by Bill Moody
“Hey man, let’s take a walk outside before you play,” he says. He pats his pocket and smiles.
Pappy gives him a hard look. “Get outta here, Juni.” The man called Juni shrugs and disappears into the crowd at the bar.
“Don’t you be goin’ with him,” Pappy says. “He’s got the shit killed Elvis.” He takes me by the shoulders. “C’mon man, play one for Sonny. I know you can do it. We’ll come up and help you out if you get in trouble.”
“I don’t know, Pappy, it’s going pretty good.”
“C’mon, man, don’t talk that shit. Play, man, play.” He takes me by the arm and pulls me toward the bandstand.
Pappy leads me to the piano and I sit down at the old scarred upright. I flex my fingers and stare at the keyboard I know so well while Pappy grabs the mike. “Let’s hear it,” he says to the audience. “Evan Horne, a real friend of Sonny Wells.”
There’s some light applause, then the room becomes strangely silent. I look up at the ceiling, searching for something to play. The blues is all I can think of for Sonny Wells. Gene Harris’s “Black and Blue” comes to mind. I begin with a slow left-hand figure, then lock both hands into the chord changes and start moving through the melody line that has its own built-in sadness.
“I hear you,” somebody in the audience says. Another voice murmurs, “Uh huh. Talk to me.” I’m not sure where it comes from. Head down, I start my solo, mostly block chords, mashing keys, smearing notes, and feeling the first twinge of pain shoot up my arm. But I play through it, and by the third chorus the pain is gone. If this is to be my last time, I might as well go for broke.
Suddenly, in my ear, I hear Pappy’s bass walking with me, huge dark tones that ring through, one note to another. “I ain’t here to help you,” Pappy says, bending close. “I just want to be along for this ride.”
On the next chorus, the drummer joins us, entering with an Art Blakey-like press roll that begins as a whisper, then rises to a crescendo as he slams us down into the next chorus. I feel his stick on the cymbal, pushing and prodding at my back. I lean back slightly on the bench, shake out my right hand, then plunge into the keys while keeping the chords going with my left. I punch at the keys and pull out some lines I don’t recognize myself, but as good as it is, as good as it feels, my hand is going fast, cramping up. The pain has come back to haunt me once again.
I glance over at Pappy, pulling on the strings of his bass, with me all the way. I need help. As we end the chorus, I nod to him and let a wave of applause wash over me. Now it’s Pappy’s turn. Hunched over his bass, Pappy doesn’t need any help. I feed him the changes with my left hand, flex the fingers of my right, and listen to the drummer’s brushes caress the snare. Maybe I’ll get out of this yet.
Pappy’s solo comes to a close, and he begins the walk home. I’m ready to take it out when another tenor mounts the bandstand and joins us. “I had to have a piece of this,” he says. It’s block chords all the way for me until the end, when he and I trade cadenzas. I manage to squeeze out one final run, and Pappy signals the closing chord. It’s only then I’m aware of the audience as they erupt in an avalanche of shouts and applause.
Pappy leans over to me and says, “Maybe white men can’t jump, but they sure can play the blues.” He laughs and slaps my hand, and I surrender the piano.
“You cookin’, baby,” the pianist says as we trade places. “Cookin’!”
It all feels good—the club, the playing, the camaraderie of the musicians. But when I jump off the bandstand to join Natalie, I stop and turn to look at the piano. I feel a wave of sadness come over me, for I know this may be the last time.
CODA
Professor Charles Buffington is surrounded by colleagues in front of the Barrick Museum at UNLV. He’s basking in the attention, smiling, shaking hands, accepting congratulations—even, I notice, from his nemesis in the English department. The news of Ace’s paper has obviously been circulated, a practice Ace tells me is standard procedure during these conferences, especially since he leaked a copy to the dean.
I feel a bit out of place, but I promised I’d come by, at least for the beginning of the conference. Ace finally spots me and untangles himself from the crowd.
“How about this, Evan. I’m a star at last.”
“Congratulations, Ace. You deserve it.” It’s great to see him so genuinely happy.
“Hey, that’s not all. I faxed a proposal to this editor I know. He called this morning, and I may have a book contract with a pretty respectable university press.” A momentary frown crosses his face. “He says I may have to give it some bullshit academic title, but it’s the real thing, a book on the Moulin Rouge and Wardell Gray. It’s a crossover book for me, but the English department can’t ignore it. Merit pay and a promotion to full professor is definitely on the horizon.”
I point at Ace’s rival. “Even your buddy seems to be getting into the act.”
“Sure, but don’t be fooled. He just wants to take credit for being my chair. He’s probably already trying to figure a way to quash the book deal. Well, fuck him. Let him try. I called in some favors and got a sabbatical approved for the spring semester to give me time to work on the book.”
“Easy, Ace. You academic types are more vicious than record promoters.”
“Not all of us. How did your testimony go?”
“Well enough to get a grand jury indictment on Karl and Little Tony. Sonny Wells and Buddy Herman’s deaths are still down as unsolved, but Trask is going to keep the file open.”
“What about Gallio?”
“When he realized there was a copy of the diary, he pulled out of everything, and Trask says he’s made a couple of trips to Chicago. They’re not happy with him there. He’s got a lot of explaining to do.”
Ace nods. “Well, you did all you could, and you certainly helped me with this paper. C’mon, let’s go’ inside.”
I follow Ace into the auditorium and take a seat near the back. The others file in amidst a buzz of conversation. They quiet down when a short slim man, a conference director, takes the podium to introduce the speakers.
“Thank you all for coming this afternoon. I hope no one had to cancel any classes, but if you did, I can assure you it’s for a good cause.” He pauses for a moment to accept the polite chuckles before continuing. “We’re very happy to kick off the conference with a paper from one of our own English department members. We hope you all enjoy the city and the campus during your stay in Las Vegas. Now, without further delay, I’d like to introduce Professor Charles Buffington, who we’ve managed to get off the tennis court for this reading.”
There’s a smattering of applause as Ace strides to the podium like an actor about to receive an Oscar. He looks a little rumpled in his dark suit, but that’s academic style. He arranges his papers in front of him, adjusts his glasses, and begins reading.
“This paper is the result of some pretty intensive research, and if you’ve been reading the local newspapers, some pretty intensive police work as well. I for one am happy to see the academic and local communities cooperate in the manner they have. I think we’ve gone a long way toward making the ivory tower a little bit more accessible.”
Ace pauses for a moment to let his remarks sink in and give the department chair a meaningful glance. I have to admit, Ace knows how to play the room, and I know he’s enjoying every minute.
“Before I begin this paper,” he continues, “I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge a good friend to whom I owe a great debt in helping with the research. I believe he’s sitting in the back of the room. Mr. Evan Horne.”
I don’t actually stand up, but I wave at Ace. Curious faces turn toward me, I suppose trying to place where they might have seen me before. I wonder if they’ll mistake me for one of the faculty?
“The title of this paper is ‘Death of a Tenor Man’,” Ace continues. “I should first explain that I’ll be using some terms that are perhaps unfamiliar to many of you throughout the paper. For exam
ple, tenor man is an idiomatic expression to denote tenor saxophonist, generally in the jazz field. Apologies to my female colleagues, but tenor person simply won’t work when referring to Wardell Gray. I think I’ll begin with...”
I get up and slip out the door. I’ve read most of the paper already, seen the photos Ace has collected. Wardell, I think, would have been pleased to know that he was the subject of an academic conference and that the keynote speaker had written about him.
I cut across the deserted campus toward the humanities building to get the rental car. Almost time to pick up Natalie. We’ll be flying back to Los Angeles together. Going down the steps, I pass a campus security guard.
“Hot enough for you?” he asks. I wonder how many people ask that question every day during the summer in Las Vegas.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Seems a lot cooler today.”
The guard laughs. “You must be getting used to this dry heat.”
I’m not used to it, but September does offer the slight hint of fall. The worst of the summer heat is gone. As promised, I’ve come back to testify at the arraignment of Tony and Karl. They’ll do time, and Anthony Gallio’s plans for the Moulin Rouge are in a shambles. Trask, thinks he had a lot of explaining to do in Chicago.
Louise and Rachel Cody were reunited, and when I talked to her, Louise told me the Moulin Rouge’s place on the National Register of Historic Landmarks was all but reality. She and Pappy are seeing a lot of each other.
Natalie has been accepted for law school, and we’re still exploring our relationship. It’s going well. The weeks I’ve spent back in my Venice apartment have been good for reflection. I’ve started physical therapy again. I just can’t give up the piano. Even Cindy Fuller is in my corner.
I get in the car and head for the Strip to pick up Natalie, but at the light at Flamingo and Paradise I change my mind. There’s something I want to see. I drive through downtown and pull up near the Moulin Rouge. One more quick look. I think of opening night in 1955 and wonder if it will ever see that kind of excitement again. Probably not.
Then I drive north a couple of miles from the casino, I think to the right place.
I pull over and get out of the car and walk into a vacant lot near a convenience store. The trash is still there—crushed drink cups, sandwich wrappings, overflowing weeds; even the abandoned truck tire remains—scattered about the lot of sand and dirt.
A few feet off the road I stop and stand still and listen. This is the spot where Wardell Gray’s body was discovered. One of the great talents of jazz dead, like Charlie Parker, at age thirty-four, a lifeless heap dumped in the desert to be found by a passerby,
I listen again. For what? Spirits? The faint sound of a saxophone? So many thoughts flood my mind, but there’s no epitaph for a tenor man here. Nothing but the wind blowing trash through the desert, the sound of traffic rushing by.
I reach in my pocket, touch the new rubber ball, and give it a squeeze.
So long, Wardell. The chase is still on.
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About Bill Moody
Jazz drummer and author Bill Moody has toured and recorded with Maynard Ferguson, Jon Hendricks, and Lou Rawls. He lives in northern California where he hosts a weekly jazz radio show, and continues to perform around the Bay Area. He is the author of seven novels featuring jazz pianist-amateur sleuth Evan Horne and two spy novels. Additionally, Bill has also published a dozen short stories in various collections.
http://www.billmoodyjazz.com/
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Also by Bill Moody
Evan Horne Mystery Series
Solo Hand
The Death of a Tenor Man
The Sound of the Trumpet
Bird Lives!
Looking for Chet Baker
Shades of Blue
Fade to Blue
Other Works
Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz
The Man in Red Square
Mood Swings (Short story collection)
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Other Titles from Down and Out Books
See www.DownAndOutBooks.com for complete list
By J.L. Abramo
Catching Water in a Net
Clutching at Straws
Counting to Infinity
Gravesend
Chasing Charlie Chan
Circling the Runway (*)
By Trey R. Barker
2,000 Miles to Open Road
Road Gig: A Novella
Exit Blood
Death is Not Forever (*)
By Richard Barre
The Innocents
Bearing Secrets
Christmas Stories
The Ghosts of Morning
Blackheart Highway
Burning Moon
Echo Bay
Lost
By Rob Brunet
Stinking Rich
By Milton T. Burton
Texas Noir
By Reed Farrel Coleman
The Brooklyn Rules
By Tom Crowley
Viper’s Tail
Murder in the Slaughterhouse
By Frank De Blase
Pine Box for a Pin-Up
Busted Valentines and Other Dark Delights
The Cougar’s Kiss (*)
By Les Edgerton
The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping
By A.C. Frieden
Tranquility Denied
The Serpent’s Game
By Jack Getze
Big Numbers
Big Money
Big Mojo (*)
By Keith Gilman
Bad Habits
By Terry Holland
An Ice Cold Paradise
Chicago Shiver
By Darrel James, Linda O. Johsonton & Tammy Kaehler (editors)
Last Exit to Murder
By David Housewright & Renée Valois
The Devil and the Diva
By David Housewright
Finders Keepers
Full House
By Jon Jordan
Interrogations
By Jon & Ruth Jordan (editors)
Murder and Mayhem in Muskego
By Bill Moody
Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz
The Man in Red Square
Solo Hand
The Death of a Tenor Man
The Sound of the Trumpet
Bird Lives!
By Gary Phillips
The Perpetrators
Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes (editor)
Treacherous: Griffters, Ruffians and Killers (*)
By Gary Phillips, Tony Chavira, Manoel Magalhaes
Beat L.A. (Graphic Novel)
By Robert J. Randisi
Upon My Soul
Souls of the Dead (*)
Envy the Dead (*)
By Lono Waiwaiole
Wiley's Lament
Wiley's Shuffle
Wiley's Refrain
Dark Paradise
By Vincent Zandri
Moonlight Weeps
(*) Coming soon
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Here’s a sample from Bill Moody’s The Sound of the Trumpet.
INTRO
With my dead hand, I put the tone arm on the record and listen to my live hand.
The title of the album is Arrival—Evan Horne, recorded, unfortunately, just before CDs became commonplace. There were fewer than two thousand copies printed. In my euphoria at accomplishing a lifelong dream, I gave away all mine, except this one, to friends and relatives.
I could try, but tracking down another copy would be difficult if not impossible. It’s unlikely that collectors would have one, and according to the record company, a small label that was gobbled up by a bigger one, there are none in stock. To have some copies made from the master tape in the small numbers I want would be very expensive, even if the master could be found. Tapes get lost, misfiled, or just disappear.
It’s been years since I listened to
it. There are things I would do differently, tunes I would eliminate or add, arrangements I would change, but generally it stands up well. It got a flurry of airplay on some jazz radio stations, a couple of good reviews—of the promising-new-talent variety—but disappeared into obscurity in relatively quick fashion. Still, I have this copy, proof that I once recorded with my own trio.
I listen to a couple of other tunes, then carefully return the record to its sleeve. I glance at the photo of myself on the cover, seated at a grand piano, the bassist and drummer standing behind me. My smile reflects the hope and pride I felt at that moment. I wonder what the next one would have been, if there had been a next one.
I don’t usually yearn for the good old days, but on this January night in Venice, California, with cold air and fog nudging my windows, I’m in the mood for the past. I pull out some CD reissues of Miles Davis, Dexter Gordon, Bud Powell, and Bud’s brother Richie playing with the Max Roach—Clifford Brown Quintet.
Brownie’s tone is as pure and clean and cool as a mountain stream. I wonder—as do all jazz musicians, especially trumpet players—what he would have done but for that rainy night on the Pennsylvania Turnpike when his car went off the road and a great talent was lost forever at age twenty-five.
Had Miles Davis died at the same age, there would be no recordings beyond Birth of the Cool. No Kind of Blue, no collaborations with Gil Evans, no quintet with Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock, Tony Williams, and Ron Carter.
I’ve never met a trumpet player who doesn’t speak in reverent tones about Clifford Brown. His recorded legacy is small, to be sure, but studied and emulated by anyone who’s put a trumpet to his lips. Lee Morgan and Woody Shaw are gone, but some of Brownie’s disciples are still with us. Freddie Hubbard and Wynton Marsalis owe a lot of notes to Brownie.