by Phil Swann
“You wait,” I added over his cackle, “someday you’ll be telling people you were taught by the great Trip Callaway.”
“Yes, sir…Trip.”
“Okay, now that we’ve gotten to the bottom of that mystery, why don’t you play me a song by one of those guys? I’m sure you know something.”
“I can play ‘Every Time We Say Goodbye’ by Chet Baker.”
“Now you’re talking. Off you go then. I’m listening.”
He lifted the horn and started playing. After a few bars, I raised my horn and began playing with him, adding some harmony and improvisation between the phrases. When he finished, a different person was sitting in front of me.
“That was…fun,” he said, lit up like the Golden Nugget.
“It sure was. You played it great.”
“Thank you.”
“But not perfect.”
“Really?” he replied as if I’d punched him in the gut.
“You played all the right notes, and your technique was flawless, but you weren’t singing. I want you to play it again, but this time, let your horn sing.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“Just try it.”
He lifted his trumpet and started playing. After a few bars, I stopped him. I thought for a second, and then I said, “Jean-Claude, I don’t think I’m telling you anything you don’t know, but Chet has had some pretty well publicized personal struggles recently. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
The boy lowered his head and nodded. “It was in Down Beat.”
“Yeah, it was. And you know what? Dizzy has had his share of troubles too—so has Miles. Even Louis’s gone through some stuff. But what makes these guys different, what makes them great artists, is that they’re able to express their struggles, and heartbreaks, as well as their joys and successes, through their music. Do you understand?”
“I believe so.”
“Let’s try something. Can you think of something that makes you sad? I mean, really, really sad?”
Jean-Claude thought for a second and then nodded.
“Okay, I want you to start the song again, except this time, don’t think about the notes. I don’t care if you mess up or not, I just want you to think about that sad thing as you’re playing. Okay?”
He nodded.
“Good. Off you go.”
Jean-Claude raised his horn, closed his eyes, and started playing. It took a few bars, but little by little, his entire sound began to change. Yes, his technique suffered some, but his tone became more emotional, more rich. So much so, that I could almost start to hear the words of the song coming from his trumpet. When he finished, a tear was running down his cheek. He lowered the horn and wiped his eyes.
“Now you’re making music,” I said. “You okay?”
He sat down on the sofa and looked away.
“Mind if I ask what you were thinking about?”
He didn’t respond, so I decided to let it go and move on. But then he blurted, “My father—my real father.”
“I see. Where is your real father?”
“He died,” he answered, still looking off.
“I’m sorry to hear that, that’s tough. Believe me, I know. My pop died too.”
He looked up at me. “When?”
“A few years back, but I still haven’t gotten over it. He was a good man.”
“Mine was too.”
“How did he die?”
Before Jean-Claude could answer, the door opened. This time my heart skipped two beats for another reason.
“Good Afternoon. I’m Jean-Claude’s mother.”
Chapter 4
There’s beauty in this world that goes beyond words. A beauty where verbal description is completely futile because no matter how perfect the prose, or eloquent the poetry, it would still fall short of capturing what is beyond human utterance. That must be why music was given to us lower life forms. A mysterious communication that allows us to express the unspeakable. I’m blessed to be an expert conjurer of this strange wizardry, which is why if I could play for you the beauty I looked upon that day, I have no doubt I could make you see it. But since I can’t, I must fall back on what regular mortals do and simply report the facts—facts which won’t come close to depicting what I could easily paint for you with my horn: she wore a sleeveless, light blue cotton dress that belted at the waist and fell just below her knees. What jewelry I could see consisted of a simple strand of pearls around her neck. Her hair was dark brown and cut just above her shoulders. Her large, almond-shaped eyes were as innocent as they were exotic, and her voice was light, feminine, and distinctly European—I assumed French. Lastly, even though everything about her was the definition of elegance and confidence, she also had an air of humility and vulnerability about her. She was, in a word, exquisite.
“Trip, Trip Callaway,” I replied, clumsily offering my hand.
When she took my hand, my whole body vibrated. She had to have noticed. “Yes, I know. You came highly recommended, Mr. Callaway.”
“Thank you,” I said a bit too dreamily. I quickly recovered. “Your son is quite good. I look forward to working with him.”
“Correct, he is quite good. Which is why you are here. But it’s important we get something straight right from the start, Mr. Callaway. You have been employed to give Jean-Claude trumpet lessons. That is all. You are not here to be his friend, confidant, nor his advisor. That is my job. Furthermore, I expect Jean-Claude to be instructed in serious music only. Not that sleazy, barroom, jazz rubbish, I just heard. Yes, I heard what Jean-Claude was just playing, and I do not approve. My husband has a penchant for such nonsense. I do not.”
“But…”
“No buts, Mr. Callaway. Jean-Claude is my son, and that is my wish. If you feel you are incapable of following this directive, we should terminate this relationship now. You will be financially compensated for your time today, of course. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Callaway?”
I was totally taken aback. Funny how someone’s physical appearance can change so quickly. “Got it. No sleazy barroom jazz,” I said with as much contempt as I could possibly milk out of the words.
“Good. As I said, Mr. Callaway, you came highly recommended. I hope you can live up to that endorsement.”
“I’ll do my best. Just one question, Mrs. Wu. Should I stick to only music written before the twentieth century? Meaning, is Debussy and Ravel off limits too?” I was being intentionally impertinent, but I didn’t care.
Madame offered the most condescending smile I’d ever been the recipient of. “I’m French, Mr. Callaway. Debussy and Ravel are fine. Just stay away from W.C. Handy and your ridiculous Louis Armstrong.”
I couldn’t believe she’d said that. I’m not sure my blood had ever come closer to actually boiling. She might as well have insulted the entire Callaway family tree. No one disrespected Satchmo that way in front of me. Before I could offer my own biting retort, Number Two son James came back into the room.
“You wanted to see me, ma’am?”
“Yes, James,” she replied. “I’m going out. You should plan accordingly.”
“Yes, ma’am. May I ask where you’ll be going?”
“You may not.”
“But Father—”
“It’s bad enough I am required to have a chaperone every time I wish to get my nails done, I will not submit to issuing an itinerary, as well. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am. Even so, I must respect Father’s—”
“How would you feel, James, if you had to account for your every move?”
James stiffened. “I understand, ma’am. Nevertheless—”
“Never mind, James. I will speak to your father myself.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but Father is in a meeting with my brother and Mr. Cavendish. He asked not to be—”
“Very well,” she snapped.
“Shall I get your car now, ma’am?” James asked.
“Do I look like I’m ready to leave? I’ll i
nform you when I am.”
The young man obediently nodded and then departed.
She turned back to me. “You see, Mr. Callaway, we all must follow orders we don’t like.”
I didn’t reply.
Jean-Claude had remained motionless from the moment his mother entered the room. She walked over to him and kissed the top of his head. She waited for the boy to offer a response. He didn’t. She looked back at me. “You may continue with the lesson now, Mr. Callaway. Have a good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Wu,” I replied.
Once she was out the door, I looked over at the Jean-Claude and struggled for something say. As it turned out, my struggle was unnecessary. The boy simply stood up and put the Arbon book back on the music stand.
“Shall I play the next piece, sir?” he asked.
The original Jean-Claude was back.
“Sure,” I answered. “I suppose that’s what you should do.”
Jean-Claude and I worked for about another hour, keeping the instruction centered around the Arban and the Clark method books. When I declared the lesson complete, the boy dutifully packed up his instrument and left with no fanfare. Once he was gone, I considered planting Clegg’s bug inside the piano but decided not to push my luck. I might be fearless, but I’m not foolhardy. Instead, I packed up my trumpet and departed the way I’d entered.
I followed the path back through the garden until reaching the door in the wall. Of course, the door was locked. I looked around and saw nary a soul, not even the ancient gardener, so I called out. “James? Johnny? Anyone?”
No one called back.
Seeing no other option, I headed back through the garden, and into the study. It looked like I was going to view rest of the house sooner than I’d anticipated.
It should come as no surprise that I consider myself to be an optimistic and cheerful chap by nature. Furthermore, I am a firm believer in the predictability of the unpredictable. More than a few times in my young life, fate has dropped in at just the right moment and offered a solution to a problem where none previously existed; sort of the Trip Callaway version of deus ex machina. Having said that, I’ve also learned—often the hard way—that some opportunities are nothing more than cleverly disguised mousetraps waiting to guillotine my little head from my little neck. The trick in life, I’ve decided, is recognizing which one is which. Unfortunately, in this instance, such crucial discernment eluded me. For even though I had a perfectly innocent reason for opening the big oak door in the study and entering the main residence, it still felt a bit shady. Perhaps that was because in my heart of hearts I knew my sole purpose for being in the house in the first place wasn’t exactly pure. So, I wondered, which version of kismet was this to be? Had destiny really presented me with a perfectly reasonable excuse to tour the rest of the palace? Or was I about to spend the all of eternity comparing notes with Marie Antoinette?
Stunning, breathtaking, and utterly ridiculous. That’s how I’d describe the immense museum I suddenly found myself in. It was technically the home’s entrance foyer, but architecturally speaking, there was nothing homey about it. An enormous crystal chandelier hung dead-center over a white marble floor where at least two dozen pedestals were haphazardly scattered about. The pedestals all displayed small statues of Greek gods and goddesses, or some such things, and were all illuminated from somewhere overhead. All, but for one monstrosity setting a couple of football fields across from me. It appeared to be nothing more than a large concrete slab. It was most likely an important work of art Wu had acquired at great expense from some nabob in some far-off land, but to me, it was just a big hunk of concrete. I’d been in opulent homes before, but this place was completely absurd. The only thing missing was a docent and a gift shop. I’m positive the room was intended to intimidate more than to inspire, but it only earned a chuckle out of me. In my experience, when I’ve witnessed such unabashed posturing, nine times out of ten it usually comes off as more gauche than glam. Wu’s little exercise in excess was no exception.
I shut the door to the study and moved further into the chamber where I soon found myself standing under a curved staircase leading up to parts unknown. I very much wanted to climb the stairs to see what other decadent delights Wu had waiting on the second floor but felt like I’d tempted the gods and goddesses quite enough. So instead, I located a set of double doors across the room, surmised that to be the exit, and made a beeline for them.
Halfway into my escape, I heard voices coming from a closed door off to my left. I steered closer to the sound in the hopes I could make out what was being said, or at the very least who was saying it, but when the voices got louder, I realized whomever the voices belonged to were on their way out the door. I sprinted across the foyer and hid behind the first thing I could find—which happened to be a conveniently placed slab of concrete. I set down my trumpet case, made myself small, and sneaked a peek just as the door opened.
Johnny was the first out. He was carrying a blue folder with a red band wrapped around it. Wu was the next out, followed by a distinguished gentleman in a gray three-piece suit, who I presumed to be Mr. Cavendish. Despite being in another zip code, the cathedral-like acoustics allowed me to clearly hear every word being said.
“And you’re sure about this?” Johnny asked, lifting the folder.
“I am,” the man replied. “Funds were transferred into the account in Geneva two days ago. There’s no mistake. The money is there.”
Johnny handed the folder to the man, and then looked at his father. Wu remained expressionless. The three proceeded to the double doors where Johnny extended his hand to the man, and they shook. The gentleman offered his hand to Wu, but Wu ignored it. He nodded to Johnny, opened the doors, and left.
Once the man was gone, Wu finally spoke, but it was in Chinese, so I had no idea what he said. Whatever it was, I could tell he was not happy. Johnny tried to reply, but Wu cut him off. Johnny bowed his head and departed under the staircase, disappearing into the vast recesses of the manse.
Wu didn’t move. He stood in the foyer and stared into space. After several seconds, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed his brow, and then headed back into the room he’d just come out of.
Once I heard the door click shut, I picked up my horn case and came out from behind my new favorite work of art. I started for the doors but then heard another voice. It was Lady Wu, and she was coming down the stairs. I darted back behind my rock.
She bounced down the steps with James hurrying to keep up. The lady strutted across the foyer—with a bit too much attitude for my taste—flung open the double doors, and exited like Merman on opening night. James was left with the task of closing the doors behind them.
Once I was content I’d given them enough time to get into an automobile and be clear of the premises, I attempted my escape yet again—this time, with even more urgency. I picked up my case and hightailed it for the door. I was in the middle of the foyer when the guillotine finally dropped.
“Can I help you, sir?” a husky female voice asked.
I stopped dead, turned, and saw a large, middle-aged woman wearing a black and white maid’s uniform looking down on me—and just for the record, I’m nearly six-feet-tall, and she was looking down on me.
“Yes, you can,” I stated, trying to sound properly peeved. “I’m Trip Callaway, Jean-Claude’s trumpet teacher, and I’m trying to get out of here. This is ridiculous. I attempted going through the garden, but the door was—”
“The front door is over there, sir,” the Amazon said, pointing at the double doors.
“Over there, you say? Well…that’s what I thought. Okay, then. I’ll be leaving now. Thank you.” I calmly walked across the foyer and out the door.
It wasn’t until I reached the main road, I started breathing easy again, and my heart rate returned to normal. In retrospect, I think the effect on my vitals might have been as much from exhilaration as fear. Talk about hitting it out of the park my first time
at the plate. Through sheer wit and daring, I was positive I had just witness a bona fide drug deal going down. A drug deal so huge Swiss bank accounts were being used. I couldn’t wait to tell Clegg. An image of him doing cartwheels down The Strip popped into my head. To say I was thrilled with myself would be an understatement. I had accomplished more in one afternoon than his bevy of highly-trained Blutos had been able to do in months. Was there no end to my abilities? I thought. I was sure Clegg would postulate the same question.
I was well out of RC, and still basking in my own glory, when I spotted a red Sunbeam Alpine stopped at a traffic signal up ahead of me. I’m a bit of a gearhead, so I knew seeing two Sunbeams on the same day in anywhere other than the French Riviera was highly improbable. That meant it had to be Madame Wu and James. Once I got a bit closer, my speculation was confirmed. I also noticed it was Madame who was driving.
My instinct was to pull alongside Mrs. Personality and offer a poignant hand gesture. I concluded that would be a bit childish even for me, so instead, I decided to lay back and just watch. The light changed, and the car turned south onto Main. As you’d expect, curiosity got the better of me, so I followed.
Whoever came up with the myth women can’t drive, never met this one. Michelle Wu whipped the tiny roadster in and out of traffic like Sterling Moss at Monaco. She blew through more than one caution signal and scared the bejesus out of a herd of tourists crossing the street in front of the Thunderbird. Keeping up with Maggie Dubois became secondary to not plowing into a telephone pole. I was about to say the heck with it and let her go, when she turned right and accelerated into the driveway of the Stardust. I pulled in as well but stayed far enough back as to remain out of site.
A young valet opened the passenger side door for James, while another hurried around the car to do the same for Mrs. Wu. He didn’t make it in time, and the lady was out of the car and marching into the hotel while James was still retrieving a parking stub. I stayed put and kept my eyes trained on the hotel’s entrance for several minutes. After concluding there was nothing left to see, I decided to leave. I was turning my Falcon around in the driveway when I looked back and saw none other than Michelle Wu emerge from the hotel, walk to the curb, and get into a waiting taxi. In for a penny, in for a pound, I put my car in gear, and we were off again.
