Fade to Blue

by Bill Moody

  “No, no, it’s fine really. I just get spooked with these guys, always trying to get to me.”

  “I understand, but you have to trust me. I’m working for you.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Well then act like it,” Melanie says, her outburst surprising me.

  Ryan turns toward her. “If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

  She throws down the magazine, gets up, and stomps away.

  Ryan plops back on the chaise and shakes his head. “Great, now I’ve pissed her off too.”

  I watch him for a moment, trying to imagine what it would be like to be him. Stalked wherever he went by photographers, his privacy constantly invaded, unable to go anywhere without exposing himself to scrutiny. The more famous he became, the less free he was. And these days, anybody with a cell phone camera could catch him in an off moment in an unfavorable light.

  As Grant Robbins said, Ryan Stiles was young, rich, famous, ambitious, with a beautiful girlfriend, a big expensive home, but he was paying the price. And the fame, being constantly in the public eye, was getting to him. He seemed always on edge, never really relaxed. Who could he trust? Grant Robbins? Melanie? There were probably others I wasn’t aware of. As the newest, temporary member of the inner circle, I could understand his paranoia. For Ryan Stiles, anonymity is long gone.

  He sits up again and leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “What did this guy in the van look like?”

  I describe the van and the driver. “I noticed some cameras on the floor.”

  Ryan nods. “Yeah I think I know the guy. He freelances for some of the trade mags. They all want a story.”

  I try to kid him out of this dark mood. “Well, you are the Ryan Stiles.”

  He manages a smile. “Yeah, I am aren’t I?” He looks at me closely. “It doesn’t impress you at, all does it?”

  “Oh, I’m impressed. I’ve even seen a couple of your movies.”

  “Which ones?”

  “The terrorist one. Lots of car chases, explosions, special effects.”

  “And?”

  “It was okay.”

  “Okay? You know how much that movie grossed? I topped the charts for five weeks.”

  “Is that what it’s all about? Money?”

  He nods. “It’s how you get to make more movies.” He looks away for a moment. “What was the other one?”

  “Too Late to Die. You played a district attorney.”

  “And that one?”

  “I liked it. You were good.”

  “It was a flop. Minimal release, almost went straight to video.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “That’s what I like about you. Straight ahead, no bullshit, just play the piano.”

  I shrug. “What can I say? Not many jazz musicians are really famous. Miles, Dave Brubeck, Wynton Marsalis. There aren’t many known to the general public.”

  I pull my chair closer. “Let me tell you a story about Bill Evans. He was famous in the jazz world, but nothing like movie star fame. He was in Los Angeles once for a gig and later stopped by this bar in his hotel. It was noisy and crowded but not a single person recognized him. He sat at the bar, listening to this young solo piano player who was being ignored by everybody. The guy almost fell off the bench when he turned and saw Bill Evans.

  “He went over and introduced himself and they talked for a few minutes. Evans was pleased, flattered that the young pianist recognized him, but you know what Evans said?”

  “What?” Ryan was hanging on every word now.

  “He said sometimes he thought it would be better to be like that pianist. Just do the gig, get your money, go home. No dealing with record companies, interviews, just play the piano. The young pianist was stunned, then he asked Evans if he’d like to play a couple of tunes. To his surprise, Evans said yes. He sat down and still nobody recognized him. Head down like always, playing one of his own songs, ‘Waltz for Debby’ in that crowded noisy bar, and not a single person said, hey, isn’t that Bill Evans?”

  Evans finished and came back to the pianist. He looked around the noisy, crowded room and said, ‘You know what, maybe not.’”

  Ryan looks puzzled for a moment, trying to put it together, then finally does, and smiles big. “No shit.” He gets up and slaps me on the shoulder. “Thanks, man.” He starts to walk away, then turns back. “You think that story is true?”

  “I know it is.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was the young pianist.”

  Chapter Six

  Another week goes by and Ryan is really starting to get it. I use Red Garland’s playing from a Miles Davis recording, Workin’. There’s a trio cut, “Ahmad’s Blues” that features Red’s famous two-handed block-chord style. I play his solo over and over, making Ryan try to emulate and synchronize his hands with the rhythm of Garland’s playing. By the end of the week, he’s getting close, at least on the first two choruses.

  “I never even heard of fucking Red Garland,” Ryan says, rubbing his left forearm, “and now I’m sick of him.”

  I have to laugh. “Well, you’re starting to look like you play like Red, so don’t be too hard on him.”

  “Really? Are you serious?” He jumps up from the piano bench, excited.

  “I’m serious. You’re not there yet, but you’re getting close.”

  “Yes!” Ryan says, punching the air.

  My cell phone rings. I flip it open but don’t recognize the number. “Keep going. I have to take this.” I go out on the patio. “Evan Horne.”

  “Evan, it’s Ruth Price.”

  “Hey, Ruth. Got another gig for me?”

  “Well, not quite. I’m organizing a benefit for an old friend. One of the jazz DJs, Herman Cassidy. Remember him? Everybody calls him Hoppy.”

  Herman Hopalong Cassidy’s Jazz Avenue had been a fixture on L.A. radio for decades. I remember listening to him when I was still in high school. “Sure I do. What happened?”

  “Old story, medical problems, little or no insurance,” Ruth says. “He’s in the hospital now. Anyway, I wasn’t sure you’d still be in town. The trio I had lined up had to cancel. I was wondering if you could fill in for me.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s in Malibu. Place called the Anchor, Friday night. I know it’s short notice but can you get a trio together? I’ll be forever in your debt.”

  I think for a moment. I’m sure I can get Buster Browne and maybe the same drummer I had at the Jazz Bakery. “Let me call you back, but yeah, I’ll do it.”

  “Oh, you are a sweetheart,” Ruth says. “Let me know as soon as you can.”

  “Will do.”

  Buster Browne is not big on benefits, but he’s free when I track him down, and when he hears it’s for Hoppy and Ruth Price, he agrees. “I got a wedding gig in the afternoon, but evening is cool. Where is it?”

  “Place called the Anchor in Malibu.”

  “Yeah, I remember that place. They used to have jazz regularly. I think Art Pepper recorded there once. Do we get dinner?”

  I smile. “Yeah, Buster, I’m sure we’ll get something to eat.”

  “Cool. I’m there then. Want me to get a drummer?”

  “That would be very helpful.”

  “Okay, no problem. I know several who would like to play with you.”

  “Thanks, Buster. You’re a prince.”

  I close the phone as Ryan comes out on the patio. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, just somebody calling me about a gig.”

  Ryan’s face creases into a frown. “You’re not going out of town, are you?”

  “No, it’s right here in Malibu.”

  When I tell him the details, he nods, thinks for a moment, then says, “Can I help?”

  “How, what do you mean?”

  He looks a little sheepish. “Well, maybe if I was there, it might draw more people, raise more money.�
��

  “Are you sure? Man, that would be great.”

  “Consider it done. Is your cop friend Cooper coming? Might be cool to have some low-key security.”

  “Good idea. I’ll call him.”

  “Just let me know what you want me to do,” Ryan says. “Maybe I could comp some movie passes or something.” He walks off leaving me astonished.

  Ruth Price is no less so when I call her back. “Are you kidding? Ryan Stiles will be there? How did you, I mean, how, oh never mind. That’s wonderful.”

  I laugh. “I’ll have his people call your people.”

  “I don’t have any people.”

  I think to call Andie but before I get a chance, my phone rings. “Hi handsome. Like a guest for the weekend? I can get away ’til Monday.”

  “Great, I was just going to call you. I’ve got a gig Friday night. A benefit Ruth Price is putting on right here in Malibu. This is perfect.”

  “I love it when things work like this. How’s it going with the megastar?”

  “Better than you would imagine. I’ve been pushing him pretty hard and he’s hanging in there. I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

  “Have they showed you the script yet?”

  “No, but soon, they tell me.”

  There’s a brief pause. “Well you can catch me up later. I can hardly wait. I’ll call you when I get a flight.”

  Friday morning, leaning against the BMW, risking a warning from security, I wait for Andie to come out of baggage claim at Southwest. She spots me first and runs over, drops her bag and wraps herself around me. She kisses me, then leans back.

  “My, don’t you look all tanned and Malibu. I’m jealous,” she says as we get in the car. I ease away from the curb, merging with the exiting traffic, and watch her lean back, letting the sun wash over her.

  I catch her up on everything as we roll down the California Incline to the Coast Highway. She listens, eyes closed, nodding, but sits up when I tell her about dragging Ryan out of the surf, and my meeting later with Grant Robbins.

  “He can’t swim?” She shakes her head and leans back again. “Who would have thought.”

  “Exactly. There was also a little skirmish when we went to lunch. He kind of flipped out when some photographers crossed the line with Melanie. He’s got quite a temper.”

  “She okay?” Andie asks, turning toward me.

  “Yeah, but shook her up. She’s a bit scared of him.”

  Andie nods. “I’ll have to get with her, have a little girl talk.”

  We glide through Malibu proper. I slow and look for the Anchor Restaurant. It’s wedged between a motel and a surf shop. “That’s where we are tonight.” I pull over and see a makeshift banner strung across the entrance. TONIGHT ONLY—JAZZ EVAN HORNE & RYAN STILES.

  Andie looks then turns toward me. “He’s going to be there?”

  “He volunteered. Amazing, huh?”

  “Very,” Andie says as I pull away from the curb and merge with traffic. “I bet it’s the first time he didn’t get top billing.”

  We pass Malibu pier and race up the incline past Pepperdine University where the traffic is lighter. Andie is silent. “What?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Something just bothers me.”

  “About Ryan, you mean?”

  “Everything.”

  When we get to the house, we hear loud voices coming from the living room. I peek in and see Ryan and Grant Robbins going at it. Ryan has his back to the doorway and doesn’t see me.

  “I don’t care what it’s for,” Robbins says. He has his coat off and his tie loosened. “You have to let me know about things like this. There could be security issues.” His eyes go to me and Ryan turns around. He smiles at Andie and me.

  “Hey, we got Santa Monica Police and now the FBI. Nothing to worry about.”

  Robbins straightens his tie. “Hello, Evan. Miss Lawrence. Ryan and I were just having a, ah, a discussion about tonight’s event.”

  “Look, if it’s going to be a problem, Ruth Price will understand.”

  Ryan plops down in a chair. “There’s no problem. I said I’d be there and I will. So will Melanie.”

  “Of course you will,” Robbins says, calmer now. He smiles, as if he doesn’t want a scene in front of me. “I just need some advance warning to make sure everything goes smoothly. The first I heard about it was when I drove by and saw the banner.”

  That surprises me. I thought Ryan would have called Robbins. Ryan stands up and looks at Robbins. “Are we done?” He turns and walks out without waiting for an answer. “Hey, Andie. Glad you could make it.”

  Robbins sighs and shakes his head. “God, he can be trying. Can we talk a minute, Evan?”

  “Sure.” I turn to look at Andie.

  She nods. “I’ll be in the guesthouse.”

  “No you won’t,” Melanie says, as she suddenly appears in shorts and a sweatshirt. “We’re going for a walk.” She hugs Andie. “I’m so glad you came back.”

  Andie looks taken by surprise. She waves and lets Melanie lead her away.

  Grant Robbins and I sit down. “So tell me about this thing tonight,” he says.

  I run down the details, or as much as I know. “It’s not that big a deal,” I say.

  “Okay, it’s a good cause, but if Ryan is making an appearance, it’s always a big deal,” Robbins says. “Do me a favor. If something else like this comes up, give me a heads up okay? Ryan forgets how his presence can stir things up.”

  I doubt that but I don’t say anything. “I’ll have to be there early to get everything set with the band and see what Ruth Price wants.”

  “No problem,” Robbins says. “I’ll have a car to pick up Ryan and Melanie. Andie will go with you?” He considers a moment. “Your policeman friend will be there, too?”

  “Yeah. Ryan suggested inviting him.”

  “Good. Maybe you can tell him to stick kind of close to Ryan.”

  I study Robbins for a moment. “Are you worried about something happening?”

  “No, it’s just, well, there’ll be fans, photographers. You just never know.”

  “Ryan sort of jokingly asked Coop—Lieutenant Cooper to help with security on the film. By the way—”

  Robbins puts up his hand. “Good. Tell him he’s hired, as of tonight.”

  At the Anchor, I turn over the BMW to a valet parking guy. “Be careful with this. It belongs to Ryan Stiles.”

  “No way,” he says.

  “Trust me.”

  “Dude, it’s handled. No problem.”

  Andie and I push through a growing throng of people gathered near the entrance, I assume, to get a glimpse of Ryan when he arrives. Some temporary barriers have been set up manned by some Malibu sheriffs, but it all looks pretty friendly. I see a couple of photographers leaning on the barrier talking to one of the cops.

  Inside, there’s already a sizable crowd seated at the tables and hovering around the buffet. Near the stage, a blow-up photo of Hoppy on an easel.

  Ruth Price comes up as I look at the photo. It had to be taken years ago and shows Hoppy in his signature beret and smoke glasses. “How’s he doing?”

  “You know, resting comfortably as they always say. Cancer’s a bitch, isn’t it? Thanks again for doing this, Evan. And my God, Ryan Stiles to boot. I won’t even ask how you pulled that off.”

  I smile. “Good, it’s top secret.”

  Ruth gives me a look. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “He and his girlfriend can sit with me over there.” She points to a table off to the side of the stage, with a “Reserved” placard on it. “You can do a couple of sets, we’ll make a presentation, a few speakers, you know how these things go. We’ll just fake it.”

  “No problem. The other guys here yet?”

  She points to a buffet set up against one wall. “Buster’s over there, of course.” I look and se
e Buster Browne piling a plate full of food. “Try the piano. I got a dealer in Santa Monica to donate it for tonight. I’ve got to work the room a little.” She hurries off.

  “I’m going to look for Coop’,” Andie says as I head for the stage. The piano is a baby grand. I sit down and try a few chords. The action feels good and will be fine. I’m joined by the drummer as he rolls his cases in. He’s a tall thin guy wearing thick glasses.

  “Evan, Jack Sears. Looking forward to it.” He starts setting up and Buster wanders over, his plate still half-full. Seeing Buster, I feel underdressed in a sports coat and slacks. Buster’s in his wedding gig uniform: a white shirt, a tie, and a dark suit that looks a size too small.

  “Dude, they have some serious food here,” he says, his mouth half-full. “Better try this roast beef.” He sits on the edge of the stage and finally takes a breath. “This movie star really coming?”

  “So I’m told,” I say. The three of us have a brief conference, deciding on what we’ll play as Jack finishes setting up his drums. “Ruth will introduce us and then go from there. We’ll play a short set, then she’ll introduce Ryan Stiles and make a few presentations.”

  We all turn toward the entrance then as the crowd parts and Ryan and Melanie come in, smiling and waving. I walk over to Andie and Coop as Ruth escorts the couple to their table, Grant Robbins trailing behind them.

  Ryan is in black jeans and shirt and a leather jacket. Melanie has opted for a tan pantsuit a shade darker than her skin.

  “You want to wipe the drool off your face, Coop,” I say.

  “She is something,” he says, blushing a little.

  I pull Coop aside. “Robbins would like you to stick close to Stiles, okay? He says you’re hired as of tonight.”

  Coop nods and takes on his cop look for a moment. “They expecting trouble?”

  “No, just being cautious.”

  “Always a good thing to be,” Coop says.

  Herman Cassidy has been a fixture on L.A. jazz radio for over three decades, so when Ruth Price makes her opening remarks, there’s loud applause. “Let’s be generous and remember why we’re all here,” she says. “We have a very special guest tonight who has graciously agreed to be here. Let’s show him some jazz fan appreciation.” She pauses and glances at Ryan’s table. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Ryan Stiles.”