Solo Hand

by Bill Moody

  “This morning? What’s this about?”

  “I’d rather not go over it on the phone. I have some information that I think might be of use to you.”

  “You’ll have to be a little more specific than that, Mr. Markham.”

  “Please, call me Rick. I’m referring primarily to a mutual friend of ours, also in the record business. Have you seen the morning paper?”

  “I’m not in the record business, Rick, at least not anymore. Who is this mutual friend?”

  Markham ignores my tone and emphasis on his name. “Yes, your accident was tragic and I’m sure difficult for someone as talented as you, Evan. Look at the paper. The story is on page one.”

  “Can I call you back?”

  “Of course.” Markham gives me his private number. “I look forward to hearing from you, Evan.” Markham sounds very confident that I’ll call back.

  I hang up, wondering what this is all about and who the mutual friend is. As far as I know, Rick Markham and I don’t have any mutual friends.

  I get dressed and go down the beach, dodging a couple of roller skaters on the way to the Shack, a beachfront diner that at this hour is empty except for two surfers in wet suits. I get a Los Angeles Times from the machine out front, order a large coffee from the Korean woman behind the counter, and sit down to read about Elvin Case. Markham was right It’s on page one.

  FORMER RECORD COMPANY EXECITITVE

  FOUND MURDERED

  Santa Monica Police reported the discovery of a body early last night near Santa Monica Pier. The victim, Elvin Case, former promotions executive at Pacific Records, was apparently fatally shot twice in the head. Case was identified by an associate. Case left Pacific two years ago under what one company source called complicated circumstances.

  Since leaving Pacific, Case has worked on the fringe of the record industry, promoting and managing a number of music groups. The police have no leads or suspects at this time, but investigating officer Lt. Dan Cooper reports the case is moving forward.

  Now I’m an “associate” of Elvin Case, but no one knows my name. Except Markham. The story goes on to briefly review Elvin’s career in the record business and speculate as to the possible motivation for the murder. Funeral services are scheduled for the following day.

  While Elvin was being shot, Carlton Burroughs, Emerson Barnes, and I were having dinner at Gemini’s.

  What occurs to me now as I stare at the paper is the question Buster Browne asked me last night. “What kind of shit are you into, man?” Well, how about blackmail, robbery, attempted murder, murder, and possibly, illegal royalty reports, for starters?

  I finish my coffee and stare out at the beach. No sign of the couple with the metal detector. Maybe they’ve moved on to new territory. I walk back to the apartment even more confused by Markham’s call, but when I dial his number he answers on the first ring. He’ll see me at ten. Then I call Carlton Burroughs.

  “Evan, what time can I expect you?” Carlton is cordial, expectant, but his voice changes when I put him off till the afternoon.

  “Something has come up,” I say. “How about two this afternoon?”

  Carlton is a little hesitant. “Well, I suppose that would be all right, but it is Saturday. I had hoped we could get this over as soon as possible. I have something planned this afternoon myself.”

  Now what does Carlton Burroughs do on Saturday afternoon? “No more than I do, Carlton. The books aren’t going to change by then, are they?” I can’t resist the dig.

  “No, of course not. This afternoon, then, Evan.”

  Pacific Records is nestled in the hills near Universal Studios, just over the hill from Hollywood. I drive out the San Diego Freeway with only the usual delays at the Ventura interchange and pull into the Pacific parking lot fifteen minutes early. A receptionist directs me to a bank of elevators that lead to the executive offices.

  Another receptionist, a redhead in her mid-twenties and probably the one I talked to on the phone, greets me in the outer office. She takes in my cord jacket and slacks, finds them adequate, and offers me coffee and a seat on one of the leather couches. At exactly ten she looks up and says, “Mr. Markham will see you now.”

  I go down the thickly carpeted halls, passing wall plaques of gold and platinum records and autographed eight-by-ten glossies of Pacific Record stars. There are many. The double oak doors to Rick Markham’s office are discreetly lettered in gold with his initials.

  Rick Markham, his back to me, is on the phone looking out over the San Fernando Valley through a large plate-glass window. He swivels around to face me, holds up one finger. I take a seat opposite him and wonder why the musicians that make the music don’t live as well as those who produce it.

  There’s a small wooden bar, bookcases adorned with Grammys, silver-framed photos of Markham and some of his stars, and an expensive stereo system. Markham’s desk is a massive Plexiglas affair with an aluminum briefcase open on top. The rest of the furnishings are ultramodern and also expensive.

  “Right,” Markham says into the phone. “I’ll be in New York next week. Look forward to it.” He hangs up, swivels around, and punches another button on his phone. “Mary Ann, hold all my calls, please.”

  Current business out of the way, he smiles at me and stands up to offer his hand. Rick Markham is, I decide, no older than I am. He probably doesn’t look any different now than he did in his college graduation photo.

  Unlike many record people who go for the California casual look, Markham is East Coast all the way. He wears an expensive three-piece charcoal suit, pale yellow shirt, and muted tie held at the collar with a silver stickpin.

  “Glad you could make it, Evan. Can I get you something?” He motions toward the bar.

  “No, thanks. I just had some coffee.” When I take out my cigarettes, he pushes a sparkling clean crystal ashtray across the desk. He sits back in his chair and folds his hands across his chest.

  “I know this all must be rather puzzling to you, Evan, my call I mean. You have seen the paper, I take it.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it.” I’m very aware he’s sizing me up, much like a loan officer might do when deciding whether or not I’m a good risk.

  “You knew Elvin Case well?”

  “Hardly at all. I only met him yesterday.”

  “I see.” Markham mulls that over for a moment before continuing. “Well, it may come as a surprise to you that I knew Elvin quite well. He was already here when I joined Pacific. Unfortunately, I had to let him go. I won’t go into the details, but if you talked to Elvin yesterday, well, you know his present circumstances. Elvin had”—he glances toward the window for inspiration—”enthusiasm that was, well, perhaps misdirected. I feel somewhat responsible for Elvin. I liked him, I really did, strange as that may sound.”

  “Not at all,” I say. “Elvin was likable.”

  “Exactly. You may also then not be surprised to learn that I don’t particularly care about music, Evan, or at least any particular type of music. I’m a businessman. Pacific Records was in trouble when I took over. It was up to me to meet the challenge, and Elvin Case was a small factor of that challenge. There had to be changes, and Elvin, again, represented one of the necessary changes. Do you follow me?”

  “I think so.” Elvin was caught with his hand in the cookie jar and had to be dumped. Markham’s attitude doesn’t surprise me at all. Someone once said—probably a jazz musician—that music business is two words. Markham was obviously the prototype for the business end. The bottom line, net record sales, is what he and his stockholders care about. If that means producing slick, over arranged Top Forty or wild heavy-metal screaming that kids will buy, then so be it. If jazz ever becomes commercial, people like Rick Markham will have a hand in it, and make much more money than the musicians.

  “Good,” Markham says. “It’s not important how, but I happen to know you’re becoming interested in the inner workings of the record business.” He pauses, for dramatic effect. “I think
I can be of help.”

  “Why? What’s this got to do with Elvin’s death?”

  “No one, not even Elvin, deserves an end like that,” Markham says. “If your investigation should bring about Elvin’s killer, and I can play some role in that, then I want to help.”

  I finish off my cigarette and try to make some sense of Markham’s monologue. Who is he protecting? Himself? Someone in Lonnie’s camp? I’d bet anything he knows Megan Charles. They go together like bookends. And how does he know I spoke with Elvin? I’m an unnamed associate.

  “Okay, I’m listening.” I have nothing to lose, and I’m intrigued that one of the L.A. big players is suddenly interested in my activities.

  “Good,” Markham says, as if the first hurdle has been cleared. “I know you’re an experienced musician, familiar with recording, but the business side, well, perhaps I can save you some time there. You know of course what happens after a recording session. The master tape is mixed, records, CDs, cassettes are manufactured, shipped. All that takes time.”

  “Then they’re in the bins at Tower Records.”

  “Correct, but there’s a distribution process that takes place before they get to Tower or anyplace else. Our own is a good example. We sell to independent distributors, who provide wholesalers with copies. They in turn sell to record stores and other outlets. Sometimes we use a one-stop, a distributor who bypasses the wholesalers and deals directly with the retailers.” Markham pauses for a moment to let this all sink in. “What do you suppose is the most important part of that process?”

  I shrug. Most of this I already know. You can’t work in the recording end of things without picking up some information. I certainly know what’s important to the record company and the artist. “Record sales?”

  “Precisely, but in addition there is another very important factor in the reporting of sales, and that is where I can perhaps save you time.”

  There’s an intensity to Markham’s eyes as he warms up to the subject. This is his rush. The music for the Rick Markhams of the record industry is incidental. The deal-making is where it’s at for Markham.

  “Returns,” Markham says, “unsold copies that are returned by the record stores, the wholesalers, the distributors to us. Despite the talent, the publicity, the promotion, some artists just simply do not sell up to expectation. When that happens, the returns are—and this is where it’s most interesting to you—charged against artist royalties. We have a saying in the business. We ship gold; they return platinum. It’s always a gamble, trying to gauge how many copies to press.” He spreads his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “What happens to these returns?”

  “Exactly what you need to find out, and you will if you should happen to look in the right place,” Markham says. “Quite simply, the numbers don’t always match.”

  “Is that what happened to Elvin?”

  “Let’s just say Elvin was into some very creative bookkeeping.”

  “Where do these alleged returns end up?” Markham smiles as if I’m his star pupil to have come up with the right question.

  “Storage warehouses. All record companies have them. Some of the smaller companies house their returns together. They simply can’t afford independent space.”

  I didn’t need any more from Markham, but he’s right. He has saved me some time. “Well, I appreciate the information, Mr. Markham.” I get up to leave.

  “There’s one other thing,” Markham says. “I don’t know what your arrangement is with whomever you’re dealing with, but I’d like to offer you a retainer and a substantial bonus if you discover the identity of Elvin’s killer.”

  I sit down again. “Why?”

  “As I told you before, I liked Elvin. Let’s just say his death represents unfinished business to me and I don’t like unfinished business. You would report your findings to me, of course.”

  “Why don’t you just explain all this to the police, give them the same information?”

  Markham’s expression is one of pain. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that Pacific Records doesn’t need the attendant publicity that such an investigation would generate, and besides, the police don’t have the entrée you have. I would also like to keep a certain distance between myself and any unpleasantness. I’m sure you understand.”

  I understand perfectly. Markham doesn’t want to get dirty. He wants to assuage his conscience over Elvin provided he doesn’t become directly involved, but it must go beyond that. “I’d like to think about it,” I hear myself say.

  “Please do,” Markham says, “and of course I trust you’ll keep our little talk confidential.”

  “Count on it.”

  “Good. Well, I’ll look forward to hearing your decision.” He walks with me to the door. “Is there any chance that you’ll play again?” Markham asks.

  I look down at my hand, flex the fingers, before I answer. “Too early to tell,” I say.

  “Well, as you know,” Markham says, “Pacific does have a small jazz line. Perhaps...” He leaves the thought dangling in the air, the proverbial carrot.

  “I’ll think about that too.”

  “Good. Do that, Evan.”

  On the way out, one of the signed photos catches my eye. I missed it going in, but there he is in cowboy hat, black suit, and good-ole-boy grin.

  The photo is signed, “To my buddy Rick—Charlie Crisp.”

  After I grab some lunch, I call Cindy. I’m convinced there’s nothing more to worry about with her, but I’m uneasy when I get only her answering machine. She could be anywhere, but I hope she’s gone back to work and far out of town. I tell the machine where I’ll be.

  If I’d come five minutes later I would have missed Megan Charles. She’s just leaving Carlton’s office as I arrive. Apparently Carlton didn’t waste the morning. Megan glares at me, then says to Carlton, “What’s he doing here?”

  “Nice to see you too, Megan,” I say. “Nice outfit.” I’ve caught her on an off day. She’s dressed in her version of Saturday casual—designer jeans, a silk blouse, and leather jacket.

  “Always the smart mouth aren’t you, Evan? We’ll see what you have to say when the police get through with you.” She turns on her heel and stalks out.

  “What does she mean?” I ask Carlton.

  “Nothing really,” Carlton says. “She’s upset that the police haven’t matched your typewriter to the notes.”

  “You don’t really think I wrote those, do you, Carlton?”

  “No, Evan, I don’t. I’m sure this will all clear itself up soon. Well, shall we?”

  Carlton shows me to a small room adjacent to his office. “You can have some privacy here,” he says. There’s only a table and a couple of chairs and some cartons stacked against the wall. “I use it for storage primarily,” Carlton says.

  There are three thick file folders on the table, a yellow legal pad, some pens, and an ashtray. “You’ve thought of everything,” I say.

  Carlton explains the three files. One is Lonnie’s royalty statements; one is his personal financial records. The third is tax records dating back three years. “I don’t suppose you’ll have much use for that one, but I thought I’d include it,” Carlton says. “Lonnie said to give you everything. If you have any questions, I’ll be here.”

  I nod at Carlton and sit down at the table. Carlton watches me for a moment, his hand on the doorknob, as if reluctant to leave me alone. “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” he says.

  I skim the tax record file first. Everything looks in order and one very recent investment deal is noted with a memo. Was this the one to cover Lonnie’s blackmail money? Carlton had mentioned there would be some property manipulation. Other than that, there’s nothing out of the ordinary—inasmuch as a recording star’s tax records are ever ordinary.

  The royalty file from Angeles Records is crammed with statements, shipping invoices, and payment receipts. Lonnie’s had two gold albums, half-million sellers, and one that almost went plati
num, nearly twice that many. There are separate sheets for returns, which show that in the past year those figures have shot up considerably. They are all accounted for, however, and charged against the royalty statements, as are the promotional copies that were shipped to radio stations.

  The new recording with Charlie Crisp will no doubt change this picture and put The Soul of Country on the Billboard Hot 100 the minute it’s released. With adequate airplay, personal appearances, and maybe a Grammy nomination, Lonnie should be back in the profit column in no time.

  I make notes from the shipping invoices on the numbers of returns and where they’ve gone. Those are the figures that jump out at me, but if they’re accurate, then there’s nothing amiss here. I stare out the window at the Sunset traffic below. How many recording artists would actually visit a warehouse to verify that the returns are in fact accounted for? Not many, certainly not Lonnie Cole.

  I look again at Lonnie’s contract with Angeles Records. It’s all spelled out; and most of it is not in Lonnie’s favor, despite his sales. The record company is not about to eat the loss on returns as they did when the disco market collapsed in the late ’70s. One company I remember lost millions when the public tired of the Village People before the record company could stop production.

  Hundreds of thousands of records were returned when the companies misjudged the public’s appetite for disco music. Several companies went down and a number of top record executives found themselves on the street. The musicians and singers from those groups are probably selling insurance or real estate now.

  Three hours and half a pack of cigarettes later I’ve found nothing but frustration. I can’t be sure, but the feeling growing within me is that Lonnie Cole is fortunate to have Carlton Burroughs as his accountant.

  Closing the files, the thought hits me that unless I can find something more with the returns, my royalty scam theory is without foundation. What now? Another, more reckless thought occurs, one that would make Danny Cooper go berserk. Well, why not? Lonnie may not check the warehouses, but maybe I can.