Solo Hand

by Bill Moody

  Sharon looks at me squarely for the first time. “Lonnie wants your help. He wants you to—look into it.”

  I stare at her blankly for a moment. “You want to run that by me again? Look into it?”

  “Believe it or not,” Sharon says, “Lonnie trusts you. He said you’d know what to do, how to handle this.”

  I light another cigarette. “Oh, c’mon, Sharon. You can’t be serious. Lonnie can’t be serious. I wouldn’t know where to begin on something like this.”

  “You tracked down that lawyer, the insurance claim on your accident.”

  “That was different. That was just research, public records. Anyone can do that Sharon, this is blackmail. Extortion. Tell Lonnie to go to the police, hire a private detective.”

  “He can’t. The note said no police, and Lonnie doesn’t want anyone else involved. He wants you.”

  “You mean to investigate, as in detective?” I have to laugh at that. Evan Horne, erstwhile jazz pianist and private eye to the stars. Sharon isn’t smiling.

  “Lonnie trusts you in spite of what’s happened between you.” We both let a gulf of silence pass on that one. “Lonnie says you’re the only honest musician who’s ever worked for him.”

  “Even if I’m white?”

  “Even if you’re white.” I almost smile and shake my head. It’s an old joke between Lonnie and me, but given some of his bad experiences, his ex-wife’s hiring practices, there’s probably some truth to it.

  I try to imagine that conversation. My ex-wife and ex-employer arguing over the ethics of ex-husband and ex-employee. That I would have liked to hear.

  Still, it was true. Diplomacy was never my strong suit. I was sometimes too honest for my own good. It had cost me more than one gig, but I never went in for the stroking-the-star routine, and Lonnie Cole was no exception. If he sounded bad, I told him so, maybe once too often. Our parting had been less than amicable, but I always suspected part of Lonnie’s anger was in knowing that I was right. He was getting rich now, but he wasn’t a jazz singer anymore.

  “Lonnie thought if I asked you myself—”

  I study Sharon for a moment. She won’t meet my eyes. There’s something else she’s not telling me, and at best it was a feeble invitation, the first I’d had in a long time.

  I’d spent the last few months in a dense fog of depression, trying to figure out what I was going to do with the rest of my life if I couldn’t play piano. I was doing enough writing to almost call myself a freelancer. I was reading a lot of books I always promised myself I’d get to, and when I could stand it, I went to hear some music. Not a busy schedule, but I felt no inclination to help either Sharon or Lonnie Cole.

  I didn’t know what the arrangement was between her and Lonnie. I told myself I didn’t care, but that wasn’t entirely true either. Maybe it would do me good to watch Lonnie take some heat, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to listen, but I just wasn’t in the mood.

  I stand up and put some money on the table. “Tell Lonnie he was wrong, Sharon. I can’t, I don’t want to do this.” She nods and puts the envelope back in her bag.

  I leave her in the coffee shop and walk back to my car, still with the uneasy feeling that she hasn’t told me everything. I don’t know how much she’s left out until later, and by then it’s too late to do anything about it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I get home about four and manage to find a parking place within a block of the apartment I sublease from a friend. I live in an older part of Venice, one of the last pockets of resistance to the creeping tide of condos that have washed through the area in the wake of the yuppie invasion of nearby Marina del Rey.

  My piano, records and tapes, some books, and other odds and ends all fit very well in the small apartment. But its best feature is that it’s only half a block from the beach and Venice Boardwalk

  When I check my mailbox there are a few bills, a letter from Ed McMahon, and a postcard from a friend who’s on the road in Japan with Stan Getz. The best news, though, is the Occupado sign on Cindy’s door, which means she’s in from a flight. When Cindy wakes up, I’m in for some company.

  Cindy Fuller is a stewardess—flight attendant, I guess we call them now, but she still prefers stewardess. That’s only one of the reasons I like her. When we went to high school together, she was a cheerleader. Bubbly, high-spirited; and in the ensuing years, nothing has changed her.

  We’d rediscovered each other on a New York flight, found out we lived in the same building, and sort of picked up where we’d left off—good friends, maybe more than that if the timing had been right.

  It was one of those missed romances. Now Cindy is just the right tonic for me. Her best quality, as far as I’m concerned, is her insistence that Sharon made a serious mistake in leaving me.

  No messages on the answering machine, so I grind some beans for fresh coffee, put it on to brew, and plug in my typewriter. With my hand out of commission, I’ve treated myself to one of those electronic models. It produces beautiful copy and requires virtually no pressure or control. Even with my limited skills, typing is a breeze.

  I’ve been writing off and on since high school and Tim Shaw, the editor of Blue Note magazine, thought having a working musician—or in my case, a former working musician—write for his magazine would be insightful. In principle, I couldn’t have agreed more. Blue Note is the last of the real jazz magazines. Even Downbeat, once the jazz bible, now features more rock than jazz on its pages.

  With coffee and one of the lowest-tar menthol cigarettes I can find, I start on Chick Corea.

  I’d always liked his playing, at least until he made the crossover trip and went electronic. Not my bag musically, so in the end I decide to be honest and lament the passing of a fine pianist into the void of fusion. I know it won’t hurt Chick’s audience because none of his fans will read Blue Note. But at least I get my licks in on the current state of jaw.

  Once I decide on the slant, I finish quickly and package up the article for mailing to Tim. I have a second cup of coffee with the news on the tube, half expecting some mention of Lonnie and Charlie Crisp’s troubles. But there’s nothing. Only Reagan promising more tax relief for farmers and a reminder that fall and Monday Night Football are underway.

  Thinking about Lonnie Cole, I wonder why I’m even interested. Lonnie’s reputation doesn’t concern me. We parted just this side of bitterness and now, with Sharon’s defection to his camp, I have even less reason to get involved. I certainly don’t see myself as a detective.

  Despite what Sharon says, my efforts with the insurance company could hardly be called an investigation. I had money coming and the time to track it down. And why is Lonnie so anxious to have me on the scene? Obviously his brain trust can’t go to the police. One slip to the press about the photos and Lonnie Cole becomes a major news story. His best bet would be an expensive private detective.

  I don’t know about Charlie Crisp, but, rich or not, Lonnie doesn’t let money go easily. On the road, it was always a challenge to beat him on a breakfast check, and five hundred grand is a big tab. The scars of poverty from Watts and the Central Avenue dubs are too deep, too lasting for Lonnie to ever forget where he comes from.

  Those thoughts are still on my mind when the doorbell rings. Cindy at last, I think, but when I open the door, instead of a former cheerleader I find a huge black man filling the doorway.

  “Evan, how you doin’, man?”

  “You got it, T.J.,” I say, trying not to wince when he slaps my right palm.

  “Sorry, man, I forgot.”

  In his playing days in the NFL, T.J. meant “Terrible Jeopardy,” a state opposing quarterbacks felt with him in their backfields. When he blew out his knee and ended an eleven-year career, quarterbacks around the league celebrated and Lonnie Cole acquired one imposing bodyguard. Thomas Jefferson Buchanan and Lonnie Cole went back a lot of years—all the way to the playgrounds in Watts.

  T.J. comes in and sits down on the couch. “How is his wonderfulnes
s?” I ask. I wonder how much T.J. knows and how he knows where I live.

  “Bad, man, bad.” TJ.’s eyes cloud over. “That’s why I’m here. Lonnie wants to see you.”

  I shake my head. “No, T.J., I saw Sharon this afternoon. I already told her I’m not interested. I’m not a detective.”

  He stands up and walks over to the window. He turns around toward me and just kind of stands in the middle of the room looking uncomfortable, embarrassed.

  “I got no choice, man,” he says, shrugging his huge shoulders. “I got to bring you back. Lonnie, he said don’t come back without Evan.” T.J. obviously isn’t kidding.

  I know he’s just following orders, caught between me and Lonnie. Anyway, who am I to argue with a six-foot-five, two hundred sixty-five-pound former defensive end? Maybe it’s better if I tell Lonnie myself I’m not interested.

  I shrug. “Okay, okay, I get the picture. Okay if follow you in my car?” T.J. hesitates for only a moment before nodding in agreement.

  We inch our way out of the Marina. The traffic is bumper-to-bumper back up to the San Diego Freeway. It too is jammed with rush-hour traffic, so T.J. opts for the old Sepulveda road to the San Fernando Valley. That’s okay with me. It gives me a chance to stretch out with the Mazda.

  Strangely enough, my accident hasn’t dulled my passion for driving. If anything, my love of good wheels has increased since that foggy night on the Pacific Coast Highway. I’d used some of the insurance money to buy the Mazda.

  I keep one eye on T.J. in SOUL I ahead of me and the other on the rearview mirror for stray CHIPS as we speed through the Sepulveda curves. The lights of the valley glow and flutter below. I have a jazz FM station for company, listening to Stan Getz glide through the changes of “Stella By Starlight” as we make the turn onto Mulholland Drive.

  Lonnie lives on a hill overlooking Encino, a location that largely contributed to his nickname, Fool on the Hill. The name refers more to Lonnie’s often poor judgment of people than the song, but it’s stuck.

  We drive down the cul-de-sac where Lonnie’s home squats like the turret of a castle. He bought the place several years ago, mainly because living here makes him neighbor to a couple of movie stars.

  I pull in the drive behind T.J. and watch him press some buttons. Wrought-iron electronic gates swing open and we cruise down the white gravel drive and pull in next to Lonnie’s black Jaguar. Carlton Burroughs’s white Lincoln is already there next to Emerson Barnes’s baby-blue Caddy. The red 300ZX belongs to Megan Charles and rounds out a very colorful and expensive used—or, as they say in Southern California, previously owned—car lot.

  I follow T.J. inside. He escorts me down the hall. “I’ll get you a beer,” he says, and motions me toward the living room.

  I step down to the lower level onto a carpet so thick it’s like walking on an air mattress. The room is totally done in black and white. The carpet and walls white; the furniture black leather and chrome.

  Seated around a huge glass coffee table, the brain trust is all here, looking serious and concerned. No sign of Sharon.

  Carlton Burroughs, Lonnie’s business manager and probably the only man in Los Angeles who wears a bow tie, is hunched over a briefcase, punching out keys on a hand-held calculator. He looks up and peers at me through thick glasses.

  Emerson Barnes, Lonnie’s attorney and contract specialist, lounges on the couch, tie loosened, his head resting against the cushions, looking very tired. He sips from a glass of orange juice and looks like he’s been up most of the night and had a long day, which would not have been unusual for Emerson. He’s equally at home on the street or in the courtroom and moves between the two elements with ease. He’s been with Lonnie for three years and, like T.J., goes back to the Central Avenue days. Emerson and I had always gotten along well, especially on road trips. If Emerson couldn’t find a party he’d create one.

  Presiding over it all is Megan Charles, her hair pulled back severely and dressed for a board meeting in a plaid skirt and ivory silk blouse. A tough, no-nonsense woman who plans every step of Lonnie’s career.

  Creative Director was the title she’d bestowed on herself. In musical terms that meant dropping all but a smattering of the jazz arrangements that had launched Lonnie onto the music scene. It didn’t seem to matter to her that Lonnie’s reputation had been founded on and was firmly rooted in jazz. Her job, as she saw it, was to make Lonnie money. Lots of it. Now his book of arrangements was almost entirely pop ballads and forays into rock and soul.

  Nobody could argue with Megan’s business decisions, and nobody better try either. Everyone knew that, and Megan never let anyone forget she was in charge. Naturally, she and I had disliked each other instantly. She saw me as a threat to Lonnie’s ascension; I saw her as a threat to the music. She’d won; now Lonnie sounded like any of a dozen other singers. I marked her arrival as a turning point in my relationship with Lonnie.

  All of them look at me expectantly as I walk over. Lonnie is sprawled next to Emerson in a white velour warm-up suit, playing with his favorite toy, a chrome-plated snub-nosed .38 revolver.

  Working and traveling with Lonnie Cole, I’ve seen him high, hung over, joyfully happy, deeply sad—but never afraid. He was the only one who spoke.

  “S’happenin’, Evan.” His voice is a deep growl, and he too looks like he hasn’t slept much.

  Everyone is so quiet and serious, I can’t resist the moment. “Well, I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here today,” I try. Emerson Barnes laughs and leans forward.

  “Now that’s what we need,” he says. Carlton Burroughs doesn’t miss a beat on his calculator, but all I get from Megan is one of her classic icy stares.

  “Sit down, Evan,” Megan says. “I suppose Sharon has filled you in on what’s happened.” Megan Charles obviously regards me as an unnecessary addition to this gathering. I know I’m here strictly to humor Lonnie. She’ll want to get rid of me quickly, and that’s just fine with me. Seeing them all again, I realize that this is the part I don’t miss at all.

  “Well, I’ve seen the photos if that’s what you mean, but I don’t know what you expect me to do. Very nice likeness, I might add,” nodding toward Lonnie. He either doesn’t think it’s funny or he just doesn’t want to hear any more. He gets up, glances at Emerson, and makes for the sliding glass doors that lead to the pool.

  “C’mon out when you get through,” he calls to me. I nod, and we all pause while Lonnie leaves the room.

  Carlton looks up for the first time. The three of them exchange glances, then look at me. My apprehension returns.

  “What we need, what we expect, is exactly what I hope Sharon told you. We want some help on this,” Megan says. It feels like everybody there knows something I don’t.

  “Oh, you mean the detective bit.” I can’t help it. I smile again. “Well, it’s going to cost you. Two hundred dollars a day.” Carlton immediately begins to work his calculator into a fit. “Plus expenses.”

  T.J. comes in with a bottle of Henry Weinhard for me, so I miss the second meaningful glance that I presume must have taken place.

  Megan smiles balefully. “I think those pictures would look pretty nifty in People magazine, don’t you?” I say, taking a pull on the beer.

  “That’s not funny, Evan.” Megan throws her pen down on the coffee table. “God, what a time for this to happen.” She almost looks genuinely upset. She turns back to me. “Evan, it is against my better judgment that you’ve been called in on this, especially since you have nothing further to do with Lonnie, but I bowed to his wishes. However, if you’re going to continue with this flip attitude, you’re not going to help at all, clear?” She shakes her head briefly, just enough to put her hoop earrings in motion.

  Duly chastised, I give her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.” That breaks up Emerson again. “Okay, I’m sorry, but I still don’t see what the hell it is you or Lonnie expect me to do.”

  “Didn’t Sharon tell you?” For the firs
t time Megan looks confused.

  “Tell me what?” I fumble for a cigarette and pat my rubber ball.

  “Evan, man, you’re too much,” Emerson says, slapping his thigh and laughing.

  “Hey, detectives are expensive,” I say, joining on what I think is a joke.

  “Didn’t Sharon tell you about the note?” Megan asks as she glares at Emerson Barnes.

  “Sure, five hundred thousand each for the photos. I guess I should see it, huh?” I lean forward and eye the pile of papers in front of Megan.

  “Is that all she told you?” Megan asks. A feeling of alarm creeps through me as she passes the note across the table. “This might make you take all this a little more seriously.” As I begin to read, I see why they had all stopped joking.

  The note is typed in all caps on standard white paper.

  THESE PHOTOS AND THE NEGATIVES WILL BE RETURNED ONLY UPON RECEIPT OF ONE MILLION DOLLARS IN CASH. HALF EACH FROM MR. LONNIE COLE AND MR. CHARLES CRISP. SHOULD PAYMENT NOT BE MADE WITHIN THE SPECIFIED TIME PERIOD, THE PHOTOS WILL BE RELEASED TO SEVERAL PROMINENT PUBLICATIONS. I HAVE CHOSEN AS INTERMEDIARY IN THIS MATTER, MR EVAN HORNE. MR. HORNE WILL BE CONTACTED SUBSEQUENTLY AND ISSUED FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS AS TO THE EXPEDITING OF THE AFOREMENTIONED MONIES. THERE ARE TO BE NO POLICE INVOLVED WHATSOEVER.

  That’s it. No greetings, no signature, just a rather formal, literate note instead of the usual pasted-on block letters.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” I look around the group, but no one is smiling. They’re all staring at me. “I don’t get it. Why me?”

  “Exactly what we’d like to know,” Megan says coldly. “Do you have any idea why the blackmailer would choose you?”

  “Oh, c’mon, Megan. Are you accusing me of writing this?”

  “We’re not accusing you of anything, Evan. It’s just rather strange, don’t you think?” Megan says. She’s enjoying this, putting me on the spot.