by Bill Moody
“Yeah, now I know.” Even in the shadows, I see the weariness in his face. “You want a beer?”
“That sounds good.”
I’d spent the afternoon and evening looking at photos, reading clips on Calvin my mother had somehow come across. I’d tried to call Andie twice but only got her voice mail and what I wanted to talk about couldn’t be left on a machine. So much was still missing. What did Cal mean when he told my mother he’d missed his chance once in New York? I needed someone to fill in the blanks.
I go inside and get two beers and bring them back and hand Richard one. “Mom says you wanted to tell me before. Is that true?”
He nods and shrugs. “I went back and forth on it, but the bottom line is we should have told you as soon as you were old enough to understand.” He takes a long pull from the beer. “It’s worse now isn’t it?”
I light a cigarette and take a drink from the bottle. “You can’t possibly know what this feels like.”
“No, I guess I can’t,” he says. “But look, it doesn’t change who you are, you have to know that. It’s just a name, Evan.”
I turn and look at him, seeing my dad’s face in shadows. “Just a name? Yes, just a name, but not my name. You and mom lied to me everyday you didn’t tell me. You orchestrated a conspiracy with your friends and relatives to keep the truth from me for all these years.”
He doesn’t look at me but just nods. “Yes, you’re right. We thought we were doing the right thing, protecting you, but obviously, we were wrong.” He looks at me then. “Listen to me, Evan. You’re still the same person, but I’d understand if you chose to be Evan Hughes. It’s your decision.”
“Yes it is.” I want to be angry at somebody, but who? My mother, who simply did what she had to do when Cal abandoned her—and me. Or did he? Couldn’t my mother have followed him to New York, or was she just too scared? Richard, who despite our often stormy relationship, raised me like I was his own? “I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. It’s too soon. I have to get used to the idea first.”
“Yes, I suppose you do.” He takes another drink. “Think what you want of me, Evan, but don’t be too hard on your mother. She agonized over this many times. It was a past she’d buried, wanted to forget. She’s always said the only good thing to come out of her time with Calvin Hughes was you.”
He gets up and stands for a moment. “What time is your flight tomorrow?”
“Late afternoon.”
“Okay. I’ll drop you at the airport.”
“Thanks.”
He starts in the house then stops, puts a hand on my shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about Calvin,” he says. “I’m sorry about a lot of things. Maybe someday we can talk about it.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, waiting for the click of the screen door. I’m sorry too for not being able to acknowledge Cal, good, bad, or indifferent, as my father, but it’s too late for that now.
I think of spreading his ashes over the water in Santa Monica Bay, remembering the gritty feel in my hands, and my eyes film over as I stare into the darkness.
Chapter Eleven
At Logan Airport, I pace around waiting for the flight, trying Andie again on my cell, but with no luck. Danny Cooper is out of the office. I start to leave a message but don’t. Even Dana is out. On the short flight back to New York, I just stare out the window, hardly aware of anyone around me, more anxious than ever now to see Cameron Brody, let Brody do his computer magic, and help me find Al Beckwood. When we touch down at La Guardia, I already have my hand on my bag.
I get a taxi and ignore the driver’s effort at conversation. He gives up eventually, a loud talk radio show blaring from his radio for the rest of the trip into Manhattan. I tune it out and go over what my mother told me about Cal, Al Beckwood. He could be the key to finding out a lot of things that were on my mind. Maybe he could fill in some of the gaps, which seem even bigger now. Maybe know something about the Birth of the Cool sessions and rehearsals.
But when we pull up in front of Cameron’s building my mind shifts. There’s the flashing lights of a paramedic truck and a blue and white police car.
“Trouble everyday in this city,” the driver says as I get out and pay the fare.
Cameron is sitting on the front steps, a white bandage around his head, a paramedic examining him. Two uniformed cops stand on the sidewalk, talking, laughing as I come up.
“What happened?”
“Whoa, pal,” one of the cops says, putting up his hand.
“He’s my friend,” I say, looking over the cop’s shoulder.
“All right,” the cop says, glancing at Brody and stepping aside.
“What happened?” There’s still some blood on his face. The paramedic, a husky woman with short brown hair snaps off her latex gloves and glances at me.
“He won’t go to the hospital,” she says. “I’ve done all I can do here.” She shrugs. “No concussion but, maybe you can talk him into something.” She closes her bag and heads for the truck, nodding to the two cops.
They come over and one takes out a pad and pen.
“Hey, Evan.” Cameron smiles, one hand on his head. “Guess I look pretty goofy, huh?”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He glances up at the cop, who has one foot on an upper step, his pen poised over the pad. He looks bored by the whole thing and his partner wanders away, checking out the passersby and the traffic. They were probably on the way to dinner when the call came through.
“Okay, Mr. Cameron Brody, want to tell us what happened?” His eyes quickly take me in with a dismissive look.
I light a cigarette and sit down on the step beside Cameron and listen.
“I don’t know really,” Brody says.
“You don’t know?”
“Well, I had just unlocked the door and was going in when he hit me on the head from behind.”
“He? You saw him?”
“Well, no, but it must have been a man because—”
The cop cuts him off. “We’ll leave it at that for now. What happened then?”
“I fell down, but I don’t think I was out. I remember him— okay, or her—climbing over me and then again on the way out.”
“So a few seconds? A minute? Help me out here.” The cop looks up from his pad.
Brody nods. “Less than a minute.”
The cop nods, and continues writing. “So he went in, then right back out?”
“Yes, it was all very quick.”
“Anything missing from your person?”
Brody smiles. “From my person? No.”
“Have you checked the apartment? Anything from there?”
Brody sighs. “Yeah, my laptop computer.”
The cop looks up, glances at me, then his partner, who’s been listening. He walks over closer now. “Sir, would you mind showing me what’s in your pockets, please?”
“My pockets?”
“Yes. If you would.”
Brody stands up, puts his arm on my shoulder to steady himself. The second cop starts to reach out but Brody puts up his hand. “It’s okay, I’m all right.”
He takes out his cell phone from his jacket pocket, keys, change, a wallet thick with credit cards, and some folded bills.
“How much money?” the cop asks.
“I don’t know,” Brody says. He unfolds the bills, counts them. “Seventy two dollars.”
The cop nods, exchanges glances with is partner again. “You didn’t know this guy or recognize him?”
“No,” Brody answers, looking puzzled now.
I look at Brody, then the cops, knowing where this is going.
“He knew you.”
“What?”
“You have seventy two dollars in cash, a wallet full of credit cards, an expensive cell phone, but he didn’t touch them.”
“He was in a hurry,” Brody says, confused now.
>
“Exactly my point,” the cop says. “He knew exactly what he was going for. All he wanted was your computer. You see what I’m saying?”
Brody nods, awareness spreading over his face now.
There are a few more questions, some doubling back over the ones already asked, and Brody is told to stay alert and that he probably won’t see the computer again.
“I’d be very careful if I were you,” the cop says.
“Why, he got what he wanted—the computer. They’re stolen all the time.”
“Yes they are, but he didn’t just want your computer. He wanted what was on it.”
Brody and I stare at the cop.
“If what he wanted isn’t there, he’ll be back,” the cop says.
***
I help Brody inside and settle him on the couch. Looking at the head wound. It’s swelling and raw around the bandage. “You sure you don’t want to have that looked at more closely.”
“I’ll be fine.” He leans back against the couch. “Can you get me some water?”
“Sure.” I go in the tiny kitchenette, find a glass and run some water in the sink, then fill the glass and take it back.
“Thanks,” Brody says, taking the glass. “In my bag, in the bathroom, there’s a prescription bottle.”
I get that, glancing at the label on the way back. Percocet, but an old prescription. Brody pops two in his mouth and leans back again, a slight smile on his lips now.
“Never know when you need Percocet,” he says. “I’m going to crash for a couple of hours. Make yourself at home. How was the trip? Your mom okay?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. Lots to tell you but we’ll do it later.”
“Oh yeah,” Brody says. “Much later. I feel a little woozy.”
***
While Brody lets the pain killer take over, I wander around the tiny apartment. There are books and typed manuscripts everywhere, on nearly every surface. One wall is all shelves and some books are stacked on the floor. The tiny bedroom is the same, on both sides of the bed. Nothing else there but a small dresser and a night table, also stacked with manuscripts. Once in the bathroom, it’s hard to even turn around. I wonder how much a place like this goes for.
I check on Brody. He’s stretched out now and totally out. I go outside and sit on the stoop to have a cigarette, wondering what this was all about, but knowing the cop was right about the computer. I had hoped Brody would have something that would help track down Al Beckwood, but that’s gone now.
I think about calling Andie but I’m not sure what I’m going to say yet. I still haven’t digested everything my mother told me and I want my mind clear when I confront Andie. I know now, that’s what it’s going to be. A confrontation. Some or all of what my mother told me had to be in Cal’s FBI file, and if it was, then Andie had to know.
I smoke a couple more cigarettes, get some coffee from a deli across the street and go back in the apartment. There’s a small TV. I turn it on low and find the news, catching up on the day’s events, but my mind is really not on it.
Brody stirs, sits up and looks at me. “What time is it?”
I look at my watch. “Little after four. How you feeling?”
Brody smiles. “Like I’ve got cable going on in my head.” He touches his head and winces. “Fuck, I wonder what he hit me with.”
“You have a lot of important stuff on the computer?”
Brody says, “Yes, but it’s cool.”
“How so?”
“I back up everything, including my system software. The disks are in my suitcase.”
“So you’re really just out a computer then.”
“Yeah, and this bump.”
“You think the cop was right, about whoever did this knew what he was looking for?”
Brody thinks a moment. “Yeah, it doesn’t make any sense otherwise, but I’m surprised he didn’t just wait till I was gone, break in, and take it without the confrontation.”
“That’s weird too.” I think for moment. Maybe it was some kind of warning, but for what? I don’t mention it to Brody. “What was on the computer?”
Brody shrugs. “Lot of ASCAP files, projects I was working on, and the last disk I saved had a lot on you. Those names you gave me, the Kind of Blue and Birth of the Cool sessions. That got me intrigued.”
“Al Beckwood? Was he one of the names?”
“He was. But how would anybody know that?” Brody leans forward and puts his head in his hands. “I don’t know. You have more experience in this than I do.”
“Tell me how ASCAP works.”
“Okay, but first tell me about your trip.” He leans back, his head against the couch and closes his eyes.
I lay out the whole thing. My mother’s confession about Cal being my father, her second marriage, the photos, clippings, her stories about life with Cal in Kansas City, the talk with my dad, Richard, all of it. Somehow it feels like a story I’m telling about someone else. When I look over at Brody, he’s sitting up again, his hands folded on his knees.
“Whoa, that’s incredible. And you had no idea, never suspected anything?”
I shake my head. “Never had any reason to.”
Brody nods. “You haven’t told me everything.”
I look up. “What?”
“How you feel about it.”
I sigh. “I don’t know. I haven’t really digested everything yet. It’s just hard to wrap my mind around all of it. I keep remembering things that happened, little fragments of memory that now make it so obvious, but they were good about keeping it from me.”
Brody looks away. “Wow, finding out you’re not who you’re think you are at this late date. Has to be mind blowing.”
“Oh it’s more than that.”
Brody nods and gets up. “Want to get something to eat?”
“Sure. We can talk about this some more.”
We go to a diner around the corner, the kind only to be found in New York, and we wolf down burgers and fries, push the plates away and order some coffee.
“So tell me how ASCAP works exactly.”
“Well you’ve written a few tunes, right? You file with ASCAP—or BMI—confirming authorship, get it copyrighted, then anytime anybody records your tune, they have to pay.”
I nod “I know that much, and it covers movies, television?”
“Right. Anybody uses your song for anything, they have to get permission and pay for the privilege. You hold publishing and composer rights.”
I was trying to remember a story I’d heard somewhere about a pop star who had recorded a jazz musician’s song. Made him rich overnight. “Man, I didn’t know there was that much money in music,” so the quote went.
“And if somebody wants to use even part of your tune on a beer commercial or something, well, dude, you’re set.”
“What about live performances?”
“Theoretically, yes.”
“So you mean every barroom pianist who plays ‘Stardust’ or ‘Melancholy Baby’ has to pay?”
“Well, as I say, theoretically, yes, but, you can’t police every neighborhood bar and lounge. It’s just not possible. ASCAP would need an army for that and it wouldn’t amount to much. It’s mainly sound recording, radio airplay we go after. Sometimes though, the composer loses touch, isn’t even aware his or her song has been recorded, so we try to track them down so they get their money.”
I lean back and light a cigarette. “You said you were working on some projects. Was it something like that?”
“There was some question about composer, false filing. In other words, somebody wasn’t getting their bread.”
I look at him for a moment till he makes the connection.
“You think that’s what the mugging was about?”
“Possible isn’t it. Why else would someone randomly clip you and take only your computer?”
“Somebody who didn’t know you can save files. I guess it could be
about that.”
The waiter comes over then, a short stocky guy in a long white apron. “So, you boys going to take up space all day or you want something else?” He looks from me to Brody.
“Got any pie?” Brody asks
The waiter smirks. “Got any pie? Yeah we got pie. What’s your pleasure?”
“Apple?” Brody looks at me and raises his eyebrows.
“No thanks, I’ll pass.”
The waiter gathers up our plates and swipes a damp cloth over the table. “One apple pie coming up.”
“Sure different from California, isn’t it?” Brody smiles.
I smile. “Yeah, I can’t imagine him saying, ‘Hi, I’m Al, your server today,’ and that whole, ‘our specials today are’ speech.”
The waiter comes back quickly and drops Brody’s pie on the table without missing a step as he passes our table. “There you go, pal,” he says.
I sip my coffee and watch Brody wolf down the apple pie. Finally, he sighs and leans back. “Mmmm, nothing like it.”
I laugh. “Want a glass of milk too?”
“I’m tempted. But to tell you the truth, I’m fading fast. Want to get out of here?”
“Sure.” I catch Al’s eye and mime writing for the check. Brody and I get up and meet him at the register. I glance at it, and leave him a twenty.
He grins, rings it up and pockets the change when I hold up my hands. “Always a pleasure, gentlemen.”
We walk back to Brody’s place, both of us scanning the street but there’s no one but the evening crowd strolling through the Village streets, and nobody lurking outside or in the building.
Brody unlocks the door and we go in. He grabs the bottle of Percocet, pops two more and turns to me.
“Sorry to be a drag, but I’m going to crash. My head is throbbing now.”
“No problem.”
“Just make yourself at home and you can take the couch if you want.” He points to the TV and the CD player. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it. Get some rest.”
He goes in the bedroom and that’s the last I see of him.
I check out the CD collection. It’s an eclectic mix of pop, Reggae, vocals, and a few jazz things, including several by Miles Davis. Kind of Blue is one of them. Who doesn’t have a copy? It’s like finding an old friend. I plug in the headphones even though I doubt Brody would hear anything, and settle down in a chair and close my eyes, letting the music wash over me.