Solo Hand

by Bill Moody

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Cindy is still asleep when I crawl out of her bed and go back to my place. It’s only eight, but since the accident I seem to need less sleep, even if I’m up late the night before. I take a long shower while the coffee brews and afterward a longer walk on the beach, trying to sort things out, come up with some plan for my alleged investigation. I look out over the sand at the surf lazily rolling in. In the distance I see two or three surfers in wet suits crouched on their boards waiting for the big one. The view is peaceful but doesn’t help me. All that occurs is nothing more brilliant than that I should start with the obvious: talk to the people I know are involved, ask questions, keep my ears open, and work through it from there.

  I’m sure the blackmailer will contact me before I find out anything of real importance, but I have to at least go through the motions. I even consider contacting Coop, but decide to wait on that. It’s too early. If I do need a real detective, Coop will be there. Reluctantly, but he’ll be there. If I call him now, I’ll just get a lecture for my trouble.

  The beach is nearly deserted. The sun is breaking through the clouds and the lifeguard is opening his stand, but it’s already getting cool. Summer is almost over. A couple of scruffy-looking senior citizens in velour warm-up suits, each armed with one of those metal detector devices used to find loose change, keys, and jewelry, are combing the beach. It doesn’t look like they’re turning up much, but they’re doing a systematic job, moving in ever-widening circles from the lifeguard stand.

  Besides Carlton Burroughs and the musicians I have in mind to talk to, I can also have the photographs checked out. Admittedly it’s a long shot, but one I think worth taking. I cut across the beach to the boardwalk and back the couple of blocks to my apartment.

  For once I remember to turn off the coffee maker, grab my keys and the photos, and head for my car and the Santa Monica Freeway.

  Morning rush hour isn’t quite over, so I opt for Sunset. Winding past UCLA, I pass the mammoth homes in Beverly Hills and finally the Sunset Strip, now dotted with adult bookstores, strip joints, and hitchhiking punk rockers.

  Carlton Burrough’s office is on Sunset, half a block from Vine Street, in a tower-block building that also houses a number of legal firms, insurance offices, and the odd theatrical agency. My plan, such as it is, calls for spending a little time with Carlton and also checking out the Musicians’ Union before lunch. There are a couple of guys I want to track down, and it’s likely I’ll find them rehearsing at the union.

  I park in the underground garage and take the elevator to the ninth floor. Two record company types get on at the lobby level, give me a cursory glance, and continue their discussion of their latest mega-signing deal. They’re dressed in expensive casual clothes and tinted glasses, and both carry briefcases. Neither of them looks more than twenty-five.

  I leave the elevator thinking how often I’ve been to Carlton’s to discuss travel arrangements, collect airline tickets, pick up checks—but this morning I’m very aware of the different circumstances. Questioning Carlton is going to be very strange.

  Phone to her ear, Carlton’s secretary Jean waves and buzzes me in. Carlton is in his usual position—sunk in a padded leather chair, gazing out at Sunset below. Gray suit and a paisley bow tie are his choices for today.

  The bookshelves are lined with financial reference volumes, binders, and stacks of file folders. There’s one photo of him and Lonnie both smiling as Lonnie sits at Carlton’s desk, pen poised over a contract.

  Work gets done with Carlton, but only when people aren’t around. I’ve always had this Dickensian picture of him, sitting on a tall stool poring over a stack of ledgers, wearing a green eyeshade. Now that I think of it, I don’t even know what kind of music he likes or what he thinks of Lonnie Cole, or me for that matter.

  “Come in, Evan, come in.” He doesn’t get up, so I drop into a chair opposite him and look across an expanse of oak desk. “So, Evan, where do we begin?”

  I shrug. “This is all new to me too. I guess we should just start with anything you can think of that might help.”

  “Honestly, Evan, the whole thing has me stymied,” Carlton says. “And, I might add, it comes at a particularly bad time.” Carlton leans forward and folds his hands on the desk in front of him.

  “Yeah, I know,” I say. “It won’t go down too well at awards time.”

  Carlton shakes his head. “No, I didn’t mean that.”

  “What, then?”

  “I mean simply that right now, if ever, Lonnie simply cannot afford to pay out five hundred thousand in cash. He doesn’t have it.”

  I digest that bit of news but I’m not really surprised. Like a lot of stars who come into money suddenly, Lonnie spends it as fast as he makes it, despite the good advice of people like Carlton Burroughs, who tried valiantly to ward off the spending sprees of Lonnie’s ex-wife Andrea. Now it was alimony, salaries, and Lonnie’s continual battle to forget Central Avenue. Still, it’s hard to believe he’s broke.

  “Are you serious?” I ask.

  “Never more so,” Carlton says. “In fact, I’ve just been going over Lonnie’s holdings. We could make it, I suppose, but it would mean liquidating some very lucrative stocks and properties, and if anything went wrong, well, I wouldn’t like to think about that.” Carlton spreads his hands in a helpless gesture that says he already has thought about it in great detail.

  I get up and walk over to the window. I don’t like the pressure building for me to get the photos back first. Nine floors below, Sunset is alive with the midmorning business crowd and a fair collection of tourists.

  “You don’t think this could be a setup, do you, Carlton?” I turn around quickly to gauge his reaction, but behind the thick glasses his eyes never blink.

  “To what end?” He seems genuinely puzzled.

  “I don’t know. Just a thought.” Carlton’s look demands I go on. “Suppose, just for the sake of argument, this whole thing has been rigged by Lonnie to pick up Crisp’s share of the ransom?”

  “How?” Carlton seems intrigued, enough for me to think maybe the idea I’ve been playing with isn’t so crazy after all. How? I have no idea, but in my new role I can ask questions that have never occurred to me before. I don’t have to know the answers. Not yet, anyway.

  “What if Lonnie himself arranged to have the pictures taken? He gets me to make the drop, Crisp is relieved of his half, and somehow I fail. There’s a mix-up of some kind; we get the photos back but not the money. Lonnie is ahead by half a mil, which you’ve just told me he could use.” I sit down and watch Carlton mull that one over. Now that it’s out, it does sound kind of unlikely.

  “How would Lonnie account for the money?” Carlton wants to know. “He certainly couldn’t funnel it through his regular accounts with me, could he? And why not Charlie Crisp doing the same thing?”

  “Because Crisp doesn’t know me. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just Lonnie’s former conductor. Besides,” I added, “I don’t have much stock in Crisp being capable of devising such a scheme. Anyone who sings about truck drivers, roadside diners, and prison would be stretching to come up with a plan that complicated.”

  Carlton smiles. “Don’t underestimate the power of country and western music, Evan. Your prejudices are showing. Kris Kristofferson was, I believe, a Rhodes Scholar. Crisp could have done exactly as you suggest, but I think you’re looking down a dark alley. It would be too risky for either of them to try such a stunt. There are easier ways of making money, especially if you have it to begin with.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Carlton. I was just thinking out loud.”

  “You’re trying, Evan, that’s all anybody, even Megan, can expect.” Carlton gets up and gives me a fatherly pat. “Well, if there’s nothing else then, I’ve got to start working on the premise that we are going to pay. Somehow I’ve got to find the means to do so.”

  “Sure. I’ll keep in touch, Carlton.”

  Jean stops me on the
way out to give me a phone message from Emerson Barnes, wanting to know if I’ll call him or drop by later in the day.

  “Did he say what it’s about?” I ask Jean.

  She shakes her head and grabs another phone. “Sorry, Evan, he didn’t.”

  I get in my car and head down Vine for the Musicians’ Union. For some reason, I keep thinking about the book of Charlie Crisp’s poetry back at my apartment. It just wasn’t in character for a man who sings country songs to write stuff like that.

  I catch all the lights on Vine and park in the Musicians’ Union parking lot, a bumpy asphalt rectangle next to the low white buildings that house the official side of Hollywood’s music business. The lot is full of Cadillacs, Lincolns, and Mercedes, so I know it’s payday for the studio session musicians. The palm trees blowing in the breeze are a long way from the hustle of New York, but here is where the big money is earned in the music world.

  Inside, the pay windows are clogged with musicians dressed in designer jeans and golf shirts, picking up recording checks from television and film studios or session dates from any of the hundreds of record labels that have studios in Southern California. These are the best-paying gigs, but also the hardest scene to break into.

  There are musical considerations—you have to read anything at sight, and play any style. A session call might mean a film or TV sound track, backing a singer, or a jingle for potato chips. But there is a political side to things as well. For many musicians, the trade-off is too much, the tyranny of the contractors too stifling. The general rule is, the worse the music the better the pay.

  I wave to a couple of familiar faces and head for one of the basement rehearsal studios. I can feel the vibrations beneath my feet, so there must be something happening. Coming down the stairs I catch what sounds like a Neal Hefti arrangement. When I open the door to the rehearsal room, the muffled sound of an eighteen-piece big band spills into the hallway.

  I shut the door behind me and look for a familiar face. I find him hunched over his bass, peering at the music on the stand in front of him from behind thick glasses. A half-full Pepsi bottle and a bag of potato chips stand next to the music stand. The leader, a trumpet player who’s done some dates with Lonnie, stops the band to discuss a phrasing problem the saxes are having. I catch Buster Browne’s eye and point to my watch.

  He mimes ten minutes, so I stay, listen to the rest of the chart, then go upstairs to call Emerson Barnes.

  “Law offices,” his secretary Marge purrs. Marge is one of the most stunning women I’ve ever seen, and has a voice to match. Women like Marge are just one of the prerequisites for Emerson Barnes’s staff.

  “Emerson in?” I ask. “It’s Evan Horne.”

  “Hello, Evan,” Marge says. “Yes, I’ll put you right through.”

  “My man, Evan.” Emerson’s voice booms over the line. “How’s the investigation going?”

  “Hey, give me a break. It’s hardly started. What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing really,” he says. “I just wondered how you made out with Carlton, and also I’ve got a couple of ideas I want to kick around with you.”

  “Nothing from Carlton except what you already know—Lonnie can’t afford this. How about later this afternoon? I have a couple of other stops to make.”

  “Sure, you got it. I’ve got a court date at two, but I’ll be back in the office after that,” Emerson says.

  “See you then.”

  I hang up just as the rehearsal band goes on break and begins trudging up the stairs toward the soda machine and the telephones. Time to check in with the answering services.

  Buster Browne drags his long body up the stairs and smiles at me. We’ve worked together a number of times, and I know he was with Lonnie on the last date.

  We sit down on one of the lounge couches in the lobby. “How’s the hand?” Buster asks.

  I hold it up, flex my fingers. “Coming along, coming along.”

  Buster nods approvingly. We had meshed well together, his bass lines, my chords. “So what brings you down here? Got a gig for me?”

  I laugh and dig for my red rubber ball. “No, I don’t have one for myself. I’m checking on a couple of things for Lonnie Cole. I just wondered if you had noticed anything funny going down on that last date you did with him, in Las Vegas I mean.”

  I take in Buster’s surprised expression. He knows how it was when I left Lonnie. “What do you mean funny? Besides the music? I remember when Lonnie played jazz. Of course, in Las Vegas, well—”

  “Were you at the big bash he and Charlie Crisp threw after the date?”

  “Sure, all the guys were. Great food.” Buster’s appetite is legendary. The only thing he loves more than music is food.

  “Anything funny about the party? Notice anyone with a camera, for instance?” I catch Buster’s expression. I’m pushing it.

  He frowns. “Whatta you looking for, man? It was just your typical, ego-oriented, big-recording-star party in Las Vegas, except it was double the pleasure with two stars. I don’t remember anybody with a camera except the record company PR guys.” He looks at me strangely, a smile curling over his lips. “What are you now, a detective or something?”

  “Or something.” I wonder if I should ask Buster if he took any pictures himself. He’s a camera buff, if I remember. Should I show him one of the photos? I debate with myself for a moment but decide not to. He would tell me if he had, and I don’t want to let the photos out yet. I get up to leave.

  “Hey, Buster, thanks. You were sounding good down there,” I say, meaning the rehearsal band. Buster thinks I mean low notes.

  “New E string, man,” he says. “It always helps.”

  “If you say so.”

  I wave goodbye, pocket my rubber ball, and walk across the street to the Professional Drum Shop. It’s almost as big a hangout for drummers as the Musicians’ Union. The Drum Shop is where anybody who’s anybody in percussion buys his gear, has coffee, picks up mail, hustles gigs, and trades equipment. It’s also where I can find an address for Carl Caye’s photo studio.

  I consult the huge bulletin board and find his card pinned next to one for an exotic dancer called Princess Laila, who promises the best of the East. Behind the counter Ronnie, one of the owners, has a bass drum pedal apart. There are little springs and screws all over the counter.

  “Seen Carl Caye around lately?” I ask him. Besides being co-owner, Ronnie is part of the reason LA’s drummers drive long distances to the shop. Ronnie can save or repair anything remotely to do with drums. He also has some classic sets in the back storage room.

  “Naw,” Ronnie says without looking up. I watch him set the tension on the spring and squirt it with WD-40. He presses the footplate with his hand. “Smooth as glass. Haven’t seen Carl for a long time. He doesn’t come in anymore. I got his tubs in the back, though. Doesn’t want to let ’em go, I guess. You check out his studio?”

  “That’s where I’m going now.” I glance at the card. “Just off Melrose?”

  “Yeah, five minutes from here.” Ronnie shoves the foot pedal aside. “You going to get into photography?”

  “Yeah,” I say, “something like that.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Carl Caye had always been one of my heroes. He was old enough to have played a small supporting role in the bebop revolution and he’d recorded with some of the 52nd Street greats like Bird and Dizzy and Miles. He’d played on scores of record dates since, and toured with just about everybody, including singers like Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughan.

  Then one day, to everyone’s astonishment, he’d simply stopped playing. He put his drums in storage, stopped taking calls, and began pursuing his lifelong hobby of photography as a full-time job. Carl Caye arguably had one of the best collections of jazz photos ever assembled. His were different, shot from the bandstand side of the camera. No one could duplicate Caye’s shots. Throughout his playing career, his camera was always right beside his drums.

  Caye’s studio o
n Melrose is, as I had heard, very professional and very busy. I give my name to a tall, reedy blond girl on the front desk. She tells me Carl will be in the darkroom for the next twenty minutes at least. I thank her and decide to take a walk around the neighborhood. For me it’s familiar territory.

  Yuppies again. Trendy shops and expensive restaurants where once there had been cheap hotels and low-rent apartments. One I remember living in not far from here. Progress. I kill a few more minutes checking out a record store and notice a promotional poster for Lonnie and Crisp’s album prominently displayed with a huge blowup of the two of them in a staged publicity shot. This one is a lot different from the ones I’m carrying.

  I grab some coffee at a fast-food place and thirty minutes later I make my way back to Caye’s studio. The man himself is leaning on the counter. With distinguished graying hair, Caye looks, except for the tinted glasses, not much different from the photo of himself over the window, taken at Birdland, his arm around Charlie Parker.

  “How you doin’, Evan?” he asks.

  I glance at my hand and shrug in what is now a well-practiced gesture. “Gettin’ by, gettin’ by,” I say. “Looks like taking pictures is lucrative.”

  I’d already heard from a number of people that Caye was hugely successful. What I really always wanted to know was why he’d stopped playing and how he had managed to adjust so obviously well. Maybe he had a secret for me.

  “So what can I do for you?” Caye asks with a smile. “Need some wedding photos, a portrait?”

  “Nothing like that,” I say. “Actually, I was hoping you could tell me something about some photos I have with me.”

  Caye frowns slightly. Professional reluctance? “Sure, come on in the back,” he says.

  I follow him down a hallway to a small office that’s cluttered with prints, invoices, an old typewriter, and some more jazz photos—all Caye’s, I realize, recognizing some of the famous ones—on the walls.

  “Have a seat,” he says. He drops into a chair opposite me and begins to leaf through some eight-by-ten prints of a wedding party. “Not bad, huh? Two grand for two hours’ work. Never had a jazz gig like that.”