Bird Lives!

by Bill Moody

  For those who care, March 12 is one of those sacred dates in jazz history. Everyone in jazz knows the story. At age thirty-four, Charlie Parker collapsed in the home of the Baroness. Pannonica Koenigswarter, a wealthy eccentric who lived in the Stanhope Hotel and drove to jazz clubs in a silver Rolls.

  Her apartment had become a haven for jazz musicians like Bird and Thelonious Monk. There were even songs written about her “Pannonica” by Monk and “Nica’s Dream,” by Horace Silver. But it was Bird’s death that immortalized her forever. The Bird had flown, died while watching some jugglers on the Tommy Dorsey television show.

  Once the news got out, the words Bird Lives! started showing up all over New York City, on walls, subway stations, fences, and the sides of buildings. Early graffiti. No one could believe it, but it was true. The most important saxophonist in jazz had been silenced.

  Articles appeared in newspapers and all the jazz magazines. The legend and mystique grew, and since then, scores of stories and poems have been written about Bird. Like the poet Dylan Thomas, who died under similar circumstances a year earlier, Bird was a self-destructive legend, but what he did for jazz was incalculable.

  I knew the general story, but most of this I had learned from Clint Eastwood’s movie, which I’d watched with my professor friend Ace Buffington’s commentary in my ear. Ace didn’t approve of the movie, but this time he could help me.

  Natalie is asleep when I get back; an open law book with notes scribbled in the margin lies nearby. I close the book, turn off the TV, and crawl into bed. Natalie mumbles something and wraps herself around me. I can’t get the murder scene out of my mind.

  What did Ty Rodman have to do with Bird?

  Natalie is gone when I wake up, but she’s left me a note: “Coop called, wants you to meet him at ten. Call you later,” it says. She’s marked the note with a string of question marks. I check my watch, grab a glass of juice, and jump in the shower.

  When I get to Coop’s favorite coffee shop, he’s sporting dark stubble and bags under his eyes and working on a second or third cup of coffee in a back booth. His black Metro Team jacket is wrinkled. “Lt. Dan Cooper” is embroidered on the front. His gun pokes out from his belt holster.

  “Wow, you look wonderful,” I say, sliding into the booth.

  “Don’t start. I’ve had about three hours’ sleep.”

  “I can tell.” I signal the waitress for some more coffee. “So what’s up?”

  Coop takes a breath and watches me add cream and sugar to my coffee. “I need a favor from you,” he says quietly.

  “Sure, how could I refuse the Santa Monica Police? Hey, I didn’t tell you, I may be recording soon. Guy approached me the other night at the Bakery.” I watch Coop for a moment, waiting for his reaction, but there’s none. “Coop? Try to control your enthusiasm.” I can hardly get his attention.

  “What? Oh, sorry, it’s just this Rodman thing last night.” He pushes his cup aside. “Tell me about this Bird guy—Charlie Parker was his name?”

  “Yeah, I told you, Bird was a nickname. What’s going on, Coop?”

  “In a minute. The writing on the mirror. What does it mean again?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know if it means anything. To a lot of people, Parker was an idol. That Bird Lives! phrase started cropping up after he died. People didn’t want to believe he was gone, I guess. That was a little before my time. Yours too, if you remember.”

  Coop nods, and waves off the waitress approaching with a pot of coffee. “Do you think there’s any connection between him and Ty Rodman?”

  “Rodman wasn’t even born when Bird died. Musically? No way. Bird was a pioneer in bebop. He and Dizzy and Monk changed the whole jazz scene. Rodman was a commercial success, but I wouldn’t call him a major jazz talent, and don’t get me started on that. The only thing Ty Rodman and Charlie Parker had in common was that they both played the same instrument.”

  “What then?”

  “The date, March 12. That was the day Bird died in 1955.”

  “Shit,” Coop says. He takes out a notebook and pen, flips through some pages, writes something down, then looks up at me again. “What about January 5 or January 21?”

  This time I stop the waitress by holding up my cup. She fills it, and to Coop’s annoyance, I order some breakfast.

  I add cream and sugar and think for a moment. “No, those dates don’t ring a bell with me. Why?”

  Coop looks around as if he’s worried about somebody listening. “This doesn’t go anywhere, okay?”

  “Sure. What is it?” I’ve never seen Coop quite like this. Usually nothing flusters him. He takes his job very seriously, but his offbeat sense of humor is his anchor. It’s not there now.

  Coop flips through his notebook again. “On January 5, in New York, a guitarist was found dead in his apartment. The neighbors called the police because the music was playing so loud that pounding on the door didn’t do any good. The CD player was on repeat, playing”—he checks his notes again—“something called, ‘Better Git It in Your Soul’.” He looks up from his notebook and frowns. “What kind of song title is that?”

  “Mingus.”

  “What?”

  “Charles Mingus, bassist.”

  “And?”

  I shrug. “He worked with Bird, but he had his own band. Major composer. I don’t know when he died. Maybe ten years ago or more. What’s this all about?”

  Coop ignores my question and presses on. “On January 21, a piano player was found dead in his car. Thanks to an anonymous 911 call, the tape player was still running. Cassette called Birth of the Cool.”

  “Miles Davis, the trumpeter.” I think for a moment. “Maybe the piano player just dug Miles.”

  Coop closes the notebook and frowns at me. “Maybe, but I need to know for sure. There were no prints on the case or the tape.” He leans back in the booth and rubs a hand over his face, through his short-cropped hair.

  “What’s all this got to do with Ty Rodman?” The waitress brings my breakfast, and I start in on French toast and bacon.

  Coop watches me drench the toast with syrup. “How do you do that? You never gain a pound.”

  “I burn it up playing piano. So what about Rodman?”

  “That’s what we want to know.” He puts his notebook away. “C’mon, hurry up. I can’t tell you anymore, but I want you to look around Rodman’s dressing room again.”

  “For what?”

  “I won’t know until you find it.”

  On the ride to Santa Monica Civic, Coop is silent, intent on driving, except for one question. “Can you find out about these dates, the ones I mentioned?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I’ll call Ace, but why?”

  Coop doesn’t answer, which means he’ll tell me when he’s ready. He pulls into the parking lot near the stage door, flashes his badge at a security guard, and we go inside.

  There’s some banging and voices coming from the stage area, probably a crew setting up for the next show. In Rodman’s dressing room the blood stains have dried on the carpet, and the mirror has been cleaned. Coop shuts the door behind him and leans against it. “Take a look around, a careful look.”

  I stand in the middle of the room. “What am I looking for?”

  “I don’t know, maybe you’ll see something we missed.”

  I’ve been in hundreds of dressing rooms, but this is different. It feels creepy being here when less than twenty-four hours ago, Ty Rodman was lying dead on the floor. I spend fifteen minutes going over every square inch of the room, but I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. Except for the saxophone case lying open on the countertop, everything of Rodman’s is gone, including his smashed horn.

  Coop answers my questioning look. “Oh yeah, I’m supposed to pick that up. Couldn’t get the horn back in the case.”

  There’s nothing there either. The interior of the hard-fiber case is lined with a blue, velvet-like material that the alto saxophone would normally be nestled in. It looks lik
e Rodman has taken it out to play, but no more notes will come out of his horn.

  I turn back to Coop. “Can I touch the case?”

  “Yeah, no prints on that.”

  I unsnap the inside compartment. There’s a small package of Rico No. 6 saxophone reeds. I pick it up, but something else catches my eye. It’s wedged in the corner. I reach in and pull it out.

  “What have you got?” Coop moves closer to see what I have in my hand. It’s white, about four inches long. Coop elbows me aside and carefully picks it up by the edge. He holds it up, and we both look at it for a moment.

  “Bird feather,” I say.

  Coop drops me off back at the coffee shop to get my car. I get out and lean in the window. Coop is frowning at the feather, now tucked in a plastic bag on the dashboard. “You know, that might have just been Rodman’s good luck charm or something.”

  Coop gives me a look. “Sure. You don’t talk to anybody about this, understand.”

  I put up my hands in surrender. “Whatever you say.”

  “I’m serious,” Coop says.

  “I can tell.”

  “Good. Check out those dates for me as soon as you can.” Then he’s gone.

  I drive back to my place, stopping only to pick up a newspaper. I scan the story on Rodman’s murder and call Ace Buffington in Las Vegas. This is something I want out of the way as soon as possible. I get Ace’s voice mail, leave a message.

  While I wait for him to call back, I read the story carefully. There’s obviously nothing about a feather, since I just found it, but neither the damage to Rodman’s horn nor, the writing on the mirror is mentioned either. Coop must have seen to that. There’s a publicity photo of Rodman, dressed in a white suit, holding his horn in front of him, smiling at the camera, and a sidebar listing his records. Six CDs, all gold.

  Ace calls back in half an hour, sputtering and muttering about the UNLV English Department.

  “One meeting after another,” he says. “They all think literary criticism stopped in 1950, and the chair spends more time in a bar than his office. Now what can I do for you? Are you coming to Las Vegas?”

  “Not a chance. You and that town are trouble for me, but you can do me a favor for a change.”

  “Sure. I bet it’s about Ty Rodman’s murder.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “It’s all over the papers. He was scheduled to do a concert here next month, not that I’d go. Smooth jazz—isn’t that what they call it now?—is not my thing.”

  “Nor mine. Listen, get out your jazz reference books and see if you can find anything significant about these dates: January 5 and January 21. Oh yeah, and March 12.”

  “That was yesterday,” Ace says.

  “Boy, you Ph.D.s don’t miss a thing, do you?”

  “Okay, smart guy. I’ll get right on this and call you back.”

  “Thanks, Ace. Just leave a message if I’m not here.” “Evan, you’re not getting involved in anything, are you?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Paul Westbrook, please. This is Evan Horne.” While I’m put on hold, I study Westbrook’s card and hope he was serious about the recording date. This is L.A., I remind myself. Lots of people hand out business cards.

  “Evan. Thanks for getting back so soon,” Westbrook says. “How’d the second set go the other night?”

  “Great. Sorry you couldn’t stay around.”

  “So am I. So, when can we get together?”

  “Whenever you say. I’m pretty free.” That’s the understatement of all time. With the Jazz Bakery gig over, it’s time to start hustling. I can’t just wait for the phone to ring.

  “Okay, well, how about tomorrow? I have another appointment in Santa Monica, so that would be best for me.”

  “Santa Monica is fine. I live in Venice.”

  “Bob Burns then, for lunch? Do you know it, on Second and Wilshire?”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Let’s say twelve-thirty.”

  “Sounds good. See you then.”

  I hang up the phone as I hear keys in the door. Natalie bumps it shut with her hip, balancing two bags of groceries in her arms. She sets the bags on the counter. We’ve still been spending time at each other’s place, but lately it’s been more at mine than hers unless she’s doing some heavy studying.

  She sees me punch the air. “Good news?”

  “Yes. That was Paul Westbrook from Quarter Tone Records, the guy I told you came by the Bakery the other night. We’re meeting tomorrow to talk about a recording date.”

  “Oh, Evan, that’s wonderful.” She hugs me tightly to her. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “Well, it’s not Blue Note or Verve, but Quarter Tone has a nice list, and I think I’ll have some freedom to do what I want.”

  “You better, or Mr. Westbrook will have me to deal with.” She stands back, her hands on her hips. “I think this calls for a celebration. How about some pasta for dinner? Do we have any wine?”

  “In the cupboard above the fridge.” Getting a record deal out of the blue was a real break. It will help with getting gigs and really put me back on track. It’s Coop’s timing that isn’t good, but what the hell. All I have to do is pass on whatever Ace comes up with to him, and I’m out of it.

  “So what did Coop want with you last night? I saw the story on Rodman. That must have been horrible.”

  “It wasn’t pretty.” Recalling the scene in Rodman’s dressing room sends a shudder through me. “Whoever killed him left a message on the mirror. Bird Lives! Coop wanted to know what it meant.”

  Natalie’s smile dissolves into deep and sudden concern. She looks at me for a moment, then turns away and starts ransacking the cupboards. She pulls out a large pot, fills it with water, and puts it on the stove to boil. She crosses her arms in front of her and turns around to face me. I know what’s coming.

  “Evan, you’re not going to get involved in this. Please don’t tell me that. You’re playing again, you’re going to record, you don’t need any distractions.”

  Of course she’s right. Having a homicide detective for a friend sometimes comes in handy, but it has its downside. “Don’t worry, I’m just going to pass on some information to Coop that Ace, is looking up for me. That’s all.” Natalie studies me for a moment. “Really, I don’t want to get involved with this at all.”

  She turns away and sighs. “Yeah,” she says, as she rips open a package of pasta. “Where have I heard that before?”

  Just inside the door at Bob Burns Restaurant is a photo of pianist Howlett Smith. Nightly, the notice says. I haven’t seen Howlett for a while. I take it as a good omen, the perfect place to sew up a recording contract.

  Paul Westbrook is already there, talking on a cell phone as I slide into the booth. He presses the off button and puts the phone in a small leather briefcase. “Sorry. I hate these things,” he says, chanting the mantra of Los Angeles. “You never get a minute alone.”

  The room is busy with the lunchtime crowd from nearby offices, but we get our order in quickly. “I don’t know how familiar you are with Quarter Tone,” Westbrook says. “The distribution is not what I’d like yet, but we’re getting there, and we try to do quality music, which is why I want you on our list.” He takes out a catalog and slides it across the table. “That’s our current one,” he says.

  I flip through the catalog quickly, leaning back in the booth. Westbrook sports a shock of dark curly hair and thick glasses that he keeps pushing up on his nose. He’s dressed in jeans and a pullover shirt today. He looks nothing like a jazz record producer, but then, who does?

  “Well, you’re the best offer I’ve had in a long time. There’s some good people here,” I say, tapping on the catalog.

  Westbrook nods and slices into a chicken breast. “Because we’re small and I personally supervise all the sessions, we have quite a lot of freedom. I’ve got several other businesses that are doing well, so I can afford to in
dulge my passion for jazz. I assume you would want to work with a trio, right?”

  “That would be my choice, maybe the guys I used at the Bakery.”

  Westbrook nods again. “This is your date. You pick the guys. Can you be ready in about a month?”

  “Sure.” My answer is quicker than I thought, but so is his offer. Is it really going to be this easy?

  “Great. We’ve got a deal, then.” Westbrook signals the waitress for more iced tea.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” Westbrook pushes his plate aside. “Look, Evan, I read the papers. You’ve had some tough breaks. That injury to your hand must have been rough, a real setback. I’ve listened to your first album, and I know what I heard the other night. I think you’re a major talent, and I want to grab you now, lock this up before somebody else knows you’re back. Judging by what I heard at the Bakery, there’s no question in my mind that you are back.”

  “I really appreciate that, Mr. Westbrook. I—”

  “Paul, please.” He takes out a date book and pen and thumbs through the pages. “Now, let’s think about some studio time. Let’s say, four weeks from today? That’ll give you time to think about things, do some rehearsing.” He looks up. “I know the guy who books Chadney’s in the Valley. Might be able to get you in there for a weekend.”

  “Yeah, fine. That would be great.”

  “Okay, then.” He smiles and signals the waitress for the check. “I’ll draw up a tentative contract for your approval. The advance will be small, but you’ll do okay on the royalties. I’d rather put some money into promotion. You get a list of tunes together and think about a title for the CD. I’ll probably try to talk you into a couple myself, but we’ll work it out.” He reaches his hand across the table. “Welcome to Quarter Tone Records.” He starts to get up. “Oh, one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve also read about your—I don’t know what to call them—detective exploits. We want to keep focused on this CD, so—”