Solo Hand

by Bill Moody

  I nod somewhat enviously. Writing doesn’t pay like that, at least not the kind I’m doing, and that’s my only outlet for the moment. “Is that why you quit playing? Money?” It comes out more quickly than I had planned. There may be a thousand reasons for Caye’s retirement, and none of them are my business.

  Caye pauses for a moment. He leans back in his chair and lights a plastic-tipped cigar. We really don’t know each other very well, but I guess he knew I was having some trouble adjusting to a world without music. Word of my accident had gotten around the musical grapevine and Caye was still connected whether he was playing or not. He glances at my hand again and blows a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

  “Any chance you’ll play again?”

  I shrug. “Doctor says maybe with a lot of therapy and work and luck.”

  Caye blows smoke at the ceiling, then looks at me as if he’s deciding whether to tell me some bad news.

  “Find something else to do,” Caye says. “Don’t wait and be disappointed.” He drops the photos on the desk and leans back. “It wasn’t money or lack of work with me,” he says. “I just got tired, I guess, hustling for gigs, taking short money, dealing with promoters, people taking advantage of you, I don’t know. I never had any interest in studio session work. I loved playing jazz and taking pictures, so I thought, hey, why not get paid for it. No big secret.”

  I nod and think it’s not the answer I’d hoped for, but it’ll have to do for now. I take the photos of Lonnie and Charlie out of their envelope. “These are kind of—joke photos,” I say, passing them across to Caye.

  Now that the moment is at hand I have second thoughts about all this. He glances at them quickly, at me sharply, and then back to the photos seriously. A slight smile passes over his lips. “Cute. You take these?”

  “Me? Hardly. I don’t work with Lonnie anymore.”

  “Who’s the other guy?”

  My faith in music is restored. Carl Caye doesn’t recognize the current king of country music. “Charlie Crisp, country singer. Did an album with Lonnie.” I pause while Carl looks at me, obviously waiting for the punch line. “I don’t know exactly what it is I want to know,” I say. “Somebody, fooling around, probably a crank, sent these to Lonnie. You know how those things go. Lots of weirdos out there.”

  “Sure,” Caye says. “I don’t think I want to know the real story.” He looks at the photos again, searches around his desk for a magnifying glass, finds it, and studies them more closely. “Well, given the quality, I’d say this was Tri-X 400 ASA film, shot off a video.”

  “A video? What do you mean?”

  “Look here.” I go around to the other side of the desk and look over Caye’s shoulder. “See these lines here, those are from the TV screen, the videotape.” I look closer as he moves the magnifying glass up and down over the print. What I hadn’t noticed before is now clearly visible.

  “I’d say the originals were taped with a Minicam, then someone with a good camera shot some frames off the TV screen. You wouldn’t even have to shoot at slow speed. These were done with a tripod, though. The movement lines are from the videotape, not the camera film. You’d only notice it when they’re blown up like this to eight-by-ten or larger.”

  I nod, not knowing what to make of this. It’s just a possibility I’d never considered, but now it’s beginning to make sense. A video camera would be easier to manage than someone taking these one at a time with a 35mm camera. The video camera could easily be hidden, then the photos could be taken at leisure, just as Caye says, with a tripod.

  But what really hits me is that this means there are many more photos available and a piece of videotape that shows who knows what else.

  “There’s no mistake on this, Carl? I mean, it couldn’t be done any other way?”

  “Not with those TV lines on the prints. These were done after the fact”

  So was the note, I think. “Thanks, Carl. I appreciate your discretion on this. They are a bit sensitive, and Lonnie Cole is not too happy.”

  Carl nods. “Come by again,” he says. “We’ll talk post-music careers.”

  Emerson Barnes’s office is back on Sunset but farther west than Carlton Burroughs’s, almost to Highland, at an old office complex called Crossroads of the World. It was a fashionable address once, but now it houses a variety of businesses that change almost monthly. Theatrical agents, photo copy shops, a travel agency, and a telemarketing company. Emerson stays there because he prefers the low rent and the trades he makes for legal work at the travel agency. He was here first, and besides, he says, “the clients I represent ain’t worried about my office. They’re worried about their ass.”

  I park in back and make my way to Emerson’s office. The only thing missing is his secretary, Marge, who alone is worth the trip. Skin the color of coffee with cream and a body that stops traffic at any intersection. Emerson says she’s an actress in training. I find Emerson inside, waiting for me in the outer office.

  “Evan, my man, come in, come in.” His tie is loosened as he stuffs some papers in a bulging briefcase. “Tough case, man, tough case, but you know who scored, right?”

  I can imagine his triumph. I’ve seen Emerson in action once before. He was something in the courtroom, a natural actor whether he had the evidence or not. He always seemed to be one step ahead of the opposing attorney. He has an infectious laugh and on the road Emerson is always fun to have along.

  “What’s up, Emerson?”

  “Come on inside,” Emerson says. We go into his office and he takes a seat in a huge leather chair and props his feet on the desk. I sit down opposite him. “I was just wondering how things went with Carlton, you know, any leads? Hey, you want a Pepsi?” He reaches behind him into a small table-size refrigerator.

  I wave him off. “Leads? No, not really. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be looking for yet.” I decide not to tell him what I’ve learned from Carl Caye about the photos. “I’m just trying out a couple of things.”

  Emerson pauses for a moment, as if he expects me to go on. “So what did Carlton have to say? He’s going to pay, right?”

  For the first time I begin to realize that all might not be right with the members of Lonnie Cole’s board of directors. Is there some rivalry between Emerson and Carlton? I wonder. And what about Megan Charles? Where does she fit in? The trouble is the three of them are all so different. It’s difficult to imagine them working on anything together.

  “Carlton tells me Lonnie can’t afford half a million dollars. That can’t be right, can it?”

  “Who can?” Emerson snorts and takes a long gulp of his Pepsi. “Sheeeet! He can afford twice that. There’s some bread put away even Carlton don’t know about.” He suddenly leans forward on the desk. “You ain’t supposed to know about it either, so don’t be talking about it with anyone.”

  “Hey look, man, I don’t want to get into financial things with you guys. How you come up with the money is your problem. I don’t see how Lonnie can avoid paying anyway. Not if he wants those pictures back and the whole thing over.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, Evan.” Emerson suddenly seems preoccupied. He glances at his watch. “Look I got a couple of appointments coming in a minute. Was there anything else?”

  I don’t want to remind Emerson that it was he who wanted to see me. “No, I guess not. I’ll be talking to you.”

  He walks me to the door and puts an arm on my shoulder. “Look, Evan, there’s a lot of stuff going on in this outfit you haven’t needed to know about, so I’d appreciate it if you kind of keep me up-to-date on what’s going on, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Sure,” I say, wondering what the hell he’s talking about.

  “Good,” Emerson says. “Stay in touch, hear?” We wave at each other and I head for my car.

  There’s a piece of paper on the windshield, stuck under the wiper. I almost throw it away, thinking it’s some advertising flyer, but it isn’t. White paper, black marking pen. All it say
s is, “Call 555-2929 immediately.”

  I look around, somewhat disoriented. Is someone watching my car? I could go back into Emerson’s office but decide on a phone booth across the street. I dodge the Sunset traffic, dig for change, and dial the number. On the other end, somebody picks it up on the first ring.

  “Trying to get those photos copied was not a good idea, Mr. Horne,” a voice says. It’s the same voice, the computerized thing again that’s impossible to decipher.

  “Who am I talking to?” A second later, I realize I’m listening to a prerecorded message that sounds like it was done by Darth Vader.

  “You simply continue as agreed, Mr. Horne,” the voice continues. “Las Vegas is, I should think, your next stop to negotiate with Mr. Crisp. See that you do.”

  Before I can protest, the connection is broken and I’m standing on Sunset, traffic rushing by, a dial tone in my ear.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I’m still a little shaky driving back to the apartment, but I know I’d better go see Crisp. Cindy isn’t home, so I leave a note on her door telling her to keep an eye on things for a couple of days. I call the airlines, book myself on an early-evening flight to Las Vegas, throw a change of clothes in a small bag, and head down Lincoln Boulevard for the airport

  Parking my car in the long-term lot at LAX, I make it to the America West gate with time to spare and only the carry-on bag to worry about. It isn’t nearly as crowded as I imagined. A few midweek gamblers talking about their luck, some business types, and several people who look like they don’t care where they’re going.

  With only a fifty-minute peanuts-and-one-drink flight, we land in plenty of time for me to catch Charlie Crisp’s early show at the Frontier. I take a courtesy bus to the Desert Inn and walk the rest of the way to the Capri Motel, just off the Strip. I’ve stayed there many times. Because of its easy access to the Strip and reasonable rates, it’s always been a favorite of traveling bands. After a quick shower and change, I walk back to the Strip and the Frontier Hotel.

  I’ve never been crazy about Las Vegas, but working with singers I’ve been here many times and have a number of local musician friends. Las Vegas has always attracted jazz musicians who want to get off the road. Aside from Los Angeles or New York, there are probably more Stan Kenton and Woody Herman alumni there than anywhere. Some of the best musicians in the world are buried in the hotel house bands, playing for acts like Paul Anka or Wayne Newton. Musicians measure that gig by the number of “Danke Schoen”’s.

  Eddie “Lockjaw” Davis settled here after years on the road with Count Basie, and Monk Montgomery, James Moody, and Don Menza all did time here. Aside from hotel work, the local guys only get out for the occasional gig or sit in at the few spots around town that feature jazz. If there’s time I promise myself I’ll have a look in at the Four Queens or the Hob Nob, one of the other jazz places the tourists don’t know about.

  It’s seven by the time I make my way through the Frontier’s casino and upstairs to the light booth. I’m greeted by a burly man with a thick red beard, a headset, and a huge black cigar jutting from one corner of his mouth.

  “Hey, Evan, whatta you doin’ in town?”

  “Playing tourist, I guess. Got room for a visitor?”

  “Sure, come on in.” I follow Tom Swenson into the booth. He sits down, hovers over a clipboard, and begins to go over the checklist of light cues for the first show.

  “Showtime,” he says, waving at the checklist. Each number has different lighting, and it’s Swenson’s job to see that it all goes according to plan. If it doesn’t, he’ll hear about it.

  Below us the showroom is rapidly filling up. A hum of preshow conversation filters up to the light booth. The tables are jammed together from the stage out, and the few booths that aren’t reserved are going fast with the right tip to the right waiter.

  “Is there still a trailer dressing room backstage?” I ask Tom.

  “Sure.” He nods to the phone on his left. “Punch twenty.”

  I do and get Charlie Crisp’s dressing room.

  “This is Evan Horne. Can I speak to Charlie?”

  “Mr. Crisp is not to be disturbed before a show,” the voice tells me. It has just enough country twang to be one of Crisp’s flunkies.

  “Just tell him my name, will you? I think he’s expecting me.”

  The voice gets muffled then, as whoever it is puts his hand over the mouthpiece. He comes back on a moment later. “Okay, Mr. Crisp says to come on down.”

  I hang up the phone and turn back to Tom. “I’ll be back later, okay? I gotta go see ‘Mr.’ Crisp.”

  “Lucky you,” Tom says. “You’re not takin’ up with these country boys, are you?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  I go back downstairs, around the corner through swinging doors to the backstage area. I can see the motor home incongruously parked backstage near the loading ramp. Two cowboys in jeans, checked shirts, and boots, who both look as if they could rope and hog-tie me with one hand, are blocking the way.

  “Where ya headed?” the bigger one asks me.

  “To see Charlie. He knows I’m coming.”

  I wait while the smaller of the two ducks inside the trailer. He’s back in a minute. “This way,” he says.

  I follow him while the big guy trails me. Charlie Crisp is lounging in an easy chair, one leg over the arm, a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He’s staring at a portable TV, watching Wheel of Fortune.

  Crisp looks just like his pictures. Rugged good looks, athletic build, a weathered face, and penetrating eyes that have obviously seen a lot.

  “How you doin’, Horne? Charlie Crisp.” He leans over and shakes hands briefly. “This here’s Bo Harris.” He jerks a thumb toward another man in cowboy garb who doesn’t offer his hand. “Duane,” he says. I should have known. Working on his Gary Cooper imitation, I guess. The whole scene makes me feel like I’ve walked onto the set of Hee Haw.

  “How about a beer?” Crisp asks. He gets up, stomps into what are probably fifteen-hundred-dollar cowboy boots, and begins to adjust his clothing in front of a full-length mirror.

  “Sure, where are they?”

  “Bo.” Harris locks eyes with Crisp in the mirror, then nods to Duane, who finds me a beer in a well-stocked refrigerator behind the bar at the other end of the room. I feel like I’ve witnessed some sort of breach in the chain of command.

  “Quite a mess, eh, Horne?” Crisp finishes checking himself in the mirror and sits down opposite me. He shakes his head from side to side. “Boy, wouldn’t them scandal rags love to get a hold of them pictures. Ooo-weeee!” Crisp slaps his leg and grins at Bo Harris. Harris smiles back uneasily, and I wonder what I’m doing here and what’s going on with these two.

  “Can we talk alone for a few minutes?” I glance at my watch.

  “Sure,” Crisp says. “The funnyman does twenty minutes before I go out and kill ’em. Bo?”

  Harris hesitates only a fraction of a second before going out with Duane. “Nice meeting you,” I say to their backs.

  Crisp smiles. “Bo means well, but he’s a mite too protective.” Crisp sits down and, with the remote, flicks off the sound on the TV. “So, where are we on this thing? What’s Lonnie want to do?”

  “He doesn’t want to do anything, but I guess he’s going to pay up. What about you? You’ll go along with whatever Lonnie does, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Crisp says, but he doesn’t sound convincing. He takes a pull on his beer and has a kind of faraway look. “This is bad business, bad business. This shit could really fuck us all up.”

  I let a few moments pass, then say, “Well, I guess I’m supposed to be playing detective and ask if you remember anything unusual about the party you had here, any strange people, anything like that?”

  Crisp laughs loudly. “Strange people? In the music business? Are you kidding? Shit, man, they’re all strange.” He laughs again. “Yeah, I know what you mean. No, it was the usual mix, mus
icians, fans, hangers-on. You know that party scene. But how much do I remember? Not much. See, Jack Daniel’s and I are good buddies, yessir, and well, you’ve seen the results.”

  “Well, I mean especially anyone with a camera?”

  “Naw, just the PR guys from the record company takin’ shots all evening, but they left early. I honestly don’t know how anybody got those pictures.”

  “How about somebody in your band, or Lonnie’s for that matter?”

  “My boys? Shoot, if they did it would have been with an Instamatic. Those were good pictures.”

  I nod. Dead end. We both look up as the sound of the band on stage and applause welcoming the comic reaches us. Crisp glances at his watch. “Well, time for me to get my shit together. How long you going to be in town?”

  “I’ll probably go back tomorrow. All I’m supposed to do is verify that you and Lonnie are on the same track on this. It sure doesn’t look like I’m going to find out anything.”

  “No, it sure doesn’t,” Crisp agrees. “Stick around and catch the show.”

  “Yeah, I’m going back up in the light booth. Better view from there.” I put down the beer bottle. “I’ll check with you tomorrow before I go back.”

  “Do that,” Crisp says. He turns back to the mirror, catches my eye. “Sorry to hear about your accident, Horne. Lonnie says you can play some piano.” He starts working on his string tie.

  Bo Harris is outside the door waiting. “You through, huh?”

  “He’s all yours,” I say. I wave at Duane and make my way through the backstage throng of musicians and stage hands, feeling the adrenaline in the atmosphere, the butterflies. Yes, I miss it all.

  “Hey, Evan.” I turn toward the voice and see a familiar face, one of the house band, a saxophonist who played a couple of times with Lonnie. “Whatta you doin’ here, man?” He grabs my hand, then let’s go quickly. “Sorry, man, I forgot. What a drag, I heard about it from the other guys the last time they came up.”