Death of a Tenor Man

by Bill Moody

  “Well, I hope you’re hungry.” She leads me to an oak dining table, elegantly set, that overlooks the pool. She serves salad on chilled plates and lamb curry with rice pilaf from steaming casserole dishes. There’s Indian nan bread on the side and more wine. By the end of dinner, I feel a warm glow, entertain thoughts about calling Cindy, and wonder why Rachel Cody would want to leave all this.

  We keep to small talk over dinner, getting acquainted, both of us studiously avoiding talk of the Moulin Rouge or Rachel. Louise tells me about her real estate career. I briefly recount my struggles in the music business and give the Lonnie Cole case a quick onceover.

  Musically, Louise and I are on the same wavelength. She gets up several times to play tracks from CDs ranging from Gene Harris to Carmen McRae to Miles Davis and Ahmad Jamal.

  “Coffee?” Louise asks. She wears the satisfied expression of a hostess who knows she’s impressed her guest

  “Fine,” I say. I haven’t seen a single ashtray, but I’m dying for a cigarette. Again, Louise reads my mind.

  “Let’s go outside. It’s cool enough now, and you can smoke.” She brings two large mugs outside to the patio table. Louise obviously doesn’t trust her good china to a pool deck or a musician.

  “What is this?” I ask, taking a sip.

  “French Vanilla. I get it from the place we met at the other day.”

  I get a cigarette going, let the warm balmy breeze wash over me, and decide this is a life I could get used to. We both watch the lights of Las Vegas for a few minutes, basking in the satisfaction of a good meal.

  “I like living out here,” Louise says. “I’m only twenty minutes from the Strip, but it feels like much more. I like the detachment.”

  “And Rachel didn’t?”

  “She did at first. When she moved back here from California after her divorce, I guess life with mom sounded pretty good. It was fine for a while. We got to know each other again, and I got to see what it feels like to go places with a thirty-six-year-old daughter. But a few weeks ago she became withdrawn. We’d always been very close, but suddenly we didn’t talk. She began staying out late, and finally one day I came home from work and she was gone. Just packed a bag and left. No note, nothing.”

  “Any idea what set her off?” Even in this light I can see Louise is avoiding my eyes.

  “None. She had decided to try singing again but wasn’t having much luck.”

  “Did you encourage her?”

  “You mean was I supportive? Yes, I suppose you could say that, although I guess not enough. This isn’t a great town anymore for budding performers. I don’t have to tell you that.” Louise gets up. “I’m going to get some more coffee. Can I get you some?”

  “You bet. I never pass up good coffee.”

  Louise goes back in the house, and I have a few minutes to decide whether to tell her about what I learned about Rachel from Pappy Dean. I decide not to mention the drugs. No need to worry her yet until I find out for myself. That is, if I find Rachel at all.

  Louise returns with the coffee. “So,” she says, sitting down again, “any Rachel sightings?”

  “Afraid not. A couple of musicians recognized her from the photo you gave me. A bass player named Elgin Dean, and Sonny Wells, a saxophonist. Ever heard of them?”

  “No.” Her answer is almost too quick. “Have they actually seen her?”

  “Dean has. They were both around in the Moulin Rouge days. Anyway, it’s a start, and now at least we know she’s still in Las Vegas.”

  Louise allows herself a smile, but it’s forced. “Well, I guess that’s good news then. Did this Dean or Wells say anything specific?” There’s an edge to her voice I can’t quite read.

  “Not really.” I don’t tell her Sonny hasn’t even seen the photo. I’m more interested in gauging her reaction to the names.

  “Was Pappy Dean in the Moulin Rouge band?”

  “No, I don’t think so. At least he didn’t mention it. Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, I just thought, well, it’s not important.” She reaches for my cigarettes. “Do you mind? I quit, but every once in a while I feel like one.”

  “Sure.” I push the pack and my lighter across the table. Her hands are trembling slightly as she flicks the lighter several times and finally gets her cigarette going. She takes only a couple of drags before she stubs it out.”

  “Bad idea,” she says. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” She gets up and goes back into the house.

  I wonder what’s spooking her. Whatever it is, by the time she returns her composure is solidly back in place. She’s carrying a scuffed cloth book about the size of a magazine. “This is for you,” she says. “The diary of a very brief show business career.”

  I take it from her and open it to the first page. The handwriting is beautiful flowing script. I flip through it quickly. It’s about three-quarters full, and all the pages appear to be numbered. Scattered throughout the diary, there are faded photos glued to the pages.

  “Can you pick me out?” she asks as I study a photo. More than a dozen beautiful girls in elaborate costumes smile at the camera. “That was right after the first show. God, what a night that was. Press from everywhere, celebrities by the score, and a packed casino.”

  I flick on my lighter and look from the photo to Louise and back again. She hasn’t changed much. “Right here, front row,” I say, pointing to one of the girls.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Louise says. “There was a Life magazine cover story as well. I’ve got it around here somewhere.”

  “I’d like to see it sometime.”

  “Anyway, take that with you,” Louise says. “I want it back, of course, but maybe it’ll be some help to your friend’s research. I’d forgotten I’d listed the names of the musicians and celebrities who came to the club.”

  “Great, thanks,” I say. “I’ll be very careful with it. My friend will flip over this.” I look at my watch. “Listen, I better get going. It’s been a long day.”

  We leave the pool and go back through the house. “Thanks for a great dinner and this,” I say holding up the diary.

  “My pleasure,” Louise says. “We’ll have to do it again.”

  “Okay, but next time it’s on me.”

  As we near the front door, Louise stops in front of some photos hanging on the wall. There’s a couple of Louise and Rachel, some other obvious family photos, and one in the center that has already caught my eye.

  “You might be interested in this one,” Louise says.

  It’s a group shot, a line of dancers in costume on stage. Over their shoulders, I can see some of the musicians.

  “That was opening night at the Moulin Rouge, and that’s me,” Louise says pointing to one of the girls near the end of the line.

  I bend in for a closer look. Louise was a beautiful young girl with a great smile. “It must have been an exciting night.”

  “Oh, it was. It definitely was,” Louise says.

  I wish I had time for a more detailed look to see if I can recognize some of the musicians, but Louise already has the door open. We say our good-nights, and I go out to my car. She stands framed in the doorway, waving as I drive away.

  When I get to the lake, I pull over and stop, turn off the engine, and light a cigarette. I roll down the window and listen to the water lap against the shore and the sound of my own heartbeat. Louise Cody’s journal rests on the seat beside me. I can’t wait to see what’s in there, but I already know what spooked her back at the house, and that’s what bothers me even more.

  When I’d told her about Elgin Dean and Sonny Wells, I never mentioned Elgin’s nickname. She told me she’d never heard of either of them.

  If that were true, then why did she call Elgin Dean “Pappy?”

  When I get home, the phone is ringing as I unlock the door. “Evan? It’s Natalie. I didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I?”

  “No, what’s up? Coop doesn’t want to see Wayne Newton again, does he?”

/>   “No,” she laughs, “nothing like that. He had to go back to L.A.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Some case he’s been working on. They’ve made an arrest and need him for the interrogation. We have the rooms through Monday, so he insisted I stay on.”

  I don’t answer for a moment, thinking this over, trying to read Natalie’s voice. I can’t deny some attraction for Natalie, but she’s Coop’s, and Coop and I are friends. At the same time I don’t think, or at least I hope, she’s not calling me the minute Coop is gone to…

  “Evan, you still there?”

  “Yeah, sorry. Well, this is a drag for you. Are you going to stay?”

  “I thought I would. I don’t have to be back to work until Wednesday, but I don’t want to just hang out by myself. I thought maybe we could have breakfast or something. Would you be okay with that?”

  I sigh mentally. She knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Breakfast would be fine. About ten?”

  “Great. I’m going to soak in the tub and turn in early. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Natalie?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m really glad you’re going to stay around.”

  “So am I, Evan. Good-night.”

  I hang up the phone, wondering where this is going. Probably nowhere, but the urge to call Cindy has passed. I strip off my tux, grab a beer, and open Louise Cody’s diary.

  I have some reading to do.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Rio Hotel is on Flamingo just off I-95. If you’re energetic and like the heat, it’s within walking distance of Caesars Palace. The Rio’s attraction is that all the rooms are suites, and the rates are a bit better than the Strip hotels. With a pseudo-Brazilian theme, the Rio features a Latin revue in the showroom and one of the better buffets in Las Vegas.

  I park, go in, and call Natalie from one of the house phones.

  “I’ll be right down,” she says.

  “Okay, meet me at the buffet entrance.”

  I get in line, and five minutes later Natalie arrives and catches me watching one of the Rio’s cocktail waitresses glide across the casino in the revealing costumes they’re famous for.

  “Down, boy,” Natalie says. She’s looking fresh and scrubbed in tailored shorts, sandals, and a loose-fitting top. Her long blond hair is tied back in a ponytail this morning.

  The buffet line is not too bad, considering it’s Sunday morning. We pay and are seated quickly—Natalie insists on the smoking section for me—order coffee, and head for the food lines. She beats me back to the table and is already digging into ham and eggs.

  “Oh, I love to eat like this,” Natalie says. We make some small talk, do a little people-watching, which is always good entertainment in Las Vegas, and finish breakfast in record time. Over a second cup of coffee, the talk turns mildly serious.

  “Look,” Natalie says, “I know this is a bit awkward for both of us. I’ve dated Coop a few times, but there isn’t anything serious between us. We’re good friends, but that’s all.”

  “Does Coop know this?”

  “He does after this weekend. He wasn’t that disappointed having to leave early.”

  I let that one alone, at least for now. “Fair enough.”

  I light a cigarette and marvel at my luck. “More coffee?” Natalie nods, and I signal the waitress for a refill. Natalie watches me, slightly amused.

  “You don’t know quite how to handle this, do you?”

  “I guess not, considering the circumstances.”

  “Well, let me take you off the hook. I’m decidedly over twenty-one and not involved with anyone, including Coop, okay?”

  “Better than okay.”

  “By the way, what did Coop tell you about me?”

  “He said you were a meter maid,” I say.

  Natalie shakes her head. “God, I’ll kill that big lug. I am in traffic division, but I don’t ride around on one of those little motor scooters writing tickets.”

  “That was a hard image to conceive. So why police work?”

  Natalie shrugs. “It’s not a unique story. My brother was a cop, but he didn’t make it back from Vietnam, so I decided to see what it was like on the way to law school.”

  “Sorry about your brother. Law school. That I could see.”

  “It was a long time ago. I’m glad you can see me as a lawyer. Speaking of that, how’s your research coming? Coop told me a little about it.”

  “Well, last night I had dinner with Lena Horne.”

  Natalie’s eyes widen. “Are you kidding?”

  I bring her up to date and tell her about Louise Cody’s diary and her resemblance to the great singer.

  “You think she’s lying?”

  “I know she is. There’s either another diary, or she’s left a lot out of the one she gave me.” I know I also want a closer look at the photo I saw at her house.

  “This is really getting intriguing, isn’t it?”

  I don’t tell her about Tony and Karl. “I’m way past the point where I can just walk away.” I fill her in on Ace, Janey, and my comeback.

  “This must be awfully frustrating for you,” she says. She reaches across the table and touches my right hand. I don’t know why, but I think she knows exactly what I’m feeling.

  “Look, I’ve got a couple of things to do, but if you want, I’m told there’s a very good quartet over at Spago in the Forum at Caesars Palace. You want to give it a try?”

  “Sounds great. I think I’ll get in a little pool time.”

  “All right, I’ll pick you up about three.” Before we say good-bye, Natalie takes my hand and gives me a light kiss on the cheek.

  “I like you, Evan Horne,” she says. Then she’s gone, disappearing into the crowd.

  Two things bother me. As I told Natalie, Louise Cody’s diary, while fascinating, was missing too much. It was the delightful journal of a young girl caught up in the glitz and excitement of show business on her first job. She’d kept an account of the rehearsals, the hustle and bustle of a new hotel-casino, and the inherent preparations for a new show. There was a list of celebrities who attended opening, night—she even got to meet a couple—and, as she’d said, the names of the musicians in Benny Carter’s band. Wardell Gray was there, but neither Sonny Wells nor Pappy Dean were among them.

  But it was all surface impressions, as if it had been done last week, not thirty-five years ago. Journals can be enlightening when you look back on them years later, but only if you’ve made true entries at the time. Louise Cody hadn’t. I don’t know why I’m so sure. It’s just a feeling, but one I’m going to work on.

  The second thing that bothers me is the photo at her house, of the chorus line with the band in the background. Was it my imagination, or did she distract me from getting a better look at it? Was there somebody she didn’t want me to recognize? I don’t know how, but I have to have a better look.

  Back at the apartment I leaf through the pages of the diary again, looking for some sign that will tell me what I’m looking for. The last entry is dated November 1955, when she’d come back to work for the last month of the casino’s short duration. Wardell Gray had, of course, been dead for six months. There was no mention of his replacement, or anything else about the band.

  I stare at the pages, trying to make sense out of it, but nothing jells. The ringing phone is a welcome distraction.

  “Evan Horne. It’s Pappy Dean.” His deep voice booms over the, phone.

  “Yeah, Pappy, what’s up?”

  “Sonny Wells. He wants to see you.”

  “When?”

  “Right now,” Pappy says. “You gotta take Sonny when he’s straight, or at least as straight as he can be, and Sunday morning that means church.”

  “Church?”

  “Yeah, St. James. We got a band, an Irish priest who can’t clap in time, but he’s cool.”

  “Where is this church?”

  “Oh, you can find it easy, right near the Mou
lin Rouge. H Street near Washington.”

  I make it in ten minutes. The church is emptying out from the morning service. A crowd of well-dressed people, mostly black, are getting in their cars, saying goodbyes, and Pappy is standing on the top step in a suit and sunglasses.

  “Go on in,” he says. “Sonny’s waiting.”

  The church is quiet and cool inside. There’s a set of drums and what I think is Pappy’s bass nearby in one corner next to the organ. Pappy does have one regular gig. Sonny Wells sits in the back, gazing at the altar as if he’s waiting to take his turn in the confessional.

  He’s cleaned up considerably today, in a threadbare suit, faded white shirt with the collar tips curling up, and a thin black tie. He hasn’t shaved, but his hair is slicked back and his expression is one of peace.

  He recognizes me as I walk down the aisle toward him. “Hey, piano dude,” he calls, waving his hand.

  “How you doing, Sonny?” I sit down next to him in a pew. The quiet of the church reminds me of a concert hall right after a performance.

  “I’m cool,” Sonny says. “I’m always cool on Sunday.” He looks at me searchingly. “Pappy says I should talk to you.”

  “Only if you want to.”

  Sonny nods his head and looks at the floor. “Wardell, man. You stirred up some memories with that name. I knew Wardell in L.A.”

  “I know, you told me the other day.”

  “I did?” He looks at me, puzzled, trying to remember and reconcile the recent with the distant past. “I tell you I was in that band? I took Wardell’s place after.”

  “After what?”

  “After they wasted him. Pay attention, man.”

  I try to keep my breathing steady. I want to shake him out of this stupor, but I keep in mind I’m sitting in a church talking to a junkie who might want to fix any time now.

  “What happened to Wardell, Sonny?”

  “It was that woman. I told Wardell not to be messin’ with her. She was somebody’s woman.”