by Bill Moody
“Can I get you anything else?” Carol shakes her head no. Steve withdraws without looking at me.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Watch, he’ll be back in record time.” As it turns out, it’s less than two minutes.
“And how are we doing here? Everything okay?”
“Well, Steve, I don’t know, since I’ve hardly had time to even taste this sandwich.”
Steve mumbles something and stalks away.
“Wait’ll we have coffee. I’m willing to bet Steve was trained in the school that says never let the level of coffee go a half-inch below the rim before offering refills.”
“We’ll be lucky if he comes back,” Carol says. “I’m taking you to Burger King next time.”
Natalie is waiting on the front steps when I return. She’s in old sweats and running shoes, her hair tied back in a ponytail. “Nice lunch?” she asks. Her eyes are hidden behind sunglasses.
“Yeah, okay.” I sit down next to her. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a class or something?” The winter sun has finally broken through, but there’s a chill in the air.
She takes off her glasses and looks at me. “I got your message. You didn’t think I’d let you go to Las Vegas without saying good-bye did you?” The smile in her eyes is full of mischief.
“It’s only for a few days, no big thing.”
She nods. “I know, it’s just—I’ve been walking on the beach, thinking. You’re going to miss this place, aren’t you?”
Down near the boardwalk, I can see the late-afternoon skaters and joggers. Always something going on. “I suppose. What were you thinking about?”
“That we’re not seeing enough of each other.”
I start to speak, but she cuts me off. “I know, it’s me, law school, I’m always trying to catch up.” She takes my hand in hers, meets my eyes with a level gaze. “Move in with me.”
“No.”
“No, just like that.”
I see the hurt in her eyes. “No, not just like that, but I’m not ready to jump into a situation forced upon us because I have to move. You’re busy with classes, I’d just be a distraction, and I don’t want that.”
“Maybe you need a distraction.”
“That’s why I’m going to Las Vegas.”
Natalie sighs and shakes her head. She knows me well enough not to push this discussion any further, “Okay,” she says, “but while you’re hanging out in Vegas with Ace, think about it, okay?”
“Okay, I’ll think about it. How much time have you got?”
The mischief returns in her smile. “I don’t have a class until eight.”
“Tonight?”
“No, silly, in the morning.”
INTERLUDE
June 25, 1956
Richie, Powell, Bud’s bebop brother, called from up front. “Brownie, you awake, man?”
Clifford Brown opened one eye and moved his hand to the trumpet case on the seat beside him, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings, the warm, humid air blowing in the window, the car radio playing some big band. “Yeah, I am now,” he said, pulling himself upright.
He leaned forward, resting his arms on the front seat, and peered out the windshield at the darkening sky. He followed the patches of blue for a few moments as they tried to outrun the somber dark clouds that seemed to keep up with the speed of the new Buick. He checked the speedometer. The needle on the dial hovered around sixty. “Where are we, man?”
“Few hours out of Philly,” said Richie Powell. “You hungry?” He barely turned his head, knowing how prudently Brownie liked him to drive, heedful always of Brownie’s concern. “I don’t want you drivin’ like you play piano,” Brownie often said.
Car accidents were always on Clifford’s mind when they were on the road so much. He either drove himself or slept as much as he could, letting the hum of the tires on the highway, the drone of the engine, act as relaxers. As long as his eyes were closed, he felt like everything was okay.
He wished now they were still in California with LaRue and Clifford Jr., but the road was reality if they wanted to keep this band together. Like Max always said, “We gotta go where the gigs are, Brownie.” Chicago was next. Harold Land was gone, but they had Sonny Rollins now on tenor.
“Yeah, I could eat something. We got time?” He leaned back in the seat again and rolled down the window, taking in the early summer air that smelled of rain.
“Oh yeah,” Richie said. “We got us plenty of time.”
“So let’s stop. Wake your old lady up,” Brownie said, tapping Richie’s wife, Nancy, on the shoulder. She was slumped against the window, still sound asleep.
Brownie rubbed the sleep from his own eyes and leaned back against the seat, thinking about the Philly gig at the music store. It was to be kind of a homecoming for him. Just a jam session really, playing with some of the old guys, seeing some friends. Art Blakey, his old boss from the Jazz Messengers, had promised to drop by. Then on to Chicago, meet up with Max, Sonny, and George for the gig there, and another triumph.
He opened the trumpet case on the seat, took out his horn, and blew silently into it, fingering a solo to the tune on the car radio. He caught Richie watching him in the rearview mirror, a slight smile on his lips, shaking his head. He knew what Richie was thinking. You practice even when you don’t practice.
Well, that’s the only way he knew how to do it. It’s what had brought him back from the first accident. Almost a year during which no one thought he’d live, much less ever play again. But here he was, co-leader of the Clifford Brown-Max Roach Quintet, hottest group in jazz, and he was only twenty-five. Whatta those doctors think about that shit? Dizzy knew. He’d come to visit Clifford many times in the hospital. Yes sir, Clifford Brown had come back. To Lionel Hampton, Tadd Dameron, Art Blakey, and finally to Max. But long drives still unnerved him, at times filled him with dread. He promised himself someday he’d travel on planes all the time, first class. No more of these car rides. He glanced out the window at the landscape rushing by.
There were so many things he wanted to do. He and Quincy Jones had talked about it a lot. Not just the music, but the business as well. Someday they would do it all, arranging, composing, movie sound tracks.
He ran his fingers over the trumpet. There were a couple of small dents, but this horn he’d never give up, even if he was picking up some brand-new ones, specially designed for him at the Conn factory in Elkhart.
He knew from the night Miles played “My Funny Valentine” on his trumpet—maybe that’s why he’d never give it up—that it wasn’t the horn. Miles, walking right in on his gig in the middle of a fast blues, rain dripping off his head, so high he’d hardly been able to stand up, but he’d put his mouthpiece in Brownie’s horn and made everybody cry.
Brownie shook his head, thinking about that night. Damn, if Miles ever straightened up, what could he do? And Sonny Rollins was another one, but he’d been on Sonny, trying to convince him he didn’t need that shit. Brownie had never needed it. The music was enough for him.
His eye caught a sign flashing by. “Turn on your lights, Richie,” he said, aware now of twilight settling around the big car like sheer black cloth. “Let’s try that diner up ahead.”
“I’m cool with that. Come on, Nancy, we got to eat. Get yourself together,” Richie said to his wife.
Clifford Brown put his, horn back in its case, nodded, let his thoughts take him to other places. Yeah, everything was cool.
He felt the tension begin to slide out of his body as the car began to slow.
CHAPTER TWO
When I wake up, Natalie is—gone back to class, the books, study groups, finding out if being a lawyer is better than being a cop. I lie in bed, slightly disoriented, trying to decide if I really want to get up and drive to Las Vegas. It’s not too late, I could always call Ace and tell him I’ve changed my mind, but I’ve done too much of that lately.
For weeks I’ve been unfocused, lethargic, unable
to dredge up much enthusiasm for anything as I try to come to terms with the most recent development in the continuing saga of being a one-handed piano player.
No. Las Vegas will give me time to think about what I’m going to do next, and besides, this might be a good time to get out of L.A. The O.J. Simpson trial starts tomorrow. I throw off the covers and hit the shower. If I get going, there won’t be time to change my mind.
There are two ways out of Los Angeles if you’re driving to Las Vegas. Interstate 10 through downtown and the industrial areas of Santa Ana, Carson, toward San Bernardino until the connection with I-15. The alternate route is straight up the 405 toward Palmdale, and the Pearblossom Highway, a two-lane strip full of curves, dips, and bumps that make it seem like a mini-roller coaster. Some of the dips are so deep that cars disappear for a few seconds, and that’s just when someone decides to pass. I won’t drive it at night. Eventually it deposits you at Victorville and a more northerly connection to I-15. It’s a roundabout route, but somehow it makes the trek into Las Vegas seem shorter.
I like to drive alone, leave when I’m ready, take whatever route comes to mind, stop when I feel like it. With one small bag and a box of cassette tapes in the car, I decide to avoid downtown and go the desert route. I’m curious to see how the Camaro handles Pearblossom.
I wait for the morning rush to be over before I venture out after breakfast. By the time I hit the foothills in the north end of the San Fernando Valley, the traffic is light. The Camaro seems more than willing to hit the open road. I take the Palmdale cutoff. Pearblossom awaits.
Clifford Brown keeps me company on the tape deck. It’s been a while since I’ve listened to him carefully, but if I’m going to make some kind of educated guess with this tape Ace had, I’d better bone up. I’m amazed at the sophistication of Brownie’s playing at such a young age, and automatically compare it with my own at that age. Not a chance. Brownie already has virtuoso technique, amazing ideas, and a sound as pure and clean as a snowflake. For once, the critics are right. Brownie’s style harkens back to Fats Navarro and can easily be traced right through Lee Morgan, Freddie Hubbard, and Wynton Marsalis.
“Blues Walk” is playing as I come into the first section of the rolling Pearblossom Highway. Passing trucks and motor homes is a breeze. The Camaro seems to have its own mind as I bear down on Victorville with the sun starting its descent behind me. The gas gauge looks fine, so I make the looping turn onto 15 and merge with the traffic bound for Barstow.
I put a new tape in the machine, Brownie with some guys from Philadelphia, all of them trying hard to keep up, but Brownie blazing the trail for any of them to follow if they dare. I’ve read the notes and learned that three of the tracks were done the night before he was killed. What would any of them have thought if they’d known this was Clifford Brown’s last night on earth?
They do “Walkin’” and “Cherokee” at an even faster clip, performances that must have left the audience breathless. I’d heard somewhere that Brownie’s motto was, Play every time like it’s your last. Well, he did, certainly on this cut. I play both sides of the tape, getting the sound of Brownie’s trumpet in my head.
Halfway between Barstow and Baker, something catches my eye in the center median, a flash of color in the otherwise drab sand and brush. I check the rearview mirror, pull over into the far right emergency stop lane, and reverse, checking the oncoming traffic and searching the median. Another couple of hundred yards and I spot it.
I turn on the flashers and get out of the car while Vegas-bound traffic whizzes by me. It takes a minute or two, but I finally find an opening and dash across the highway to the median.
In a carefully cleared-away area is an arrangement of flowers, fresh enough to have been placed there today. There’s a crude cross—two sticks bound together with string—stuck in the ground, a pitiful marker left by a loved one.
Somebody was killed on this spot. A tourist, headed for a good time in Las Vegas, or just a business trip to Barstow? In all the times I’ve driven to Las Vegas I’ve never seen anything like this. There’s no name, just the flowers and cross.
Sobered by this discovery, I keep the Camaro in check. By the time I reach Baker through this seemingly endless desert and mountainous terrain, I’m ready to stop, stretch, and get something to eat.
Baker boasts the world’s tallest thermometer. It juts up from the desert floor so high you can read it from the freeway. I take the main exit and cruise along the frontage road, which houses a collection of gas stations, fast food places, convenience stores, and a couple of real restaurants. What do people do in Baker? I wonder as I pull in for gas. I think about asking if anyone here knows who the flowers are for.
“Nice wheels,” a kid in work pants, boots, and dirty T-shirt says as he takes my credit card. He walks around the car, taking in the new paint, wide tires, and low-slung body. “Had it long?”
“About two weeks.” I sign the credit card slip and move off slowly. I can see in the rearview mirror he’s still watching me.
After some coffee and a sandwich at Bun Boy, I make my way back to 15 for the long climb to Halloran Summit. Semis lumber up the slow lane, spewing exhaust, while newer, faster cars than mine hum past me silently, unhampered by the steep grade. I feel like I’m in a plane as I start down the other side. Probably ten miles or so ahead, I can make out the hotels and casinos at the Nevada state line. The barrenness of the desert is never more awe-inspiring than after the urban sprawl of Los Angeles.
I have one more tape of Clifford Brown with Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers, his last gig before teaming up with Max Roach, and even there Brownie is a standout. Anyone remotely interested in jazz has to wonder about the loss of so many musicians at such young ages. The bassist Scott LaFaro, who made all those great recordings with Bill Evans, also killed in a car accident at twenty-five. Dave Lambert, one third of Lambert, Hendricks, and Ross, hit by a truck one rainy night while changing a tire. Add the drug and alcohol deaths, and the count is devastating. Dizzy was right. Bebop is serious music, and people have died for it.
As the last strains of “Jordu” fade, I have Las Vegas in view. The incongruous pyramid of the Luxor Hotel shoots up out of the desert but seems out of place by several thousand miles. Just past Blue Diamond, with the lights of the hotels casting a neon glow over the desert, the freeway becomes clogged with evening rush-hour traffic. I exit at Flamingo and follow the familiar route to Ace Buffington’s home in Spring Valley. Just over five hours if you don’t count the stop at Baker.
I pull in the driveway and catch Ace waving from the door. He’s in his between-semester uniform—baggy dark blue sweats, tennis shoes that were once white, and a KUNV baseball cap.
“Hey, I’m impressed,” Ace says, walking around the Camaro. “I guess you won’t be needing the VW. This is really nice. Reminds me of my high school hot rod days.”
“How you doin’, Ace?”
“Dr. Charles I’m-a-full-professor Buffington, at your service.” He rills himself to attention.
“Hey, that’s right. Congratulations.” No matter what happens with the tape, I’m glad I’ve come.
“Thanks,” Ace says. “Come on, grab your stuff. I’ve got a couple of cold Henry Weinhards. You probably need one after the desert.”
We go inside. Nothing has changed since I was here last, and Ace has my guest-house apartment all ready. It’s just cold enough for a fire. Ace gets one blazing while I quench my thirst with a beer and wander around the house. There is still evidence of Janey, Ace’s wife, in photos on the piano, but Ace seems to be adjusting okay.
Over our second beer, I fill him in on the latest medical report.
“Oh, I’m really sorry, Evan. What are you going to do?”
Ace doesn’t even flinch as I light a cigarette. Good question. I can’t practice now, at least for a while, until the muscles are rested. Then I have to take it very slow. “Frankly, Ace, I’ve run out of options.”
“I know what you mean.
Hey, it’ll work out. How’s that cop friend of yours?”
“Danny Cooper? Fine, still keeping Santa Monica safe.”
“And Natalie?” His eyes are twinkling.
“She’s fine too, and no, we’re not getting married, so just relax.”
He puts up his hands. “Okay, okay, just checking.” He stands up suddenly. “I almost forgot. Got something to show you.” He goes in his office and comes back with a book. “How about that?”
It’s a blue paperback. Printed on the top are the words
Advance Uncorrected Proofs
Death of a Tenor Man
Dr. Charles Buffington
“This is great, Ace. When do you get the real thing?” I flip through the pages.
“Couple of months. Look at the acknowledgments, right there, just after the title page.”
I turn to the page and see:
For my good friend Evan Horne, without whose assistance this book could not have been written.
I look up and see Ace beaming at me. “How about that, huh?”
“That’s really nice, it really is. You must be very proud. How is the department taking all this?”
Ace’s smile turns to a frown. “About the way you’d expect. I thought I knew academics, but this crew—” He shakes his head in disgust. “I got an advance copy of the cover, put it up on the department bulletin board. Gone the next day, just disappeared.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. Bastards. I gave a reading, and the department members, except for a few close friends who are enjoying me sticking it to them, were conspicuously absent, including the chair.”
“Well, they can’t take this away from you, Ace. Fuck them.”
