by Bill Moody
“I’ve got divers in the water now. We’ll find it, we might even get prints.”
“Prints?”
“Yeah, unless he wiped it clean, the water won’t erase the oil residue from his fingers. Trask is on his way down from Las Vegas now. With the tape and the gun they’ll get an indictment. I’ll still need you to file the assault charge and a statement, but the Las Vegas murder charge will take precedence.”
“I’ll be down this afternoon. What if Cross takes off?”
“Let’s hope he does. That’ll be another charge to add to the list. How’s the hand?”
“It hurts. Four weeks in a cast.”
I hear Coop sigh over the phone. “Evan, get back to the piano.”
“I’m going to try.”
CODA
“Found it,” Blackbyrd says. “Arrival—Evan Horne. The guy claims it’s mint-minus condition, only played twice, but they always overestimate.”
It’s been a couple of weeks since I talked to Blackbyrd. I’d nearly forgotten about my request. “How much does he want for it?” What I really want to know is, How much is Evan Horne worth on the collector market?
“That’s the best part,” Blackbyrd says. “It’s a freebie.”
“Have you got a name?”
“Yeah, got it right here somewhere. Hang on a minute.” I hear him shuffling papers. “Here it is. Guy’s name is Calvin Hughes.”
I almost drop the phone. A few moments, and I can’t say anything.
“You still there?” Blackbyrd says.
“Yeah, you know what, I changed my mind. Tell the guy thanks, but I’ll pass. Tell him to keep it.”
“Okay, you’re the boss.”
“Do I owe you anything for the search?”
“No, I heard on the grapevine you helped the police nail Ken Perkins’s killer. We’re square. Raymond Cross—who would have thought?”
“Yeah, who would have thought. Well, thanks, Blackbyrd.”
“Willis.”
Ace sent me clippings from the Las Vegas papers, and I saw the story in the Santa Monica paper. Coop’s divers hadn’t found the gun, but a fisherman on the pier hooked it one afternoon, and turned it in. Cross’s prints were still on it, and everything matched.
I returned Gladys Cowen’s tapes, and I’ve been helping her with the process of going through them to see just what her husband had recorded all those years ago. We aren’t going to find Clifford Brown, but there is some good stuff that stands a chance of being offered to a record label. Rick Markham, however, says he’s not interested.
Natalie is back at school, struggling with contracts, tons, and real property, and I got a reprieve on my apartment—an official notice that the developer’s plans are postponed. So I still have my place in Venice for a while longer. Tim Shaw doesn’t think much of my one-handed typing, but I got the cover of Blue Note magazine.
Now I look forward to a rubber ball, getting the strength back in my hand, and getting reacquainted with my piano. There’s only one thing I still have to do before I go back to practicing, hoping, wrestling with my dreams.
It’s Sunday afternoon when I call Connie Beale, ask him if I can come over.
“I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“Come on over, man. We’re fixin’ to have lunch,” he says.
When I get there, his granddaughter opens the door, smiles at me shyly. She’s in jeans and a T-shirt, an apron tied around her waist, a large wooden spoon in her hand.
“Grandpa Connie’s back there,” she says, pointing down the hall where the music is coming from.
I knock and open the door to what is obviously Connie’s music room. He’s nearly lost, sunk in the plushness of a huge leather chair. His small frameless glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he looks up from reading the notes to a CD. Clifford Brown with Strings is on the stereo: “Embraceable You.”
“You heard this one?” Connie asks when I come in.
“Yeah, many times.” The ottoman in front of Connie is the only other seat. I pull it away from the chair and sit down. Connie pretends not to notice the trumpet case.
He glances at me and holds up the CD booklet. “Some interesting shit in here.” He carefully refolds it and replaces it in the CD case. For a few minutes we listen to Brownie turn the song into a cry of loneliness, a man who hasn’t seen his girl for a long time.
“I could do that once,” Connie says, as the tune ends. He eyes the trumpet case I’ve brought along. “What you got there?”
“I know. You did it on this.” He pushes the glasses up on his forehead and takes the case from me, lays it across his legs.
He opens it, takes out the trumpet. “Never thought I’d see this old horn again.” He presses the valves, feels their stickiness, and shakes his head. Setting the case on the floor, he gets up and goes to the shelf near the stereo and takes down a small plastic bottle of Al Cass valve oil. He squirts a few drops on the valves until they work to his satisfaction.
Watching him handle the trumpet, it’s like being a witness to the reunion of two old friends.
From another trumpet case he takes out a mouthpiece, inserts it in the horn, and for a few bars plays along with Clifford Brown. “Yeah, it can still play,” Connie says.
“You said it was stolen.”
“Naw,” Connie says, smiling shyly. “Just didn’t like to tell the truth, kind of embarrassed.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how things go sometime. My old lady told me she’d sold it at a garage sale. I was on the road, didn’t use it much anymore. I had a new horn, she wanted to clear out things, she said. I think she did it on purpose. We wasn’t getting along too well in those days. She wanted me to give up bein’ Clifford Brown. She couldn’t understand why I was so mad. She never knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That this really was one of Brownie’s horns.”
I stare at the horn for what must be a full minute. Connie nods, sees the shock on my face.
“I didn’t tell you about that. I met him one time, when he was out here at the Lighthouse. He and Max Roach had a place together. You know how kids are, no fear. I went over there one afternoon. I could hear him inside, playing scales. He was real nice, invited me in. We talked for a couple of hours, then he asked me to play. He had a bunch of horns lying around. ‘Try this one,’ he said. I played his solo on ‘Joy Spring.’ He was really impressed, then he just gave me the horn, just gave it to me. Man, I left there flyin’.”
Connie looks inside the bell of the horn for the C.B. inscription, nods his head slowly. “Yeah, this is it.”
He runs his hand over the horn. “That’s how smart I was in those days,” he says. “I played so much like Brownie, I had the same initials. I never told nobody this was Brownie’s horn or that he gave it to me.”
“Did you think they wouldn’t believe you?”
“Hell, no reason not to.”
Of course there wasn’t, any more than not to believe Clifford Brown was playing on the tapes. I stare at the horn again. Bought at a garage sale for twenty-five dollars, kept in the trunk of my car, in a Las Vegas pawn shop. Clifford Brown’s trumpet.
Connie’s expression suddenly changes to a frown. “Did you look in the case?” He sets down the horn, opens the small compartment inside the case, and stops when he sees the postcard is still there. He sinks down into the chair and readjusts his glasses to read the card.
“Closest I ever got to the big time. Three nights with Duke. Like my friend Tommy Hamilton, ballplayer. He knocked around the minors for a few years then got called up at the end of the season. Four at bats, got two hits off Sandy Koufax.”
“And the other two?”
“Struck out.”
“What happened after that?”
Connie shrugs. “He got hurt in spring training, never recovered. Went to work for the post office, I think.”
We listen in silence to Clifford Brown. Several times Connie smiles and cocks hi
s head at something Brownie plays, then the CD ends.
I take the cassette out of my pocket. “You can have this too.”
He takes it from me, looks at the label I’ve hand-lettered. The Connie Beale Quartet. He nods, smiles, opens the box, and puts it in the machine. For a moment he’s back in 1955 as the tape begins to play.
He stands with his back to me, listening to himself, how he used to sound. I know all about that. This was Connie Beale trying to be Clifford Brown.
When he turns around, he blinks a few times and smiles. “Thanks, man, I appreciate this.” He busies himself with putting away the CD, looking at his watch. “You want to stay for lunch? My granddaughter can burn. Her mama taught her.”
“No, thanks, Connie,” I say, getting to my feet. “I’ve got a date with a young lady and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“I can dig that. Well, okay then.” We shake hands. He hesitates, then awkwardly, he pulls me in for a hug.
“What happens to those tapes now, the real ones, I mean?”
“They were returned to the owner, Gladys Cowen. You should drop by and see her sometime. I think she’d like that.”
Connie seems delighted at the thought. “I just might do that.”
I let myself out. I stand on the steps for a moment, light a cigarette and think about the life Connie Beale made for himself, pursuing Clifford Brown. My own seems always centered on my right hand. I pull up the sleeve of my coat and look at the cast. At least that comes off tomorrow, then it’s back to squeezing rubber balls and therapy.
I start for my car. When I pass the music room window, I hear a trumpet playing over the cassette, note for note like Clifford Brown. I listen until the music stops. I start to go on to my car, but I stop again.
I hear Connie, solo now, haltingly at first, but gathering strength as his fingers remember the notes, the Benny Golson melody, the Jon Hendricks lyrics probably swirling through his mind.
Connie Beale could never have been Clifford Brown on this tune. It was one song Brownie never played. “I Remember Clifford” was written too late for that.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks and foremost to Clifford Brown for all the great music.
A number of people contributed their expertise to this book, not the least of whom are Walt Blanton, for special insights into Slick Stuff valve oil and trumpet cases; Jack Montrose, for his generous personal knowledge of Clifford Brown and life in general; Stan Dunn at Concord Records, for how the record business really works; Captain Tom Mapes of the Santa Monica Police Department, for keeping me procedurally accurate; and the very helpful folks at the Institute of Jazz Studies, Rutgers University, for archival material on Clifford Brown.
Special thanks to my little brother Doug for support, stories, and his behind-the-scenes view of record collectors.
Finally, thanks to Michael Seidman and George Gibson for giving me the opportunity to write about jazz and allowing me to do my own books—and Kimberley Cameron of Reece Halsey, for being far more than a dedicated agent.
And then, as always, there is Teresa.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jazz drummer and author Bill Moody has toured and recorded with Maynard Ferguson, Jon Hendricks, and Lou Rawls. He lives in northern California where he hosts a weekly jazz radio show, and continues to perform around the Bay Area. He is the author of seven novels featuring jazz pianist-amateur sleuth Evan Horne and two spy novels. Additionally, Bill has also published a dozen short stories in various collections.
http://www.billmoodyjazz.com/
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OTHER BOOKS BY BILL MOODY
Evan Horne Mystery Series
Solo Hand
The Death of a Tenor Man
The Sound of the Trumpet
Bird Lives!
Looking for Chet Baker
Shades of Blue
Fade to Blue
Other Works
Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz
The Man in Red Square
Mood Swings: Stories
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OTHER TITLES FROM DOWN & OUT BOOKS
Visit DownAndOutBooks.com for a complete list
By J.L. Abramo
Catching Water in a Net
Clutching at Straws
Counting to Infinity
Gravesend
Chasing Charlie Chan
Circling the Runway (*)
By Trey R. Barker
2,000 Miles to Open Road
Road Gig: A Novella
Exit Blood
Death is Not Forever (*)
By Richard Barre
The Innocents
Bearing Secrets
Christmas Stories
The Ghosts of Morning
Blackheart Highway
Burning Moon
Echo Bay
Lost
By Rob Brunet
Stinking Rich
By Milton T. Burton
Texas Noir
By Reed Farrel Coleman
The Brooklyn Rules
By Tom Crowley
Viper’s Tail
Murder in the Slaughterhouse
By Frank De Blase
Pine Box for a Pin-Up
Busted Valentines and Other Dark Delights
The Cougar’s Kiss (*)
By Les Edgerton
The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping
By A.C. Frieden
Tranquility Denied
The Serpent’s Game
By Jack Getze
Big Numbers
Big Money
Big Mojo (*)
By Keith Gilman
Bad Habits
By Terry Holland
An Ice Cold Paradise
Chicago Shiver
By Darrel James, Linda O. Johnston & Tammy Kaehler (editors)
Last Exit to Murder
By David Housewright & Renée Valois
The Devil and the Diva
By David Housewright
Finders Keepers
Full House
By Jon Jordan
Interrogations
By Jon & Ruth Jordan (editors)
Murder and Mayhem in Muskego
By Bill Moody
Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz
The Man in Red Square
Solo Hand
The Death of a Tenor Man
The Sound of the Trumpet
Bird Lives!
By Gary Phillips
The Perpetrators
Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes (editor)
Treacherous: Griffters, Ruffians and Killers (*)
By Gary Phillips, Tony Chavira, Manoel Magalhaes
Beat L.A. (Graphic Novel)
By Robert J. Randisi
Upon My Soul
Souls of the Dead (*)
Envy the Dead (*)
By Lono Waiwaiole
Wiley’s Lament
Wiley’s Shuffle
Wiley’s Refrain
Dark Paradise
By Vincent Zandri
Moonlight Weeps
(*) Coming soon
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Here is a preview from Death of a Tenor Man, an Evan Horne mystery by Bill Moody:
INTRO
I’m looking at old photos, a collection of jazz history, a gift someone has given me in a well-meaning gesture, designed probably to help fill the silent hours of my recuperation. The coffee-table book is filled with black-and-white moments from an era never to be seen again. This photograph is of twin tenors, Dexter Gordon and Wardell Gray, taken at a club in Los Angeles in the early ’50s, probably the Club Alabam or the Bird Basket. Central Avenue all the way.
In this grainy framed moment, the photographer has caught Dexter in full flight, his huge body blocking all but the bass player’s bands, towering over the microphone and Wardell, who stands a few feet behind him. Gordon’s eyes are closed, his
shoulders raised slightly, both hands gripping the horn like he’s choking it, his face caught in a grimace as if the note he’s searching for won’t come out of the horn.
Behind him, ultra-cool Wardell, a baggy suit hanging on his slight frame, a hat on the back of his head, looks on stoically. But when I look closer, a pencil-thin mustache is curled slightly upward as if a smile is about to begin. Was it something Dexter had just played, or is Wardell amused by Dex’s struggle to get that note out? Maybe he’s thinking about what he’s going to play. And what were they playing when this photo was taken? A blues? A standard? Maybe it was “The Chase,” their most famous collaboration, and Wardell is waiting for his turn.
Wardell’s hands are crossed over the tenor saxophone that hangs from his neck strap. A cigarette is wedged between the fingers of his left hand. A wisp of smoke curls up around his eyes.
The drummer, I think it’s Roy Haynes, is leaning forward, his right hand a blur on the cymbal. His eyes are wide open and there’s a white flash of teeth against his dark face. It’s not a smile exactly, more like an expression of euphoria. The pianist, who looks to be no more than a teenager, is looking toward Dexter expectantly, for approval perhaps. Both hands are locked on the keys. Who is it? Al Haig? The caption doesn’t identify all the band, just the date—1953.
I close my right hand into a fist and unconsciously think about the rubber ball, then instantly remember I don’t use it anymore. It’s like remembering someone you were close to who is gone, and you haven’t come to terms with their absence yet.
If I had been born thirty years earlier, maybe I could have been the pianist in the photo. I grew up in L.A., I was into jazz from an early age. Would I have hung out on Central Avenue like Art Pepper? What would that gig have been like? What would it have been like to know and play with Dexter Gordon and Wardell Gray in an era when personal sound was everything, an era before synthesizers and electric pianos?
