Bird Lives!

by Bill Moody

  “Tapes of what?”

  “We still have doctor-client privilege working here, right?”

  “Of course, if you want.”

  “It’s probably not that big a deal, but someone thinks they’ve found some recordings of Clifford Brown, the trumpet player.” I fill Carol in on Brownie and Ace’s offer, barely finishing before Steve warily approaches the table with our food. Not a peep out of him as he sets it down. He addresses Carol only.

  “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 hi
s body as the car began to slow.

  Click here to learn more about The Sound of the Trumpet by Bill Moody.

  Back to TOC

  Here is a preview from Big Money, the second Austin Carr mystery by Jack Getze…

  PROLOGUE

  The lady’s two-story house ranks as ancient, so it’s no surprise the pine floorboards creak. But do I detect a certain rhythm...as in footsteps? Hope I didn’t make too much noise going through her dirty laundry.

  I lean back on the blood red living room sofa and hold my breath to listen. A grandfather clock tick-tocks in the foyer. The oil-burning basement heater pops and rumbles. And yes, there...bare or stocking feet pad quickly toward me down the hall. My heart rate ratchets up to match the hurried footfalls.

  I stuff the DVD under my laptop and work hard to put on my three-o’clock-in-the-morning, full-boat Austin Carr grin. Not exactly a simple trick. And definitely not sincere. I mean, how am I supposed to be calm and forthright when this DVD suggests last night’s love interest may not be the innocent beauty I imagined? In truth, the lady headed this way could be a killer.

  Clever of me to wake her up.

  I don’t mention her name because...well, gentlemen do not identify their secret lovers, not even by pet handles. And seeing her march out of the murky hall into the living area’s yellowish lamplight strongly suggests the need for a new nickname anyway.

  I gasp. Oh, my. And oops. Oh, my because she’s wearing nothing but white athletic socks. And oops because she’s using both hands and all ten red-nailed fingers to grasp a pump-action, single-barrel shotgun.

  “You found the DVD, didn’t you?” Ms. Shotgun says.

  “DVD?” If it wasn’t for rhyming consonants, I’d be pretty much speechless. My gaze is tightly focused on her bare breasts and that shotgun in the same close-up. Visually and emotionally, it’s a lot to absorb.

  “I know you found it,” she says. “Wrapped in my black beach dress.”

  My lips move without sound. I suppose my throat might be choked with fear, but I’d rather think I’m distracted by the long curve of Ms. Shotgun’s hip, the loose weight of her breasts swinging below the carved gun stock.

  Watch me get a boner.

  “I just checked the bathroom,” Ms. Shotgun says. “You rifled the hamper, found the black dress. I know you have my DVD.”

  I try taking a deep breath. On tough stock and bond clients, this often works as a show of calm sincerity. “I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She racks a shell into the firing chamber.

  Maybe my pledge of innocence lacked conviction.

  I lift the laptop and offer her the DVD. My heart ticks to an even quicker time. My ego slips a notch. Time was, the full-boat Carr grin and a reasonable lie got me through bumpy spots with naked women.

  “Play it,” she says. “We’ll solve the murder together.”

  I slide the disk into the Mac and wonder if I’m really going to view what the Branchtown Sun calls the “MISSING HOTEL MURDER VIDEO.”

  The DVD’s first images show a thirtyish woman primping her hair before a gilded oval mirror.

  “Don’t you want to fast-forward?” Ms. Shotgun says. “Get right to the choking and burning?”

  On screen, the victim cracks open her hotel room door. My jaw drops as Ms. Shotgun’s digital image rushes inside, pushing right through the startled hotel guest and knocking her flat on the carpet.

  I turn from the laptop. “So it was you.”

  Ms. Shotgun raises the pump-action level with my nose.

  And I thought my future looked shitty last month.

  ONE

  One Month Earlier...

  The big thing about my pal Walter Osgood, Shore Securities’ biggest producer, he’s like a kid when it comes to his feelings. He just can’t hide them. So when I walk into Luis’s Mexican Grill, see Walter at the bar and notice his every other breath is a sigh, that he’s clutching his Grey Goose like a soldier headed for war, I know Walter’s worried about seeing me. He’s got news I’m not going to like.

  Great. A fitting end to a wonderful week. I’ve been taking it hard in the wallet, even harder in the shorts these past few days, ever since Monday morning’s appointment with the New York urologist.

  The name’s Austin Carr, by the way. Since my Series Seven stockbroker’s license is temporarily suspended, instead of Senior Financial Consultant, the slick expensive business cards in my wallet say I’m a Special Management Adviser to Shore Securities, Inc., Members of the American Association of Securities Dealers. In truth, I am really just a salesman—like Walter—and I work for myself. Straight commission.

  If we don’t sell, we don’t eat.

  I slide next to Walter at Luis’s horseshoe bar and touch the slick Gucci material covering my buddy’s shoulder. “What the heck’s bothering you?”

  Another sigh from Shore Securities’ number one producer of commission dollars. A bit girlish if you ask me. Maybe I’ve been living in Central New Jersey too long, but I find myself fighting an urge to smack him.

  A lot of us stockbrokers call ourselves investment counselors, or if we have a license to sell insurance, too, financial planners. We like to wear two thousand dollar suits, carry leather briefcases and think of ourselves as professionals, like doctors and lawyers. But really we’re more like car salesmen.

  “You worried about the business?” I say to Walter. “We’ll be okay without Mr. Vic. Carmela and I can take care of his accounts, keep the numbers coming.”

  Walter and I agreed to meet here after work, tune up before Mr. Vic’s Friday night dockside farewell party in Atlantic Highlands. Shore’s boss, Vic Bonacelli, Mr. Vic, sails with his family tomorrow for Tuscany. Only his daughter Carmela refused to go. She’s staying behind to help me run Shore.

  “Carmela’s like her old man,” I say. “Slick on the phone.”

  Walter shakes his head.

  I like to ruminate over the shortcomings of my profession with double margaritas and a positive setting: Luis’s Mexican Grill on Broad Street in Branchtown. The decor reminds me of home, the east side of Los Angeles, and Luis, the owner-slash-bartender, is mi amigo.

  “Shore’s a dead puppy without Vic,” Walter says. “You know it better than I do.”

  My jaw stiffens. “Whoa, Walter. Things aren’t that bad. A couple of lousy months.”

  “Shore’s toast,” he says.

  I lean forward, make him look directly at me. I need to see those expressive blue eyes. If Walter really believes Shore isn’t going to survive, then I can easily guess the nature of tonight’s bad news.

  “You’re leaving?” I say.

  Walter nods.

  Shit. “Today was your last day?”

  He nods again, then bumps his shoulder against mine. “You know how this shitty business is,” he says. “Two minutes after I’m gone, the back office is passing out my account records and my old best friends start calling my clients, tell them I have AIDS and I raped my twelve-year-old babysitter.”

  Luis’s Mexican Grill is Friday-night packed, loud and oblivious. Walter still has his voice set on whisper.

  “By leaving on Friday,” he says, “I’ve got a weekend to prepare my clients for your assault.”

  Except for math, science, history and geography, Walter’s no dummy. Guaranteed he’s been tenderizing his good clients about this move for weeks.

  “You’re an owner, Walter. You have a piece of Shore. Why would you throw that away after only a few bad months?”

  When he shakes his head this time, not a hair moves. Walter Osgood pays a hundred bucks per styling. “Shore has lost money every month since you and I bought in,” he says. “With Vic leaving town, this AASD investigation, Sunny and Doppler taking a walk, well...the red numbers can only get worse. I’m bailing.”

  Sunny was a complainer and Doppler spent his days distressed over potential bad weather. They’ve had a piss-poor attitude since Mr. Vic sold me, Carmela’s fiancée Tom R
agsdale and Walter half of Shore’s stock. Then business got worse and the American Association of Securities Dealers surprised us with an audit. The combination must have been too much Sunny and Doppler.

  “Are you worried about this AASD investigation?” I say. “Is that why you’re leaving?”

  “No,” Walter says. “I’m leaving because Jaffy Ritter Clark is handing me a check for four hundred fifty thousand dollars when I show up for work Monday. But if I were you, I’d worry what that AASD cutie might dig up on Shore Securities’ marketing practices. Remember that St. Louis bond default last year? Mr. Vic’s sales contest to pump it before the default?”

  I turn Walter’s shoulder, make him look at me again. “You’re leaving me and Vic pretty much dead in the water, Walter. Without your numbers, we are in trouble. Can’t you give it another six months?”

  Walter’s pale, blue eyes turn cold. “What’s going to change?”

  TWO

  It’s bad, bad news for my kids’ future that Walter Osgood is leaving Shore. Walter is our ace, having earned over nine hundred thousand in gross commissions last year. The firm is definitely going to teeter without Walter. And therefore so is my dream of building a college nest egg for Beth and Ryan.

  After promising Walter I’ll keep my mouth shut until Monday, hugging him goodbye, I ignore the urge to self-medicate right there at Luis’s Mexican Grill and drive instead to Mr. Vic’s party in Atlantic Highlands. I owe the boss at least an appearance. And with all Mr. Vic’s single cousins and nieces there drinking like fish, there’s a decent chance I’ll get lucky.

  Of course, it crosses my mind I’d be helping my own business interests if I tell Vic about Walter leaving, bring in the guys on Saturday to work Walter’s accounts. But it’s only a fleeting thought. Walter is a close friend.

  I park, walk straight inside the bayside restaurant bar and bubbly flow of the Bonacelli clan and Shore Securities employees. At the bar, I order another martini.