by Bill Moody
Steve is busy showing the horn to the rest of the trumpet section. They’re passing it around, offering their guesses about the inscribed initials.
“Count Basie,” says one.
“Naw, Chet Baker.”
“It could be Bix Beiderbecke,” another one says. “Wasn’t his real name Charles?”
“No, that was Buddy Bolden, but this isn’t a cornet. Buddy played a cornet.”
“How about Charlie Brown?” the guy on the end says.
The horn finally ends up back with Steve.
“Here you go, man,” he says. “I put it in an old gig bag.” He hands me the trumpet in a soft vinyl case with no room for anything but the trumpet.
“Thanks, I really appreciate it, Steve. How’d you do with Cat Woman?” I still remember the girl at the party dressed in the black jumpsuit.
Steve’s eyes flick to the music on the stand in front of him. “Aw, she hooked up with some producer before I finished the last set.”
The studio suddenly quiets as a voice comes out of the speakers. “All right, gentlemen, I think we’re ready to begin.” The conductor mounts the podium and glances at the score. Behind him in the glassed-in booth, the recording engineers have their eyes on the control board.
“Well, I better get out of here,” I say to Steve.
I stop at the door though, and listen to them run through the first cue. Must be a chase scene and car crash. The tempo is way up, with the horns falling off at the end of the phrase that only last a few seconds. Makes me wonder how my own will turn out.
I nod to the pianist. He looks at me and shrugs. “TV,” he says.
I flex the fingers on my right hand. No residual pain from last night. This is where I should be. Seated at a ten-foot Steinway playing, not chasing around L.A. trying to provoke a killer the police suspect but can’t arrest.
I let myself out as the red light comes on and go back to the car.
Natalie is glancing through the newspaper.
“Want to meet a hip old lady?” I ask, getting in the car.
“Sure.” She sees me check my watch. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s okay. She’s had lunch.”
“Who?”
“The hip old lady.”
“We haven’t.”
“Right after this. I promise.”
Gladys Cowen has had lunch, but not her soap. By the time we get to Cosmos, she is very annoyed.
“Canceled it for that damn trial,” she says. “Waste of time.”
Natalie is instantly charmed. The two of them get into a discussion about soaps and trials on TV and generally forget I’m there.
I let them go for a few minutes. “Excuse me, ladies,” I say.
They both stop talking at once and look at me. “Let’s humor the boy, Natalie.” She turns to me and lights a menthol. “You found out something?”
“I tracked down two of the musicians on the tapes.”
“Did you find the tapes?”
“Well, I know where they are. Getting them back is another story. The police have one, and somebody else has the other one.”
“The police? Well, they can just give it back, then, can’t they?”
“It’s not quite that simple, Gladys.” I glance at Natalie for support.
“Evidence,” she says.
“These tapes are part of a murder investigation in Las Vegas,” I tell Gladys.
“My tapes?” Her eyes get big. “My God, people killing each other over music.”
“Gladys, can those tape reels be identified? Did your husband use any kind of marking on them? Or was there something out of the ordinary?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Gladys says. She thinks for a moment. “Wait, yes, there was. Tom pasted address labels inside all the blank reels. You couldn’t see them from the outside, but sometimes we shipped tapes. He thought it was a good idea in case the box got lost or damaged.”
“It’s a wonderful idea. If necessary, would you be willing to testify to that in court? It might make it easier to identify the tapes and get them back.”
Gladys sits up straight in her chair. “I certainly would. You just tell me when and where.” She turns to Natalie. “He’s a good boy, isn’t he? I knew he’d find my tapes. You take care of him, darlin’.”
“Oh, I will,” Natalie says smiling.
We have lunch at Johnny Rockets in Westwood. Somehow a ’50s-style diner seems appropriate. There’s a crowd of UCLA students and a scattering of tourists. We wait our turn for two seats at the counter while oldies but goodies blast out of the jukebox.
The fare is simple: great hamburgers, plates of French fries, little paper cups filled with catsup, and cherry Cokes, made at the fountain and served in paper cones set in black pedestals. Somehow I managed to resist one of the thick chocolate malts that come with the sweating stainless steel mixer.
“Oh God, this is wonderful. Do you realize how un-L.A. this is?” she says, finishing off the last of her fries dipped in catsup. She leans back in her chair, sucks on her straw until there’s a gurgling sound, and sighs contentedly. “It’s just like high school.”
She looks around. There are still people waiting for tables. “Well, what happens now?”
“I guess we pay the check and get out of here.”
“No, I mean with Cross, this whole thing?”
“Well, I’ve blown his cover as far as him being able to peddle the tapes to anyone, certainly Rick Markham. But we’re no closer to an arrest for Perkins’s murder.”
“We?” Natalie still can’t resign herself to my Lone Ranger strategy. “Isn’t he going to be awfully mad at you for taking the trumpet again?”
When I don’t answer, Natalie studies me for a few moments.
“That’s the idea, isn’t it? You’re making yourself a target.”
“I’m not making myself a target. Let me see what Coop says. Maybe Cross will do something stupid, something they can get him on.”
“Evan, you exposed Cross as a thief, ruined his chances to pull off a hoax with a record company, and accused him of murder. I was there, remember?”
I put up my hands in surrender. “Well, you got me there.”
Natalie isn’t mad, just worried and serious. “You’ve set everything in motion, now let Coop handle it. Promise?”
“Promise.”
“If you don’t, then it’s you who’s doing something stupid.”
We leave Westwood and drive back to Venice, but Natalie decides to go home for the rest of the afternoon.
“My place is a mess. I’ve got laundry and housework to catch up on. I haven’t done a thing since midterms,” she says.
“This from a girl who has a Just Say No to Laundry magnet on her refrigerator.”
Natalie ignores that one. “I also have to go shopping for groceries.”
“Really? Should I call later?”
“You’d better. I’m cooking tonight for a piano player who thinks he’s a detective. Don’t be late.”
I find Danny Cooper in his office doing police lieutenant things—paperwork, phone calls. He glances up, apparently glad for the distraction, when I walk in.
“I was just about to call you,” he says. “Cross called, wants to file a complaint against you. Says you stole his trumpet last night.”
“This guy is amazing,” I say. I sit down opposite Coop. “We were at a party at Rick Markham’s, the guy from Pacific Records.”
“And a good time was had by all, no doubt. How did you do it?”
I tell Coop about the switch I made with Steve Patterson and about listening to the tape Cross still has. Coop sits there, hands folded across his chest, occasionally shaking his head.
“Clever, you jazz musicians, aren’t you? Always helping each other out. Well, let’s see. You got back an old trumpet that is not valuable to anyone except perhaps to its owner, which you removed from a crime scene in Las Vegas, embarrassed and exposed a murder suspect who knows you’re the only one who can
put him in Ken Perkins’s house the night of the murder, and generally pissed him off. What’s on tap today?”
“You tell me.”
“Okay. You’re not going to like it, though.” Coop leaps forward on his desk. “You’re going to have to give the trumpet back.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Sorry, sport, that’s the way it is. Cross has a bill of sale for the trumpet. He showed it to us at LAX, remember? He says if he gets the trumpet back he won’t press charges.”
“He won’t press charges? I hope you told him what to do with his complaint.”
“I said I’d look into it. I stalled him for a while, but if he wants to push it, I have no choice.”
I get up and walk a few paces around the office. “C’mon, Coop. This is crazy. The trumpet is a minor thing. We both know Cross killed Ken Perkins.”
“Maybe,” Coop says, “but we can’t move on him.”
“What would it take?”
Coop stands up and stretches. “I gotta get some coffee.” He looks at me staring at him, still waiting for an answer. “Get Cross to come in and confess. That’s about the only way it’s going to work. Want to join me?”
“No, I’ve got things to do.” I start for the door, but Coop calls me back
“I want that trumpet.”
I drive away from police headquarters with no clear direction in mind, just letting the surge of the traffic flow carry me along to Ocean Avenue. On impulse I turn left and head down the California incline to the Pacific Coast Highway. I still haven’t decided where I’m going by the time I reach Santa Monica Canyon, so I just keep heading north toward Malibu.
A light rain begins to fall, and I wonder how much of the cliffs will fall on the highway this year. There was heavy rain last night, so mud slides are not out of the question. I turn on the wipers and notice oncoming cars on this curvy, two-lane stretch have turned on their lights. I do the same, but nobody slows down.
To my right expensive homes, precariously perched on stilts, jut out from the cliffs, apparently ready to slide across the highway and into the dark gray Pacific at any moment. I push the cassette I’ve been carrying around for days into the deck. I laugh out loud when the first tune comes up: “It Might As Well Be Spring.”
By the time I get to Malibu Pier, I realize I know exactly where I’m going. I can’t wait any longer for something to happen, I have to make something happen. Don’t give up, Cal said. Okay, here goes.
Passing Pepperdine College the traffic thins out, probably mostly Malibu residents trying to make it home before the highway is closed. I ease down the long grade past Point Dume to Zuma Beach. In the summer the beach is packed with thousands of sun worshipers, but now one lone fisherman casts his line into the ocean while the wind whips around a boarded-up lifeguard station.
I turn right at Trancas Canyon, drive up the hill to Tapia Drive, and park in the visitors’ lot. I get the trumpet out of the trunk and jog around to the front of the condos, rain dripping off my head. One glance at the ocean churning up white foam below, crashing on the beach, then I ring the doorbell.
Raymond Cross opens the door and stares at me for a moment.
“You.”
“I have something I believe is yours.”
I enjoy the moment, catching him totally off guard. Just the look on his face is worth the trip. From inside I hear music, the tape that started everything. The sound of a trumpet that never was Clifford Brown.
Cross at first looks past me, to the rain-slick sidewalk that overlooks the canyon, as if he thinks there’s someone else there. His eyes, full of questions, come back to me, then go to the trumpet in the vinyl bag I have tucked under my arm.
He doesn’t say, “Come in.” Instead he says, “I’ve been expecting you.” He steps back, holds the door open, nods for me to enter. He too knows it’s come down to this, just the two of us.
I stand in the entranceway while he shuts the door. To the left is a kitchen-dining area with sliding glass doors affording a view of the coastline. On my right are stairs leading to the second floor.
“In there,” Cross says, nodding toward the living room.
There’s a fire crackling in the stone fireplace, the pungent smell of wood chips wafting about the room, clashing with some kind of air freshener. Two large chairs face one another in front of the fireplace. An ebony-lacquered coffee table squats between them. On one wall, from floor to ceiling, are glass-enclosed shelves that extend under the staircase and must house thousands of records. On the opposite wall is an elaborate stereo system that includes a reel tape player. A video cam on a tripod lurks in the corner, its eye pointing toward me. I watch the tape reel turn slowly, listen to Connie Beale’s trumpet fill the room with a Clifford Brown solo.
It’s the Duke Ellington song, “What Am I Here For?”
Good question. Like almost everything else I do, I’m improvising, seeing where this tune takes me without knowing the ending.
Cross, still unsure of how to proceed, regards me for a moment. Then a slight smile comes over him. “Sit down,” he says.
I take a seat in one of the chairs, feel the warmth of the fire sweep over me. There’s coffee in a mug on one side of the table. Cross notices me look at it.
“Would you like some?”
“Sure, why not?”
I set the trumpet case on the floor while he goes off to the kitchen. He returns in a minute with a mug of coffee for me and sits down opposite in a tall, dark green wing chair.
“This belonged to Bette Davis,” Cross says, patting the arms of the chair. “I got it at an auction. The chair you’re sitting in came from the estate of Humphrey Bogart.” Cross smiles. “I can never resist unusual or rare things.”
“You should have stuck to buying things rather than killing for them.”
“Oh please, I’m disappointed. Is that why you’ve come all the way out here? By the way, how did you know where I live?”
“It wasn’t too difficult for the police to find your address.”
“Yes, your friend Lieutenant Cooper. A simple but, I gather, rather efficient man.” Cross’s expression is almost a smirk. “Please don’t tell me this house is surrounded.”
“No, I’m not trying to tell you that. No one knows I’m here.” I watch him for a moment, trying to anticipate his reaction. “I want to buy the trumpet.”
He looks as if he hasn’t heard me. He just stares for several seconds. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now that he’s more relaxed, on sure ground, I catch an audible intake of breath each time he speaks. It reminds me of Raymond Burr or Rod Steiger. “You want to buy the trumpet?” he says.
“Why not? It can’t mean anything to you.”
“It means a great deal to me. It’s the—excuse the pun—instrument of this entire adventure. Don’t you understand that? No, I’m not going to sell you the trumpet, for a number of reasons.”
Cross gets to his feet, goes to the tape deck, and stops the music. “We’ve both heard this many times, haven’t we? How about something new?”
He rewinds the tape and removes the reel from the deck. All his movements are measured, meticulous. He puts the tape in its box, then pauses to look at me. “We could trade, I suppose, couldn’t we?”
“Trade?”
“This tape for the trumpet. You did take it from my car at Markham’s party?”
“You know I did.”
Cross shrugs. “As I told you when I got the pawn ticket, valet parking, is not very secure, particularly at a private home.”
I realize Cross is enjoying this. He’s more secure now. I’m on his turf, and he’s in control, at least for the moment.
“No, on second thought, I guess we can’t trade, since you have nothing to trade. The trumpet and tape are both mine.” He smiles, raises one finger in the air. “But I have a better idea.”
From the shelf near him, Cross takes a foil-wrapped roll of antacid tablets, puts one in his mouth, and watches me while he c
hews on it. A strange look comes into his eyes, a vacant stare. It’s what I couldn’t see the night Ken Perkins was murdered. It’s some kind of inner excitement rising inside him, ready to bubble over. His eyes go to the video camera.
“Your coming here has provided me with an excellent opportunity.”
I have no idea what he means. I take a sip of coffee and watch him. It’s almost as if he’s unaware I’m sitting in his living room.
I watch him open a new box of videotape and put it in the camera. He presses the record button, taps on the mike, and adjusts the levels. He carries it over near the coffee table, till it’s at an angle facing his chair. He looks through the viewfinder, checks everything, then satisfied, he comes over to sit in his Bette Davis chair.
“Now, I think we’re ready,” he says.
“Ready for what?”
“To record, of course. I’m going to tell you everything. How I came into these tapes and the trumpet, and of course, how and why Ken Perkins was killed.”
I look toward the camera, then back to him. I don’t know if I’m in the frame or not. Cross enjoys what must be a look of utter astonishment on my face.
“You see,” Cross says, “no matter what I tell you, it will remain my secret. Even if you were to tell the police about the tape we’re going to make, there’s nothing they could do about it. It’s still your word against mine. Yours is not too good at the moment, even with your friend Cooper.”
“Then what’s the point? Why make the tape?”
“The point is, I will have a videotape recording of a murder confession. Something so rare, so unique”—Cross speaks the words with genuine enjoyment—“something I know for sure no one else has. It’s the dream of every collector.”
He holds up his hands and smiles again, as if he’s surprised I don’t get it. “Besides,” he says, “I’ll—”
Cross looks at me, sees something in my expression that causes him to smile again. He knows what he sees is fear, disbelief, and the realization that I’m looking at a man over the edge. He wallows in it. I stare at Cross, watch the pure pleasure spread over his face as my own registers the ingenuousness of his words-.
