some workmen still busy with final touches. On a tall ladder, a technician perches, adjusting spotlights facing the stage.

  “It’ll look bigger on film,” Robbins says as we wander around. Yes, Hollywood. The great illusion. “Go ahead, try the piano.”

  I sit down and play a few chords on the Yamaha grand, surprised at the volume. “Wish all the pianos were like this.” I stop when I hear one of the workmen hammering. Robbins watches me taking in the set.

  “It’s going to be great. Come on, let’s get some dinner.”

  We go to an Italian place on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica, not far from my hotel. Robbins is greeted like a regular. We’re given a table by the window. Robbins orders a bottle of wine to go with salads and seafood pasta that he recommends. Over dinner, he asks about the hotel and Andie. Just small talk until we both order coffee and I await the real purpose of this dinner.

  “I know you’ve been through a lot recently, the recapture of that woman—it must have been hard to relive that again, but I understand she’s safely back in prison where she belongs.”

  “Look,” I start, but Robbins puts up a hand and cuts me off.

  “No, please, let me finish. There’s something I have to tell you.” He starts again but his phone rings. He listens for a moment. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

  I get up, mime smoking, and go outside to have a cigarette. Robbins nods and listens to his phone. The cool night air washes over me as I look at the lights of Santa Monica Pier and watch people strolling up and down Ocean Avenue. I want to keep this separate, but Robbins seems determined, and my mind goes back to Andie’s words about being alert, being careful.

  Back inside, Robbins has ordered us both a cognac. “Hope you like this.” He holds up his glass. To Murder in Blue. He sees my surprise and smiles. “I know, another change, but that’s the movie business.” We tap glasses and sip. I welcome the warm glow of the liquor.

  Robbins sets his glass down. “I have a confession to make. You were right from the beginning, that first night we met at The Jazz Bakery when you said ‘why me?’ Of course there are scores of pianists here who could have tutored Ryan, but we wanted you specifically. For your playing of course, but also because of your background.

  “Ryan wanted to do a film like this, but when we didn’t really have a clear story idea. When we came across your name and looked into your background, we thought we had the ideal person. You’ve had quite a life these past few years and undergone some pretty unusual experiences. It just seemed like fate to choose you. We did a lot of research and reading between the lines. Frankly, I didn’t think you’d go for it and would be suspicious of our choice.”

  “You know I was.”

  Robbins nods. “That’s exactly why we downplayed it from the start and c
autioned Ryan not to push. It’s also why we didn’t want to talk about or show you any script till we had you under contract.” He shrugs then and looks away. “We almost blew it, didn’t we?”

  “You did. You had to know I would hate the first script.”

  “Yes, that was a mistake. I underestimated your desire to not want a film using your life, both the good and bad experiences, and I am truly sorry for trying that.”

  “I almost sent your check back with a note saying ‘no thanks.’”

  Robbins smiles. “I bet you did. I’m curious. What changed your mind?”

  “It was Andie partly, the chance to score a movie, and strangely enough, Gillian Payne’s escape and recapture.” I think for a moment, trying to explain how my thoughts had changed. “It was a chapter of my life that finally feels really over now, and it didn’t hurt when I saw the new script, how you’d made it kind of a compilation, rather than specific incidents I lived through.”

  “You don’t know how happy that makes me feel to hear you say that.” He finishes his drink. “Another?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  He nods to the waiter and calls for the check. “I guess I need to apologize for the People magazine spread too, but I hope you understand. Publicity is important and that went out before your FBI friends contacted me.”

  I smile. “Hope they weren’t too rough on you.”

  “Wendell Cook can be very persuasive. He said he’d shut down production.”

  I have to laugh then. “Wendell can play hardball.”

  “I promise to clear anything further with you first if you promise to put in a good word for me with Mr. Cook.”

  The check arrives. Robbins signs and we get up. “Come on, let’s get you to your hotel.”

  When Robbins drops me off, I open the door, then turn to him. “There’s one thing I need to ask you.”

  “Of course,” Robbins says.

  “Is Ryan really completely free and clear on Darryl McElroy’s death?” I look for some change in his expression but there is none.

  “Absolutely. This film will be very important to Ryan’s career. We can’t afford any loose ends. Trust me, Evan. If there were any lingering doubts, I wouldn’t go ahead with this project.”