Solo Hand

by Bill Moody

  Cindy smiles. “Of course they were,” she says, “but they didn’t find it.”

  “We know that, because—”

  “Because I’ve got it right here.” She reaches down and unzips the gym bag and pulls out the cassette. “See? You don’t think I’d just leave it lying around, do you? Oh, I bought you a present.” She hands me a rubber ball.

  I take it from her and bounce it in my hand. “Cindy, I love you.”

  “Yeah, sure you do.” She smiles. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “The tape?” I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’m just so relieved to see Cindy okay and get the tape back. I have an idea about that too. “I don’t think anybody will be back to your place,” I say.

  “Well, I hope not,” Cindy says. “I have three off, and I intend to spend them on the beach.”

  “Okay, just be careful.”

  “Where are you going? You could at least take me to lunch.”

  “Sorry, I gotta run. I’ll call you.” I leave Cindy imitating a pout.

  E-Z Ed’s Auto Glass is on Santa Monica Boulevard. I get lucky and find him not very busy. He gets right to work on my window, after mumbling something about Jap cars.

  “Thirty minutes,” says E-Z Ed.

  “Can I use your phone?” E-Z Ed points to his office as he looks over the Mazda.

  I use the time to try Elvin Case. He’s reluctant at first, but when I mention I’m a friend of Buster Browne, that seems to do the trick and he agrees to see me.

  “Be here by one,” Elvin says, giving me the address. “That a problem?” He hangs up before I can answer.

  Elvin Case’s office, if you can call it that, is just off Melrose, almost in West Hollywood, no more than a storefront with a desk, a telephone, and a couple of chairs, occupied at the moment by two young music hopefuls in tank tops and spiked hair.

  “But, man, we are ready,” the taller one says.

  “You’re ready when I tell you you’re ready,” Elvin says. “Now get out of here and wait till I call you. Work on the new arrangement.” Elvin stands up, indicating the meeting is over. He’s short, has a shock of thick curly hair, wears glasses, and sports an expensive-looking gold watch. Designer jeans and a sweater complete his outfit.

  The two musicians both get up. “This is bullshit, man,” the taller one says.

  “Fine,” Elvin says. “Get another manager. I told you I’d get you a demo deal. I got you one. I’ll call you.”

  “Sure.” They both give me a cursory look, mumble something, and slam the door on their way out.

  Elvin shakes his head. “Their band is what’s bullshit,” he says, “but what are you going to do? The public likes this crap. I just have to keep them on the edge. You Horne?”

  “Yeah, you’re Elvin?”

  “None other. Great place, huh? This is just temporary. Would you believe I used to have an office at Pacific Records?” He shakes his head again. “I’m doing a deal now with Angeles Records, kind of an outside thing but could be good. The record business, who needs it? I should have listened to my mother and become a lawyer. Now, those are the guys that make the bread,” indicating the departing musicians.

  I sit down in one of the chairs. “So tell me about the record business, Elvin. Buster said you know it pretty well.”

  “You a friend of Buster’s, huh?” Even with a referral, Elvin is sizing me up.

  “We worked together.”

  “Oh, yeah, what do you play?”

  “Played. Piano.”

  Elvin regards me for a moment. “You worked with Buster, you made some heavy gigs. Played? You a cop now maybe?”

  “No, I’m just looking into some things, for a friend.”

  Elvin considers for a moment. “If Buster gave you my number then you’re cool. Well, what do you want to know? You understand this is just a favor to Buster.”

  “Sure. Well, for a start, how possible is it for a manager to keep royalty records secret from his artist?”

  Elvin laughs. “How possible? You must be puttin’ me on, man. We’re talking about a singer, right? Most of them are so dumb a Boy Scout could hide big money from them.” He suddenly stands up. “Hey, let’s get out of here. How about some lunch? You buy, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Elvin locks up and we walk down the street to a taco stand. Elvin orders three and a Coke. I go for just a Coke. We take our order outside and sit at a metal table with the hum of traffic along Melrose for background. Elvin wolfs down the tacos, takes one of my cigarettes, and orders a second Coke.

  “You didn’t hear this from me, but here’s how it goes. You ready?”

  I nod, wonder if I should take notes, and try to imagine Elvin in a suite at Pacific Records. It’s not too difficult a picture to conjure up. The only difference between Elvin and the guys up there is a hit record.

  “There’s the artist, see. If he’s got any talent, or rather if he’s selling any records, he’s got a manager, an attorney, a publicity guy to handle promotion, a booking agent, and probably his own A&R man. That’s Artist and Repertoire.”

  “I know.”

  “Sure you do,” Elvin says. “Well, that’s a lot of layers, man. Anything can happen with that many people. If a couple of them work together,” he shrugs, “who knows? Record companies discount to wholesalers by giving them some freebies. Instead of say ten percent, they give them one free record for every ten. Now the company pays no royalties on free goods and they say they don’t get paid on free records either, but—”

  “The artist doesn’t see it like that.”

  “The artist? What do they know? The managers see it like that. It lets the record company decide how many records they’re going to pay royalties on. There’s no such thing as a free record, it’s just a billing technique. Got another cigarette?”

  I light us both up and let Elvin go on. He talks fast, like he’s on a stopwatch. “Let’s say I’m a record company and you’re a customer. If I sell you twelve hundred records at a buck apiece, you give me twelve hundred bucks and I give you twelve hundred records. Then I’m paying royalties on twelve hundred records.

  “But, and here’s the beauty of it, man, if I sell you a thousand records at a buck twenty each and give you two hundred free, then I’m still getting twelve hundred dollars, you still get twelve hundred records, but I’m only paying royalties on a thousand records. We both end up with the same thing and only the artist is out. Now, most managers aren’t going to bitch about a reasonable amount of freebies—five to ten percent—but the record companies go way beyond that. If they’ve got somebody hot, they’ll ship freebies to promote another artist and not pay royalties on any of those. Man, it’s beautiful. We’re talking about thousands here, and most artists don’t care. They just sign the contracts and go to the bank.”

  “But that doesn’t sound like much.”

  Elvin gives me a pained expression. “Man, just multiply those figures. You know how many record stores there are just in Southern California?”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way, but of course Elvin was right. Something was forming in my mind. It was still elusive, but I was beginning to get a picture of a way this could go. Elvin is smiling now, his eyes darting everywhere as he sees me digest the possibilities.

  “You’re getting it now, right? See, the manager, or attorney, or whoever controls things could decide not to file for those freebie royalties, get a kickback from the record company or even work it some other way. They also pay no royalties on promotion copies that go to DJs, radio stations. It’s the royalty rate versus the freebie percentage. The company decides what’s a sale and what isn’t. And sometimes they ship promo copies as cleans, without the promo label that would make it impossible to sell them. That wouldn’t show up on the shipping invoices, so who’s to know?”

  “Can’t the manager demand an accounting, an audit of the books?” Better yet, I think, why not just hide the promotional copies and pocket the difference?


  “Sure, but that costs big bucks too—fifty to seventy-five grand for an audit, and why would they if they’re the ones getting a kickback? The artist signed a contract that calls for free goods.”

  “Yeah, but what if they get caught, what happens then?”

  “Hey, man, you’re looking at one,” Elvin says. He looks away then and for a moment becomes pensive. Elvin was there once, in the big time. Somehow he blew it.

  For another fifteen minutes he sketches scenarios, fills me in on some more details until I have more than enough to talk with Carlton Burroughs. I give him my card, write my home phone number on the back. Elvin stuffs it in his pocket without looking at it.

  When we get up to leave, Elvin has one last piece of advice. He takes off his watch and shows me the back. It’s an engraved Rolex. “Elvin—Luv ya, baby.” Two years ago, the signature had belonged to one of the hottest recording stars in the business. The last story I’d heard, she was filing for bankruptcy.

  “If somebody knows how to work this with a really big artist, they won’t like anyone figuring it out,” Elvin says. His hustling attitude is gone now. He glances at the street again.

  “So?”

  He watches the traffic, looking for a chance to cross.

  “So watch yourself, man. It can get rough.”

  Elvin is across the street and halfway up the block before I move.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Back at the apartment nothing’s disturbed, no messages, and no Cindy. I tell myself that doesn’t mean anything, there’s nothing to worry about at least for now.

  I make a couple of calls trying to track down a recording engineer I’ve worked with several times. He’s my hope to analyze the answering machine tape and maybe tell me how it was made. I finally get him at one of the busiest studios.

  “Tape Factory,” a young female voice says.

  “Yeah, is Eric Hartman working there today?”

  The voice tells me she’ll check and she’s back in seconds. “Yes, he’s recording in Studio B. Do you want me to try?”

  “Please.” Another voice picks up the phone.

  “Yeah?” I can hear loud music in the background, brass, strings, very prominent bass.

  “Can I speak to Eric, please? It’s Evan Horne.”

  “Hold on, we’re listening to a playback.”

  A couple of minutes later Eric’s slightly accented voice comes on. “Evan, how’s the best touch pianist in L.A.?”

  “Not so good these days, Eric.”

  “Yeah, I heard. Sorry. What’s up?”

  “I need a favor, Eric. I’ve got a tape I want you to listen to.”

  “Don’t tell me, you’ve discovered the next Billie Holiday.”

  I laugh. “No, nothing like that. It is a voice tape, though. I want to see if you can tell me how it was done.”

  “Sounds intriguing. Hang on a minute.” I can hear him talking to someone else. “Let’s hear that again for bass mix, from letter B,” then he’s back with me. “Evan, sorry. Listen, I’m going to be here mixing till at least midnight. Can you get by before then?”

  “No problem. Thanks, Eric. See you then.”

  Gemini’s Restaurant is on Ventura Boulevard just north of Sherman Oaks. It’s currently an in place, at least for as long as these things last in Southern California. Deals are made here, clients are entertained in fairly plush surroundings with attentive service. The food is good, they usually have a decent pianist, and it’s Carlton Burrough’s favorite eatery. It’s also the kind of place people go to see and be seen.

  When I arrive, the leatherette booths are about three-quarters full. The L-shaped bar is four deep with people waiting for tables or just making the scene. A captain in a tux gives me an inquiring and disapproving look. I ignore it and tell him I’m looking for someone.

  Looking around, I see a couple of vaguely familiar faces—TV and movie types—and spot Carlton already in a corner booth, supervising the assembly of a Caesar salad. The waiter moves the cart aside to let me in and hands me a menu. I suddenly realize I haven’t eaten all day.

  “How was Las Vegas, Evan?” Carlton asks, never taking his eyes off the salad, now nearly finished. I realize that except for my dealings with him through Lonnie Cole, I don’t know much about Carlton Burroughs. Carlton is a widower, keeps to himself, and lives in the same home he bought seventeen years ago. If Carlton has a vice, it’s well-prepared, well-served food.

  “Yes, some ground pepper, please,” he says to the waiter, who is already poised with the mill. He holds up a hand after a couple of turns. “Perfect,” Carlton says. He takes the first bite, smiles, and nods his approval.

  “Try the sautéed shrimp,” Carlton says. “How about a drink? Have some of this.” He pours me a glass of white Zinfandel from a bottle nestling in a bucket of ice.

  I take a long drink. “Easy, Evan. Savor it,” Carlton says. He refills my glass. “So tell me, what did you find out from our Mr. Crisp?”

  “Ours is right,” I say. “You didn’t tell me you also handled his finances.”

  “You didn’t ask.” Carlton pauses, a chunk of anchovy on his fork. “Is it important, relevant?”

  I study Carlton, who is now fully engrossed in his salad. His expression doesn’t change a bit. “I don’t know, it could be,” I say. “It would certainly have explained how you had Crisp’s share of the ransom available so soon.”

  Carlton finishes with the salad, sips from his wineglass, then leans back. “Evan, you see that man across the room?” I look to where he’s pointing. “Do you know him? The man is a famous comedian. He does heavy ethnic humor, appears on the Tonight Show at least half a dozen times a year. I also handle his money, very carefully I might add. He has expensive tastes in women.” At the moment he’s toasting two bookend blondes half his age.

  “I also have on my client list an architect, two surgeons at Mt. Sinai Hospital, and three actors, one of whom just signed for a new television series, a terrible sit-com so I’ve been told. I’ve never seen it,” Carlton says, “but if it goes into syndication, well, who knows.”

  I listen to all this and realize just how much more there is to Carlton Burroughs. “The point is,” I say, “you might have told me not one but two of your clients were out five hundred thousand dollars each. One of them assures me it won’t really be a bother.”

  “Is that what Crisp said?” Carlton smiles. “Well, it’s true, I suppose, but Evan, nobody likes to lose that much money. Any luck on your, ah, investigation?”

  “Some.” I decide against telling him about Elvin Case. “I’ve spoken with Lonnie and he says he would okay a look at his books. You have any problem with that, Carlton?”

  “None at all. As a matter of fact, he called me already. Would tomorrow morning be early enough?”

  Before I can answer, the waiter has returned with Carlton’s fish and my shrimp, sizzling on a platter. The aroma is overwhelming. Now I know I’m hungry.

  We’re about halfway through dinner when I spot Emerson Barnes coming in with a group that includes a hot, on-the-rise, young black female singer. As the party makes their way to their table, Emerson surveys the room, sees us, and comes over.

  Smiling, hand outstretched, this is Emerson Barnes at night. He’s dressed in an expensive suit, and the smell of a strong cologne hovers over our table.

  “Carlton, thought I might see you here. Evan, I didn’t know you were a gourmet diner.” Emerson leans on the table, facing us. There’s only a hint of surprise at seeing me with Carlton.

  “Carlton has been showing me the ropes,” I say.

  “All right,” Emerson says, flashing another big smile. “Hey, stop by over there, Evan. Got somebody for you to meet. I know you checked her out on the way in.” Emerson and Carlton exchange a glance I don’t get.

  “Maybe after dinner,” I say.

  Emerson nods his goodbyes but stops twice on the way back to his party, shaking hands with several people on the way. He also stops a
waiter, points at our table, and says something to him.

  “Is this a regular place for Emerson?” I ask Carlton.

  He shrugs his disapproval. “He likes to make impressions, but for an entertainment attorney I suppose it’s necessary. He spends far too much money, though.”

  Apparently some of it is about to be spent on us. The waiter appears with two brandies and no check courtesy of Emerson Barnes. Carlton raises his glass to Emerson across the room and smiles. “Yours he’ll deduct as a Lonnie Cole expense, I’ll wager,” Carlton says.

  “And yours?”

  Carlton shrugs. “I’m sure he’ll figure something out. Emerson knows all the angles.”

  In another corner the pianist arrives, uncovers an ebony baby grand, and after a couple of runs over the keyboard begins gliding through the changes of “Green Dolphin Street.” I listen to his right hand and catch myself approving of his chord choices. He’s pretty good and makes me nervous. He’s background for the beautiful people but playing here probably five nights a week, keeping his chops together.

  The brandy is excellent, its warm glow assuring. I’m tempted to lounge around here for another hour. I’m getting too comfortable. “Well, thanks for dinner, Carlton.” I slide out of the booth.

  “Anytime, Evan, especially when it’s on Emerson. See you in the morning, then?”

  Emerson catches my eye as I leave, but I point at my watch, shrug, and head for the exit. Passing by the pianist, I nod at him and say, “Sounding good, man.” He acknowledges me with a nod and plunges into another standard.

  Outside, I get my car and head out a side driveway. I make an illegal U-turn on Ventura Boulevard and park just up the street from the restaurant where I can see the front exit and the two guys in red jackets valet-parking.

  Twenty minutes later, Carlton comes out, gets into his white Lincoln, and turns west on Ventura. I’m just about to pull out and follow when Emerson Barnes follows suit, alone, and points his blue Caddy in the same direction. This is going to be more interesting than I thought.

  Seeing these two up close in public has made me realize how little I know about their relationship. They always keep an aloof, businesslike manner between them in Lonnie Cole dealings. This is something very different.