by Bill Moody
“There’s one other thing,” Cook says. He opens a file folder in front of him. “I’m going to insist on this.”
“What’s that?”
“You have been in an ongoing relationship with one Natalie Beamer for over two years. We know she’s a former police officer and now a student at Loyola Law School. We do not want you to divulge anything to her, and we’d prefer that you not see her until this situation is resolved.”
I shift in my chair and stare back hard at Cook. “Or what?”
Cook’s eyes don’t waver either. “You don’t want to go there, Evan.” He closes the file and softens a bit. “Look, it’s for her safety as well. I’m sure you don’t want to put Miss Beamer in any jeopardy.”
I don’t have to think about that answer. “No, of course I don’t”
“Evan, we understand this is very hard on you, but it’s for the best, believe me.”
I nod. Cook is right, of course, but I hate it that it’s gone this far, an FBI file on Natalie. “When do we go to San Francisco? I have some—”
“You and Special Agent Lawrence are booked on a noon flight. You should probably pack for a couple of days. Lieutenant Cooper will be taking you both to the airport.”
They could have just sent me a memo. It’s all been decided.
“What about my life?”
“I’m afraid,” Cook says, “you’re going to have to put it on hold for a while.”
Sometime during the ride to LAX, something inside me changes. While Coop and Andie make small talk in the front seat, I sit in back, thinking about Wendell Cook’s parting words. I want Gillian’s voice out of my head. I want to be free of the FBI, and I want my life back. I decide to do whatever it takes. Coop, I know, is right. I’ll have help, but if Gillian is caught, it will be because of me.
We pull into the maze at LAX, and Coop drops us off at the curb. “Watch yourself in the clinches,” he says, when Andie is out of earshot.
I slap the top of the car. “Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m not,” Coop says, and he’s gone.
Andie and I take a United shuttle to San Francisco. Just a quick up-and-down flight, time for a bag of peanuts and a Coke. A young agent from the San Francisco office meets us at the gate and escorts us outside. He’s in the proverbial dark suit, white shirt, and tie and shined shoes. He shakes hands with me briefly, but it’s clear he doesn’t know what I’m doing there, and he’s not asking. Must be FBI policy and he’s following it to the letter.
“Phil Rogers,” he says, and then acts like I’m not there.
He and Andie walk away a few steps. I light a cigarette and watch as he hands over car keys and a manila envelope she tucks under her arm. They talk for a couple of minutes, then Rogers gets in another car idling at the curb with his partner at the wheel. He gives me his best FBI look, then drives off with his partner.
“Okay,” Andie says. “We’re all set. We throw our bags in the trunk and head for the city.”
Where to start? I’d thought about it a lot. Cochise’s murder took place in San Francisco, maybe Gillian’s nod to the great clubs of the ’60s—the Jazz Workshop, Blackhawk, Basin St. West—so that would be one area to cover, but what did that have to do with her brother? A saxophone player, she’d said. Greg Sims. Zoot would be too obvious—I knew that much about Gillian now—so I’m betting Greg was out of the Charlie Parker or John Coltrane bag, and that’s triggered a possibility.
“We’re going to church,” I say to Andie. She’s driving with one hand, her other elbow resting on the door sill, her hand on her head as we ease onto 19th Avenue and the spires of downtown San Francisco come into view.
Andie gives me a look and smiles. “Yeah, right,” she says. Except for the brief conversation with Rogers, the minute we boarded our flight at LAX, the formality dropped again. I suspect her manner at the Federal Building had more to do with Wendell Cook and Ted Rollins than me. For whatever reason, I’m relieved to see her friendly again.
I roll down the window, light a cigarette, and turn slightly in my seat, my arm on its back, so I can see her better. “I’m serious. It’s just a hunch, but there is a John Coltrane Church here. Might be someplace to start.”
“You’re kidding?” She glances at me quickly. “You’re putting me on, right?”
“Not at all. I think it’s in the Fillmore district.” Andie looks at me again, sees I’m not kidding, and nods at the manila envelope on the floor.
“See where we’re staying,” she says.
I open the envelope and look inside. “Travelodge at Fisherman’s Wharf. Do they think we’re tourists?”
“No, I think we’ve got a deal with the Travelodge, is all,” Andie says.
Traffic is light as we turn on Lombard and negotiate the steep inclines. We catch a glimpse of the bay as we crest the summit of one of the hills that make driving in San Francisco an adventure. We pull into the entrance, at the Travelodge, and Andie gets out to register us. She comes back in a few minutes, waving two keys, gets back in the car, and pulls around back. “We’ve got adjoining rooms,” she says as casually as possible. I just nod and wonder what the night is going to bring.
She parks, and we go upstairs. We glance at one another as we stand poised, keys in the locks. “I want to freshen up,” Andie says. “Then let’s get some lunch.”
“Fine,” I say and go into my room. It’s standard chain-hotel stuff, right down to the prints hung over the double bed. I drop my bag and grab the yellow pages to look for the Coltrane Church. I flip through the listings: Churches, Evangelical, Friends, Interdenominational, Jehovah’s Witnesses. No jazz churches; only a couple under Saint John, but they have nothing to do with Coltrane.
I shut the phone book and go to the window. Below me is Fisherman’s Wharf, and in the distance, Alcatraz and the Bay. To the left, the Golden Gate Bridge, still half shrouded in fog.
I try information, but they have no listing. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it no longer exists. Finally I try the San Francisco Chronicle and ask to speak to the jazz writer or reviewer. I get transferred around several times and finally talk to a reporter.
“You want Kevin Drake,” he says. “He won’t be in for a while. Can I help you?”
“I’m trying to run down a number for—I know this will sound funny—the John Coltrane Church. Is there still such a place?”
“Oh, yeah,” the reporter says. “Think Kevin did a piece on it a few months back. Hang on. Let me look through Kevin’s files.” I wait for a couple of minutes and then he comes back.
“Yeah, here it is.” He gives me the number and address.
“Hey, I really appreciate it. Thanks.”
“Not a problem. Going to get your spirit revived?”
“We’ll see.”
I get a local street map from the front desk and meet Andie at the car. She’s changed into a sweater, jeans, and running shoes. “Just in case we do some walking.”
“Good idea.”
“Where are we headed?”
“It’s on Divisdero, the three hundred block.”
When we make the turn, I check the street sign. “It’s about thirty blocks,” I say.
We go up and down several steep hills while I watch the street numbers. We finally come into to a commercial district of car washes, gas stations, and storefront shops and restaurants.
“There,” I say, pointing to my right. Andie nods and starts looking for a parking place. We end up around the corner and walk back to Divisdero.
There’s a large green sign with gold lettering over the doorway:
SAINT JOHN COLTRANE
AFRICAN ORTHODOX CHURCH
A big black-and-white photo of Trane is in the window, but the curtains are drawn, and the wrought iron gate is closed and locked. I peer in the window. Through a space in the curtains, I can see another photo of Trane somewhere in the back. In the other window is an old Hammond organ.
“Pretty cool, huh?” I say, stepping back from the doorway
to look at the sign again.
“Look here,” Andie says. She’s reading a hand-lettered sign taped to the inside of the other window.
Sunday: John Coltrane Liturgy 11:45 AM
We Serve Vegetarian Meals 1:00-3:00 PM
Wednesday Service 6:00 PM
“Right day, wrong time,” Andie says.
I look at my watch. We’ve got time to kill. “I don’t feel like vegetarian anyway. Let’s get something to eat and come back.”
We look around. Traffic is steady, and people are walking around, shopping, hanging out. Near the corner, I spot a café. “Let’s try that.”
“I’m game,” Andie says.
Inside there’s a few people lingering over coffee, reading the newspaper. A tall, slender guy in jeans, a Grateful Dead T-shirt, a ponytail, and several earrings lounges behind the counter. We order sandwiches and coffee and wait for our food at a window table.
“What do you think we’re going to find here?” Andie asks
“Maybe nothing. It’s a long shot, but if Greg Sims ever came here, maybe somebody can tell us something. Maybe somebody knew him. I can’t imagine a tenor player not visiting the John Coltrane Church. But most important, I’d bet Gillian knows about the church, and she would expect me to check it out. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” Andie says. She smiles at the skinny guy when he brings our order. He ignores her and smiles at me.
“Evan, I had no idea,” Andie says. She stifles a laugh until he’s out of earshot.
“Neither did I. Hey, this is San Francisco.”
We finish lunch and then wander around the neighborhood—working class, whites, blacks, and Asians, judging from the street traffic—checking out some of the shops. By twenty to six I want to go back to the church.
“If there’s a service at six, they’ll probably be open now.”
We cross the street and go back to the corner, but the gate is still locked and no sign of life inside. A guy in dirty jeans, long hair, and a full beard leans against the building, drinking a beer. He looks at us, gives us the once-over, decides we don’t belong, and goes back to his beer.
Andie rings the bell, but there’s no answer. By ten after six there’s still nothing happening.
“What do you think?” Andie asks. “Maybe the service was canceled.”
“Let’s give it a few more minutes. We’ve come this far.”
“They will come,” the guy in the beard says in a most reverent tone.
Andie rolls her eyes, and I light another cigarette and watch the traffic slip by.
A few minutes later, a large black woman comes around the corner. She’s wearing a black T-shirt, black pants, and a brightly colored scarf tied around a magnificent set of dreadlocks. Her smile is open and warm.
“Hello, I’m sorry I’m late,” she says, as if we had an appointment. She unlocks the gate, and we follow her inside.
“Let me talk,” I whisper to Andie. The bearded guy dumps his beer bottle in a trash can and tags along behind us.
Inside there’s an old desk with stacks of postcards showing behind some glass doors. The church itself is small; only a few pews face the altar. But it’s a church nevertheless. There are photos of Coltrane everywhere and huge, brightly colored wall coverings of Coltrane holding a saxophone. On the left wall is a full set of drums, a beat-up upright piano, and a large poster, again of Trane. I lean in close for a look at the inscription beneath it.
My goal is to live the truly religious life and express it in my music. My music is the spiritual expression of what I am; my faith, my knowledge, my being.
—John Coltrane
The black woman is busy turning on lights and switching on a cassette player. The room is suddenly filled with Coltrane’s soprano saxophone playing “My Favorite Things.” McCoy Tyner, piano; Jimmy Garrison, bass; and Elvin Jones, drums, storm behind him. Elvin is like a hurricane.
I catch the bearded guy gazing at the altar, his eyes glazed. “The spirit of jazz is here,” he says.
“Cool,” I say, leaving him and Andie to wander around. I catch the black woman’s eye. She comes over again with a big smile.
“Hello, I’m Sister Deborah,” she says. “Very nice to meet you. I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.” She has a soft, lilting, musical voice to go with the smile. I take her outstretched hand.
“No, first time. Just visiting.”
She smiles again. “Welcome then. Sorry I was late. One of the other sisters was unable to come. I’m afraid there won’t be a service.” She holds her head back and looks at me closely, but in a totally nonthreatening manner. “You’re a musician, aren’t you?”
“Yes, not saxophone though. Piano.”
She smiles again, nods her head. “I thought so. Your spirit is very strong. You must come back on Sunday and sit in. We have a choir and a house band. All the music is Brother John’s.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I don’t know if we’ll be here that long.”
“Well, at least sign our guest book. And your lady as well.” She indicates Andie. She takes me back to the front, pulls out a red book from the desk, and opens it to a page already filled with names and addresses. She hands me a stubby yellow pencil. “What is your lady’s name?”
“Andie,” I say. “Short for Andrea.” I take the pencil and scan the open page.
“Ah, a beautiful name,” Sister Deborah says.
I glance up from the guest book. “Would you mind if I looked through this, see if any friends of mine have been here?”
“Certainly,” she says. “We’re all brothers and sisters here. I’ll just see to your Andrea.”
I watch her walk over to Andie and point out some photos of Trane in action. I quickly flip through the guest book, looking for dates. Twenty or thirty pages back I spot “Greg Sims” in neat block printing.
“Hey,” I call to Andie, “look here.” She and Sister Deborah join me at the desk.
“Greg was here, remember him?” I put my finger on Sims’s name and address. Andie looks, then glances at me.
“A friend of yours?” Sister Deborah asks.
“He used to live up here. I haven’t seen him for years. Do you happen to remember him? Greg Sims.”
For the first time Sister Deborah frowns. “I’m afraid not,” she says. “We have so many visitors.”
“He’s dead.”
The three of us turn to the bearded man who’s come up behind us.
“Suicide.”
Sister Deborah closes her eyes for a moment in some kind of silent prayer. “I’m so sorry,” she says to me. “You didn’t know.”
I don’t answer and just nod. “Did you know him?” I ask the bearded man. He’s wearing a long shirt. It hangs outside, almost reaching his knees. His eyes still have a glazed look.
“No, but Greg was a follower. He was here often and played a few times.” He pauses and looks at Sister Deborah. “He was very troubled. I could hear it in his playing. He yearned for something.”
Sister Deborah, watching the man more closely, grew somber. “His soul has ascended to a higher level,” she says.
The man wanders off to gaze at a photo of Coltrane at the Village Vanguard.
“That’s Robert,” Sister Deborah says. “He’s troubled too.” She gives me a knowing look, then glances in Robert’s direction for a moment. She turns back to me and smiles again. “Please come again,” she says. “You’ll have to excuse me now. I have some work to do.”
“Thank you, Sister,” I say. “Thank you very much. We’ll try to come Sunday.”
She retreats to a back room. “My Favorite Things” has become “Ascension” on the cassette player.
Andie and I leave Robert to his musings and start back to the car.
“Unbelievable,” Andie says, shaking her head. “The John Coltrane Church.”
I nod. “Now that’s one I could get into.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sprawled on the bed, th
e entertainment section of the Chronicle open beside me, I dial Natalie’s number and wait for her or her machine to answer. For San Francisco, the jazz pickings are surprisingly slim, but one catches my eye: Moose’s in North Beach. Good food and good jazz, the ad says. Pianist Dave McKenna.
On the fourth ring, Natalie’s machine picks up. “Hi, no one is available right now. Please leave a message after the beep.”
I start to hang up, but then decide to let her know where I am. “Hi there. I’m in San Francisco, and—”
There’s another tone, then she picks up. “Evan? What are you doing in San Francisco?”
“Getting religious. I just visited the John Coltrane Church.”
“What? Let’s back up a minute.” There’s no hostility in her voice, just curiosity.
“It’s a long story. I just wanted to say hi, see how you’re doing.”
“I’m doing fine.” There’s a pause, as if she’s deciding whether to ask me more. “Let me guess. You’re there with the FBI babe, and you’re getting in deeper.”
“C’mon, Natalie, it’s not like that.”
“What is it like, Evan?” We both let several moments of silence hum through the lines.
“I can’t get into it now.” More silence.
“Fine, well, you said hi. I haven’t changed my mind, Evan.”
“I know. Can we talk when I get back?”
“That depends on you. Good-bye, Evan.”
I listen to the dial tone for a minute, then hang up the phone. Are Natalie and I over? On one hand I understand and appreciate her concern. But part of me is disappointed that she hasn’t trusted me enough to stick it out. Who’s wrong here? I fall back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, but there are no answers there.
I get up and pace around the room, then look at the paper again. I glance at the adjoining door to Andie’s room for a moment, then go over and knock.
She unlocks and opens it. The television is on, tuned to CNN. The screen of a laptop computer glows on the nightstand beside her bed.