by Bill Moody
“This is Evan Horne. I need to see Charlie.”
“Well, well, well, Mr. Piano Man.” The Nashville drawl seems more pronounced than I remember. “I hear you really fucked up.” He puts his hand over the phone. I can hear his voice, muffled, talking to someone else, then he’s back on the line. “Charlie says come on over, before the first show, his suite. It’s 1030.”
I hang up and wonder how I’m going to handle this. Charlie Crisp, the cowboy poet, the Rhodes Scholar candidate. Should be an interesting conversation.
I make my way through the throng in the casino to a bank of elevators and press the button for the tenth floor to Crisp’s suite. Bo, of course, answers the door and lets me in. At first glance it looks like a western apparel store. There are shirts, boots, and hats all over the place. Bo takes in my glance at the western gear. “Charlie’s ordering new outfits. This way.”
He leads me through a living room area to another room. The stars live well in Las Vegas. Crisp is lounging on the bed watching Jeopardy, answering the questions one step ahead of the contestants. The current category is American literature.
“This contemporary novelist won the Pen Faulkner Award for fiction for Soldiers in Hiding,” Alex Trabek says.
“Who is Richard Wiley?” Crisp shouts. “Too easy.” He snaps off the TV with the remote when I come in and nods a dismissal to Bo, who quickly leaves us alone.
“Well,” Crisp says, pulling himself upright, “it seems I’m out some money. You want to run it down for me?” He’s barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt from a sports company.
I bring him up to date, but I have the feeling he knows it all already. He gets up, walks around the room, stops at the bar, and pours himself two fingers of bourbon. “Drink?”
I wave him off. “So tell me about your poetry.” His glass stops in midair. He turns and looks at me strangely.
“Poetry? You mean my songs?”
“No, I mean your poetry, your Rhodes Scholar nomination, this whole good-ole-boy act. That’s what it is, isn’t it?”
He sits down on the bed and stares at the floor. “It’s a long story,” he says. “Too long.”
“Try me.” I move in closer, sit opposite him. “Look, man, I got knocked in the head the other night and went into the water at the marina. A million dollars in cash, half of which is yours, has disappeared and the police tell me the blackmail notes were written on my typewriter. I know they weren’t. Megan Charles wants my head, so if I’m going to make any sense out of all this, I have to know who the players really are.”
Crisp shakes his head. “Megan! She’s really a bitch, isn’t she?”
“She’s also keeping company with Bo. Did you know that?”
His expression is one of genuine surprise. “Whatta you mean?”
“I mean when I was here last time I saw them downstairs in the lounge talking.”
Crisp shrugs it off. “Probably business, maybe something about the record date Lonnie and I did.”
“It looked like more than that. Have they got something going?”
“I don’t know, I really don’t know.” Crisp expels a breath and downs the bourbon, goes to the bar and pours another. When he turns around this time his expression has changed, and the country twang is suddenly gone. “What do you think is really going on?” he asks quietly.
“I don’t know, but it’s beginning to look like I’ve been set up.”
“By who?”
“That’s what I want to find out. So what about the poetry?”
Crisp laughs. “Lonnie was right, you don’t give up.” He sits down on the bed again. “Country folks, the fans are funny. They like their heroes down-home types. There’s nothing very intellectual in singing songs about truck drivers, diners, jail, and lost old ladies. I can’t help it if I did well in college.”
“It worked for Kris Kristofferson.”
“I’m not Kristofferson,” Crisp says. He allows himself a smile. “We are friends, though.”
“I’m sure. What do you do, compare college transcripts?”
“Okay, okay, so it’s an act. Once it got started, I had to keep it up. I thought I’d do better if I sounded like I was a Nashville native. By the way, what did you think of the poetry?”
“Look,” I say, “this is not a literary analysis. Somebody’s got the money, the photos, and that same somebody wants me out of the picture. You got any ideas?”
Crisp shakes his head. “No, I don’t. I thought it was a straight-up blackmail scam.” There was that word again. Scam. Maybe the blackmail, scheme was just a cover for something else, but what?
“How badly does being out five hundred thousand hurt?”
“You mean am I okay financially?” Crisp shrugs. “I’m not going to tell you I like losing that kind of money, but yeah, my royalty statements are all straight. You’re not going to read about Charlie Crisp going bankrupt, or having a benefit to pay the IRS. I got the best accountant in the business.” He smiles slightly. “I think you know him.”
“Who’s that?” I ask, but he’s right. I think I already know the answer.
“Carlton Burroughs.”
I sit for a long time at the bar in the Frontier lounge going over everything. I had convinced Crisp to keep Bo Harris in the dark for now. I don’t really think he trusts him anyway. I think about Megan Charles. She’s an opportunist, a survivor, certainly capable of pulling off something like this if she has good reason. She doesn’t. She runs Lonnie’s business. No reason for her to jeopardize that position. I can only imagine what her salary is, but does anybody ever have enough?
Carlton, however, hadn’t told me he also managed Crisp’s finances. That would explain how he managed to get that cash together so quickly, though. Then again, I hadn’t asked, and Carlton doesn’t readily volunteer information. How long had that been in effect? I wonder if Lonnie even knows about it. I would bet that Megan knows and maybe that’s what her association with Bo is about.
A scenario begins to form in my mind. It’s not one I like, but I have to pursue it, know how it works to unravel it.
In the meantime, I have to clear myself.
I call Cindy again from my room. There’s no answer and her machine is still on. I leave a hello message. I try Santa Monica Police for Coop and convince whoever takes the call that it’s important. They finally patch me through to his car radio.
“Doesn’t look good, sport,” Coop says. “They haven’t made a definite match yet, but it was certainly a typewriter like yours. We should know more in the morning.”
“Thanks, Coop.”
“Evan.” His voice is cutting out. “Don’t let me have to come get you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I get back to LAX by midnight. In the parking garage there’s another surprise. The driver’s-side window of my car has been bashed in and the contents of the glove compartment are strewn on the floor and over the front seat. Radio and tape deck are not touched. Somebody else besides me is looking for a tape.
I have a couple of bad moments looking around the garage, but nobody is there lurking behind pillars, just tired travelers going to their cars. I use an old rag from the trunk to sweep the glass off the seat, get in, and drive to the tollbooth. The attendant eyes the window and gives me a strange look.
“Somebody tried to steal my car, I guess.”
He shakes his head. “Dangerous city, mister. Better get that window fixed or they will steal it. Here.”
He hands me change and a business card for E-Z Ed’s Auto Glass in West Los Angeles. “My brother-in-law.”
“Right, thanks.” He and E-Z Ed have probably got a concession.
I negotiate the airport traffic and finally roll along Lincoln quickly. I pull into a parking place. Cindy’s car is nowhere in sight, but she could be anywhere. I’m cautious entering my apartment. No one is there and everything is in order. When I check Cindy’s place, it’s another story.
Using the spare key, I go in and stop cold. Somebody has
really done a thorough job on her place. It’s totally ransacked. Cushions pulled out of the couch, tables overturned, drawers pulled out, their contents scattered on the floor. What else could they be looking for? Time to call Coop.
I track him down through a radio patch again. “Nice of you to call,” he says. “What’s up?”
“Everything,” I say. “Can you get over here? Cindy’s place has been turned upside down, and my car was broken into.”
“All right. Don’t touch anything. We’re rolling now.”
I wait for them in my place, and fifteen minutes later Coop and Dixon arrive. “Shall we?” Coop says. I take them into Cindy’s. They both walk around giving it a professional once-over. “Well, I don’t think they found it,” Coop says.
“What?”
“The tape. What else?”
“How do you know?”
“If they found it, we’d know where. They would have stopped there. This is total,” Coop says, indicating the chaos. I hadn’t thought of that, but he’s right. There’s no place whoever was searching appeared to stop.
Dixon comes out of the bedroom. “Nothing in there either,” he says.
Cooper nods. “We’ll dust in the morning, but this is a pro job, rubber gloves. There won’t be any prints.” He looks at Dixon. “See if we got any calls. I’ll be out in a minute.”
With Dixon gone he turns back to me. “There’s no match on the typewriter. That’s the good news. Like I said, all we know is the notes were written on a typewriter like yours, the same model. Any ideas?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean where did you buy it? How long ago?”
I think for a minute. “About six months ago, at a discount store in the Valley.”
Coop nods. “I got an idea. I’ll fill you in tomorrow, but without a match, your Ms. Charles doesn’t have anything to charge you with, so—”
“I got some time?”
“A little.”
I feel like I’ve just drifted off to sleep, but the bedside clock tells me it’s almost nine. The pounding on the door is what’s awakened me. I pull on some jeans and go see who it is. T.J.’s huge frame once again fills the doorway.
“Lonnie wants to see you, man,” T.J. says.
This time there’s no hesitation. T.J. waits while I splash some water on my face and finish dressing. In minutes we’re rolling down the Santa Monica Freeway with T.J.’s massive hulk at the wheel of Lonnie’s Lincoln.
“Where are we going?”
“Watts,” T.J. says, offering nothing more.
We exit the Santa Monica Freeway at Washington Boulevard and drive past what was once the site of the It Club. I remember many nights there, hanging out listening to jazz, meeting other musicians, trying to file away the piano player’s licks. It was all different then.
Besides the It Club, the Adams West Theater used to put on jazz concerts that didn’t even start until two in the morning. The tradition here goes back to Central Avenue, Dexter Gordon and Art Pepper at the Club Alabam. The Watts riots of ’65 changed all that. So did the gangs.
I feel T.J. tense as we cross Adams Boulevard. Skirting Compton, we come upon the Watts Towers. This was where it all began for Lonnie, I think, as we drive past family-owned corner shops, liquor stores, small office complexes.
T.J. turns a corner and we’re on a residential street of small, early-California wood-frame houses. There are cars up on blocks in some of the driveways and young black men of all ages, in head scarves or baseball caps on backward, lounging against cars, smoking, talking, jiving. Loud hard music comes from a boom box the size of a small suitcase perched on the hood of one of the cars. Three little girls in pigtails jump rope and chant some ancient ritualistic litany.
Halfway down the block, T.J. pulls into one of the drives and parks. The houses on either side have chipped peeling paint and their yards are brown. This one has a green manicured lawn, flowers, and looks to be freshly painted. There’s an old-fashioned swing on the porch and potted flowers everywhere.
“Lonnie’s grandmother’s,” T.J. says, pointing at the house. “She raised him here.” We get out of the car and I watch T.J. routinely scan the street. The young dudes give us a long appraising look, but T.J.’s size gets the most attention.
“What’s up?” one of the guys says to T.J.
“Cool ride,” another one says, eyeing the Lincoln.
“You got it,” says T.J.
“Don’t worry, it’s cool,” he whispers to me.
He rings the bell and a short, frail, gray-haired woman opens the door. There’s no way to tell her age. She wears glasses with a piece of tape on the frame. A few strands of hair hang over her forehead. She brushes them aside and smiles at T.J.
“I got something for you,” she says. “Come on in.” She glances at me nervously. “You too,” she says to me. “Lonnie’s in the back.” She nods toward a hallway.
“This is Sarah Cole,” T.J. says, “Lonnie’s grandmother.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Cole?” I say, offering her my hand. She squeezes it briefly.
“C’mon, you,” she says, and pushes T.J. toward the kitchen. “I got some hot biscuits and blackberry jam.” I go in the other direction looking for Lonnie.
The hallway is covered with photos of Lonnie. Some are family shots, but most are of Lonnie performing at concerts, touring, getting off a plane. It’s obviously Grandmother Sarah’s private hall of fame. I walk toward the sound of a television and find Lonnie sitting in an overstuffed easy chair facing an expensive big-screen television. The rest of the furniture is old and worn.
“She won’t let me buy her anything else,” Lonnie says, pointing at the TV, “but she likes the soaps.” At the moment, it looks like the Donahue Show. Three couples are seated on the stage talking about their lack of marital bliss.
Lonnie is in jeans, a sweatshirt, and sandals. “Sit down, man.” He sits up straighter and looks around the room. “I tried to buy her a house out in the Valley, but she won’t move. I’m kind of glad. This is home to me too. I can hide out down here.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
Lonnie shrugs. “I guess, till I know what’s going on.”
I fill him in on my trip to Vegas but leave out the bits about Carlton being Crisp’s accountant. “I think Crisp is straight-up on this. He’ll go with whatever we, you, decide.”
“Megan wants your ass,” Lonnie says, smiling. “She gonna get it?”
“Not if I can help it” I tell him about the typewriter not matching, available anywhere. He’s clearly disappointed.
“Shit, anyone can buy one of those.”
“Exactly. If I can find out who, maybe we can unravel this.” I pause a moment. “You didn’t ask about the money.”
“Don’t have to. You wouldn’t be around if you took it,” Lonnie says.
On the screen, Phil Donahue is sprinting through the audience, thrusting a microphone into someone’s face.
Well, at least I know where I stand with Lonnie. “I’m going to stay on this,” I say, but I don’t tell him my ideas. “I need some help, Lonnie, from you.”
“What kind of help?” His tone turns suddenly cautious, wary.
“I need to see records, financial statements, that kind of thing, and that means an okay from you.” He stares at the TV for a minute before he answers. What must he be thinking?
Donahue goes to a commercial. “Okay, you got it. I’ll call Carlton. Anything else?”
“Besides one of Sarah’s biscuits? I’ll let you know.”
“You do that,” Lonnie says.
Sarah Cole’s biscuits and jam have left T.J. in a good mood. He eyes the half dozen she’s wrapped up for me on the seat. I pretend to forget them when he drops me off back at my place. Before I can open the door, T.J. puts a hand on my arm.
“You call if you need anything, man. I’ll be at Lonnie’s or the Rams practice.” T.J. suddenly laughs. “Shit, I might come out of retirement if they do
n’t get their defense together.”
My apartment is still intact, and when I go over to Cindy’s hers is all cleaned up. There’s a note on the refrigerator. “What happened here?” she’s written. “If you get back this morning, I’m at the Sweatshop—Cindy.”
Well, that’s Cindy. She comes back from a flight, finds her apartment trashed, cleans it up, and then goes to work out.
At the Sweatshop I check at the desk. An attendant who looks like he could use a workout points me toward one of the exercise rooms. One entire wall is glass. Inside I can see about a dozen women in leotards gyrating to the loud rock music that filters through the glass. It takes me a minute but I finally spot Cindy. Arms and legs pumping to the beat, she looks better than any of them.
A few minutes later the music stops and she comes out, flushed, sweating, a towel draped around her neck, a gym bag in her hand. She spots me and comes over.
“Evan,” she says. “You got my note.” She drops the gym bag and dries off with the towel. “God, this is torture, but I gotta keep up.” She eyes the other women filing out of the aerobics room. “Look at her legs,” Cindy says, pointing to a tall woman with dark hair. “She’s thirty-nine and looks like that. Wow!”
“Cindy, where the hell have you been?” We sit down on a bench near the door.
“I’m sorry, Evan, I just couldn’t handle it. When they pulled you out of the water, I don’t know, getting away, the airport was the first place I thought of. When I got out there, someone had called in sick, so I took their run. I just got home this morning. By the way, what happened to my apartment?”
“Somebody broke in looking for something.”
“I know, I told the police. They checked everything while I was cleaning up.”
“What did they say?”
“Not much. They were checking for fingerprints, I guess, but your friend Cooper says there probably won’t be any except for yours and mine. Does that mean we have to be fingerprinted?”
I sigh. “Cindy, someone was looking for the tape, the one I got from the drive-in.”
