by Bill Moody
I get out of my car and walk back to the parking garage, checking over my shoulder every few steps, but I don’t see anyone except for some people going to their cars, carrying buckets of quarters. When I get to where I think Cross left his car, it’s gone. I check two or three rows on either side, but I have the right spot; the car’s just not there now.
Back in my own car, I sit for a moment, then slam my hand against the steering wheel. Nice going, Horne. All I can do now is go back to Ace’s house and call in the license plate.
Back at the house, I see I won’t have to call the police. They’re already there, two black-and-whites. One is in the driveway, the other at an angle at the curb.
Two young Metro cops in tan uniforms, one blond, one dark-haired, are standing in the living room with Ace. The blond one turns to me; the other one is writing in a notebook. Ace, in pajamas, is sitting hunched over in a chair, staring at what’s left of his record collection.
I take a quick look around. Records and CDs are all over the floor. Some of them have been smashed. Boxes of reel-to-reel tapes are open; some of the tapes are pulled off the reels and strung around the floor.
“Ace, what happened?”
“Are you staying here, sir?” the blond cop asks me. “I’ll need your name, please.”
“Yeah, Evan Horne. I’m a friend of Professor Buffington.”
He takes down my address in L.A. and asks me where I’ve been. “Doesn’t look like a robbery,” he says, turning back to Ace, who hasn’t spoken.
Ace and I exchange a quick glance that neither of the cops catches. “How did they get in?”
“Looks like the patio door,” the blond cop says. “No windows broken, anything like that.” That was me. I must have left it unlocked.
“I was sound asleep,” Ace says. “Something woke me up, some noise. I thought I heard music, figured it was just Evan. When I came out here I found this.” He points to the mess in front of his stereo.
“Probably kids,” the blond cop says. “Looks like vandalism to me.” He nudges a broken 78rpm record with his foot. “Any of these valuable?”
“Just to me,” Ace says. He picks up one of the records and reads the label. “Louis Armstrong and the Hot Five on Decca.”
“Oh yeah,” the other cop says. “Didn’t he do ‘Hello Dolly’? My mother used to have that one.” The blond cop shrugs; Ace rolls his eyes at me.
“Okay, Professor Buffington, I guess that’s all we can do for now. When you get everything straightened up, if you could make a list of anything that’s missing and drop it off at the Spring Mountain Substation that would be helpful.”
“Sure,” Ace says, looking at me again.
“All right then, gentlemen,” the dark-haired cop says. “We’ll leave you to it.”
I show them out and promise to lock all the doors and windows. When I come back in the living room, Ace is sitting in the middle of the floor sifting through records, tapes, and CDs. He looks up at me, a pained expression on his face.
“Who would do this, Evan?”
“I think we both know, Ace. He was looking for the other tape, must have connected you to Ken Perkins. He knows you knew Ken.” I join Ace on the floor and look at some of the smashed records. Most of the 78s are Armstrong, Bix Beiderbecke, Fatha Hines.
“Some of these are replaceable,” Ace says. “The good stuff wasn’t here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Thank God a friend of mine persuaded me to put the real collector’s items in a safe deposit box at my bank. I didn’t have much, really, but at least they’re safe.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Ace, I’m sorry, I think I left the patio door open.”
“Doesn’t matter. Whoever did this would have got in somehow. You just saved me a broken window. By the way, where did you go?”
“Ken Perkins’s house.”
“What?”
“Hang on a minute. I’ve got something to show you.” I go out to my car, get the trumpet, and bring it back inside. I sit it on the floor near Ace and open the case. “What do you think?”
Ace’s eyes get huge. “Oh my God. You’re not going to tell me that’s Clifford Brown’s trumpet.”
“I’m afraid I am.”
Ace picks up the horn and turns it over in his hands as carefully as if he were handling the Hope diamond. He runs his hands over it, turns it in every direction, and pauses only when he sees the letters C.B. inscribed inside the bell. He pushes down on the valves, then puts it back in the case and takes a deep breath before he says anything. He leans back and folds his hands together across his chest.
“Do you have any idea how valuable this is?”
“I could guess. Twenty-five thousand?”
“Double that, at least. In an auction, with the right people involved, it might bring a hundred thousand.”
The way Ace is staring at me, I know he’s serious. “This is what whoever broke in here tonight was looking for, isn’t it?”
“No, I don’t think so. He was looking for the tape on the off chance you might have gotten it. He probably figures the police have it.”
“And why don’t they? How did you get the trumpet?”
I tell Ace and watch his expression turn to panic. “You went back in the house? Tonight?”
“It was right where I first saw it. I didn’t mention any trumpet in my statement. Probably one of the uniformed cops found it outside where I left it and simply returned it to the music room.”
“But, Evan, that’s evidence.”
“Not if the police don’t know it is.” Strictly speaking, that’s true, but I have removed something from a crime scene. Still, it doesn’t belong to Ken Perkins. It belongs to his killer.
Ace shakes his head, still trying to comprehend. “Do you think that’s really Clifford Brown’s horn?”
“That’s something I want to find out.”
Back in the apartment, I put on one of Brownie’s cassettes. I listen for a minute but don’t recognize the tune. When I check the box I smile to myself; it’s called “Clifford’s Axe.”
I try to imagine that this is the horn that played those notes. The trumpet still bothers me. Is the tape fake and the trumpet genuine, or is it the other way around? I run my hands over the cool metal, the horn that maybe Clifford Brown himself once held, put his lips to, and made jazz history with. The enormity of the trumpet’s potential value still hasn’t hit me yet.
I open the case, trying to discern the message it has for me, trying to picture the scores of trumpet players I’ve watched as they put their horns away for the night. The smell of oil is still very present, almost like kerosene. What else is in this case? I take the horn out of the case. There’s a small compartment, held closed with a snap, where most guys keep a bottle of valve oil, an extra mouthpiece, cigarettes, a phone number hastily scrawled on a napkin.
There’s no mouthpiece, but there is a small glass bottle. When I hold it up to the light, shake it, I can see there’s maybe a sixteenth of an inch of liquid inside. The lettering on the label is worn off in places from being handled hundreds of times. I can only make out a few letters of the brand name. “—ick Stu—” The rest of it is too smudged to read. I set it aside and explore the case further. In some instrument cases I’ve seen another tray like storage compartment, which lifts out.
I feel around inside. The lining is worn and frayed, and on one side it’s coming away from the side of the case. I pull it back gently and find another treasure I imagine Cross didn’t even know about.
A once-white postcard, now slightly yellowed but still intact. On one side is a black-and-white photo of the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. When I turn it over, I realize Ace might be right about the contents of this case.
The name and address are virtually unreadable, smeared with what appear to be dark rings, coffee cup stains, or maybe valve oil. The message, however, written with a flourish, is very clear.
Dear C.B.,
Thanks so much
for lending your not inconsiderable talents to our musical family on such short notice. I adore your sound, and of course,
We love you madly, D.
No signature is needed to know who the writer was. And the message, a gracious gesture, so typical of this man who knew what it would mean to a young musician. Probably done over room-service coffee, before checkout, dressed in a robe, the famous bags under his eyes puffier than usual. Even the large D, done with a sweeping flourish, was unnecessary.
The writer’s closing line was his musical signature as well. The song played, the words spoken at the end of every concert around the world.
We love you madly.
What I hold in my hand is a postcard written to Clifford Brown from Edward Kennedy “Duke” Ellington.
CHAPTER SIX
I have several things to face when I wake up. The first is finding a suitable safe hiding place for the trumpet. Somewhere where I can have access to it, but where Cross or whoever else is involved won’t think to look.
I work that one out in the shower. As for the other things, I’m willing to bet Trask will be calling before the morning is out if Danny Cooper doesn’t beat him to it. I can imagine a phone call between those two, discussing their mutual acquaintance, the musician-detective. I still haven’t decided what or how much to tell Natalie.
By the time I get dressed and walk over to the house, Ace has everything pretty well under control. Coffee is on, probably his second pot, and records, CDs, and tapes are stacked up in neat piles on the living room floor. Ace doesn’t look happy.
“Anything missing?”
“Far as I can tell, no,” he says, glancing at the damaged pile that sits alone from the others. “There’s plenty of damage, though. That pile is for the trash. This was sheer vindictiveness, Evan. There’s no other word for it.”
I agree. “How about anger and frustration? Whoever did this knew the tape wouldn’t be here, but he had to go through the motions. Just confirming that made him more angry.” I watch Ace scoop up the remnants of several 78s, some broken CD boxes, and hundreds of feet of reel-to-reel tape. “You don’t have any idea who this guy was? Ken didn’t tell you anything about him?”
Ace shakes his head. “Sometimes Ken acted like he was in the witness protection program, especially when it came to record collecting. Hell, for all I know, he was. I just don’t know that much about him. He was never married, always lived alone.”
“What did he do? I mean, aside from collecting?”
“I called him once at work, the accounting department at one of the Strip hotels, can’t remember which one. The job was only to support his collecting. That was his real passion. You’ve got to understand, Evan, these guys are obsessive—books, stamps, whatever, they’re always on a quest for a rare find and always looking over their shoulder, worried somebody’s going to beat them to the Holy Grail.”
“And what would that be?”
Ace stops and thinks for a moment, smiles. “In jazz? The only recording of Buddy Bolden.”
“Buddy Bolden. Isn’t he the trumpet player who went nuts, ended up in an insane asylum in New Orleans?”
“Right, played in the Storyville district.”
“But I thought he never recorded.”
“That’s right, but there were rumors of a cylinder recording in the late 1890s. If it really existed, it’s never been found, and it probably wouldn’t be playable if it was, but of course that wouldn’t make any difference.”
“Okay, so with record collector types I gather it’s more the rarity of the item than the music.”
“Absolutely. They’re also very competitive about it. There’s a whole network. Special magazines—the Internet now plays a role. If you offer them a record, they want to know the color of the label, what’s printed on it, when it was made. It could be Clifford Brown or some doo-wop group from the sixties.”
I sip my coffee and try to imagine not being interested in the music. It makes no sense to me. “Do they ever get together, I mean in groups or meetings, that kind of thing?” I was already thinking of a way to track down the man who called himself Cross, maybe even a way to draw him out.
“Oh yeah,” Ace says, smiling. “They have conventions several times a year. The big one, I guess it’s still going on, is held in, of all places, the parking lot at Capitol Records in Hollywood. But get this, it starts early Sunday morning, but people arrive earlier every year, when it’s still dark. They bring flashlights; some even wear those miner’s hard hats with the light on them to comb through offerings. Bids are made, deals are done right there.”
“Have you ever been to one?”
Ace shakes his head. “No, I stick to the magazines, personal contacts for stuff I’m looking for. It’s too weird for me.” Ace pauses and looks at me. “You’ll get an idea of what I’m talking about if you go to Ken’s funeral.”
I hadn’t thought about that. Cross is probably long gone and wouldn’t dare show up at that, but I might pick up something useful. “How many of these collector types you think will show up?”
“Once the word is out that Ken was killed, they’ll flock here. Not to mourn Ken so much as to get a lead on what he was killed for. They’ll all know it was for something big, believe me.”
I leave Ace to his cleanup and wander outside with my coffee. The sun is bright, but it’s still cold. The steam comes off my coffee and mixes with cigarette smoke. On days like this it’s hard to imagine the oppressive summer heat of Las Vegas.
I hear the sliding glass door open behind me. Ace is holding a cordless phone. “Your friend from Santa Monica,” Ace says.
I sit down at the patio table. “Coop?”
Lieutenant Danny Cooper has little time for the amenities. “Interesting fax I received this morning from Las Vegas Metro,” Coop says. “It seems you’ve got yourself involved in yet another fascinating scenario. What is it with you and dead jazz musicians?”
“I’m fine, thanks, Coop. How are you?” No response. I picture Coop at his desk, glaring at the phone. “Okay, that’s what Trask asked too. Look, there was nothing suspicious about Clifford Brown’s death. He died in a car crash forty years ago.”
“But there’s a lot suspicious about you being present when one”—I hear paper rustling as Coop searches for the name—“Kenneth Perkins was shot.”
“It sounds silly, I know, but the truth often does.”
“Just a minute,” Coop says. “Let me get a pen. I want to write that down.”
“Look, Coop, I was hired to listen to some tapes and give an opinion as to their genuineness. I didn’t know any of this was going to happen.”
“What happened—this Perkins guy didn’t like your review, so he shot himself?”
“Funny. I suppose you’ll be auditioning at the Comedy Store any day now.”
“Valuable, huh?”
“Very, if they’re genuine.”
“Well, that’s motive. You were there, so that’s opportunity. Means is the other question. At least that’s Trask’s question. This fax was followed up by a phone call. We law enforcement types call it professional courtesy in the field. He asked for a character reference—whether you’re a threat to society or should make a guest appearance on America’s Most Wanted.”
“Trask knows better, and so do you.”
Coop’s voice changes. “I told him as much, but this is a murder, sport, and you were there. Don’t fuck with this one, Horne. You’re in over your head. Call me when you get back to L.A. if they let you out of town.”
Coop hangs up before I can manage a comeback.
The second I turn off the phone, it rings again. “Evan Horne, please.”
“Speaking.”
“This is Detective Ochoa at Metro. We met during the Gallio thing last year.”
“I remember.” I also remember I didn’t particularly like Ochoa. He was too slick, trying to look like a TV detective, and he’d asked Natalie out the first time they met.
“Good. Lieu
tenant Trask would like you to come down to Metro this morning. He has some questions about your statement.”
“What time?”
“Ten would do it.”
“I’ll be there.”
Well, there it is. At least I’ll find out the extent of my involvement and whether or not I can remain among the free.
I make two other calls on Ace’s cordless before I head for downtown, Clifford Brown’s trumpet securely locked in the trunk. On the off chance that Trask asks about it, I’ll have it with me. How I would explain it being in my possession is another hurdle.
The midmorning traffic is light as I retrace the route Trask took when I was with him in his car. I find a parking spot and go inside to a scene of organized chaos. After passing through a metal detector, I’m directed down a long hallway to the detective bureau.
Trask is at his desk, on his phone. He looks up at me, checks his watch, and motions me to a seat at his desk. Ochoa appears to be out. Trask grunts into the phone several times, then says, “Right, I got it,” and puts down the phone. He looks at me for several moments like I’ve done something, grabs a file folder, and stands up. “C’mon, let’s go back here.”
I follow him down the hall to one of the interview rooms, the same one where Ace and I talked with him the day before. Same table and chairs. Ochoa is already there, looking as usual as if he just finished a shoot for GQ. He nods at me and stands leaning against the wall. Trask and i sit down, and there’s several moments of silence while Trask reads from the file folder.
“We’ve got a couple of things we want to clear up regarding your statement, okay?”
“Sure, whatever.”
“Okay. You say you didn’t get a good look at the shooter, right?”
“No, the door flew open, he hit me, then he was gone.”
“You don’t know his full name, and you can’t give us much of a description.”
