Tiger Rag

by Nicholas Christopher

  At that moment, feeling a pair of eyes on him, he glanced up and there was LeMond’s wife in a knot of people in the foyer, putting on her coat, staring intently at him. She was even more striking in person. He mustered a smile, but she didn’t return it. Why the icy stare? Suddenly she was walking toward him. He stood up. There was nowhere for him to go. She stepped up close. He could smell her perfume. She was his height, looking into his eyes.

  I’m Joan. Sammy’s wife.

  Pleased to meet you. I’m Valentine Owen.

  She nodded, and he felt she was looking right through him.

  Sammy’s mentioned me?

  No.

  I’m an old friend. I met Sammy years ago. He helped me out.

  He helps a lot of people.

  Owen was sweating. Well, I’ll never forget it.

  She lowered her voice. Stay away from Sammy, you understand?

  What?

  You heard me, she said sharply. I don’t want to see you here again.

  Turning on her heel, she returned to the foyer and walked out the door with her companions.

  Owen was shaken. He nearly left the apartment then, too, but thought better of it. His instincts told him that if he didn’t stick around now, he might never get the chance to return.

  Joan Neptune took a taxi across town to a friend’s birthday party, and an hour later, sipping bourbon on top of all the champagne, Sammy LeMond acted on an impulse she surely would have quashed.

  He invited Lenny Marquet, Lenny’s bass player and cousin, Marvell Atkins, and Valentine Owen into his study and closed the door. Like the rest of the apartment, it had been made over: oak bookshelves, an antique desk, a plush sofa. On one wall there were inscribed photographs of famous jazzmen—Ben Webster, Stan Getz, Gene Krupa, Milt Jackson—each of them standing with LeMond. There were also photographs of early New Orleans bands, like Kid Ory’s Sunshine Orchestra and the Excelsior Brass Band. A beautifully preserved cylinder phonograph with a brass horn sat on a shelf between a humidor and a bust of a fierce, mustachioed man.

  As LeMond picked up the phonograph, he gestured toward the bust. That’s Rafael Méndez, the Mexican cornetist. Recently passed away. He was trained classical—like you, Lenny—but he also played the cornet in Pancho Villa’s army.

  You knew him? Lenny asked.

  I did. Some say he is the greatest cornetist of all time.

  He placed the phonograph on the coffee table, then sat down and poured each man a tumbler of bourbon.

  When LeMond toasted Lenny, Owen put his tumbler to his lips, but didn’t drink.

  Thank you for this party, man, Lenny said.

  LeMond patted his shoulder. This is just the beginning for you boys. Isn’t that right, Val?

  Owen smiled, thinking, How the hell would I know? Fuck you, Sammy.

  Lenny downed his drink. The fighter you introduced me to: is it true he killed a man in the ring?

  LeMond refilled his tumbler. Never got over it. Pretty much killed him, too.

  I remember that fight, Owen put in.

  The other guy was out on his feet, but wouldn’t go down, LeMond said. I was there.

  Of course you were, Owen thought. Everything LeMond said was bothering him now.

  Emile’s a friend of Joan’s, LeMond said. She helped him through a tough time.

  She’s a fine woman, Marvell said.

  Yes, she is, LeMond said. Now, this is a special evening, and I’ve got a surprise for you, Lenny. Didn’t plan it, but it feels right.

  He opened the armoire in the corner. On one knee, wobbling slightly, he reached way in, inserted a key in a lock, and brought out a cylindrical box with a gold top. It was labeled EDISON GOLD MOULDED RECORDS, beside an oval photograph of a young Thomas Edison.

  With due respect to Méndez, he said, the man I consider the greatest cornetist of all time recorded this cylinder. In 1904. There is no possession I treasure more. Only three people have ever listened to it with me.

  LeMond took one of the photographs off the wall and handed it to Lenny. I expect you’ve heard of Buddy Bolden. This is his band. That’s him, second from right on top. He was about your age then. This is the only photograph of him there is. LeMond fastened the cylinder to the mandrel. And this is his only known recording.

  No way, Marvell said. My grandfather talked about Bolden. He heard him play in New Orleans.

  Onstage, live, is the only way you could hear him, LeMond said. Until now. He lifted the needle and placed it on the wax. Listen …

  There was a sizzle of static before the soaring version of “Tiger Rag” filled the room. Tilting his head back, closing his eyes, Lenny drank in the sound. He never forgot that Louis Armstrong said a real musician doesn’t listen to the music, he listens to the notes, and that’s what he did, astonished at the progressions he was hearing from the cornet.

  Goddamn, Marvell murmured.

  Valentine Owen had the same reaction, but his eyes were open and his mind was racing, trying to calculate the cylinder’s worth. A hundred thousand, two hundred, more?

  The music ended, and LeMond lifted the needle.

  Was I right? he asked.

  Lenny laughed. I never heard anybody play like that. Not Miles, not anyone.

  No one, Marvell agreed, turning to LeMond. But where did you get it?

  LeMond shook his head and poured himself another shot. Let’s just say this cylinder traveled a long way before it came into my hands. One day I’ll put it out in the world.

  Somebody own the rights? Marvell asked.

  LeMond smiled. A ghost. And he’ll get his due. In the meantime, please keep this to yourselves—no questions asked. I need you to do that.

  Lenny and Marvell exchanged glances. You can count on it, Lenny said.

  That’s right, Owen put in.

  Good. LeMond slid the cylinder back in its box, returned it to the hidden cabinet, and closed up the armoire.

  Thank you, man, Lenny said.

  My pleasure. Now, I need to get back to my other guests. He opened the door, and the noise of the party washed in. You all run on ahead.

  Thanks for inviting me in, Owen said.

  LeMond patted his arm. My pleasure.

  Lenny and Marvell melted into the crowd. Owen lingered by the door long enough to see LeMond tuck the key away in a drawer at the base of the humidor.

  For ten days, Owen waited for an opening. He became a regular at LeMond’s club, waiting for LeMond to turn up, dining there every night despite the strain it put on his budget. It was like the old days, trying to attach himself to LeMond, except LeMond’s wife had ordered him to stay away. He spent hours lying awake in his hotel room, dredging his memory, trying to figure out why she would be so vehement about someone she’d never met, who hadn’t been anywhere near her husband in years. Then, at the club, he heard she was a psychic: could she possibly have read his thoughts and intentions regarding LeMond? He had to be more than cautious. He certainly couldn’t telephone LeMond again, or appear pushy in any way. He was in a quandary: if she had told LeMond to avoid him—and Owen couldn’t imagine she hadn’t—all bets were off. But Owen was desperate, with literally nothing to lose. He just had to make sure he didn’t cross paths with her again.

  During those ten days, LeMond only showed up at the club twice, both times accompanied by Joan Neptune. They dined alone in a corner booth, and Owen made himself scarce.

  Finally, on the twelfth day, Owen got what he was waiting for: LeMond entered the club alone at eight o’clock, spotted Owen a short time later, and invited him over for a drink.

  I thought I saw you here the other night, Val. LeMond’s voice was flat. He seemed preoccupied as he looked Owen over.

  It’s a great place, Owen said, slipping into the booth, trying to conceal his nervousness.

  That was quite a party we had, LeMond said. I had a few. By the way, I know I told you this, but not a word to anyone about that cylinder.

  Of course not.

  I don’t w
ant it to get around yet. LeMond broke a roll in half and buttered it. My wife told me that she doesn’t want you coming around. She told you, too.

  In the split second he had, Owen decided to play it straight. He didn’t feign surprise. I didn’t understand, Sammy. Why would she say that?

  You tell me.

  I don’t know. I never met her before. And I’ve been away for twenty years.

  LeMond looked at him closely, stirring the ice in his ginger ale. Maybe she thought you were someone else.

  Could be. There’s lots of trumpet players around. Owen had a sinking feeling. He expected the conversation, and their meeting, to end at that point. I’m sorry if I upset her.

  LeMond himself didn’t seem upset. In fact, he was calm. Maybe it would have been different right after the party. But now, to Owen’s surprise, he seemed to shrug off his wife’s advice. Well, you’re not the first person she’s said that to. There are plenty of people in our business she hasn’t cottoned to over the years. Plenty of people with troubles.

  Sure, I understand, Owen said, though he wasn’t sure which particular troubles LeMond was referring to.

  A waiter brought LeMond a steak with a side of peas.

  Been having some issues with my ticker, LeMond said, taking out a pill container and picking out two pills, different colors, that he washed down with the ginger ale. Haven’t been out much.

  You look good.

  My wife has me on salads and fruit. I need a break. He cut into the steak. You want to order something?

  No, thanks.

  So you’re back in town to stay?

  Just a visit.

  Got anything going?

  Not really.

  A few of the boys are coming by my studio tomorrow afternoon to jam. Why don’t you join us?

  I’d like that. Owen was trying to come up with a tactful way to ask the one question he had.

  But LeMond did his work for him. My wife’s upstate on business, coming home tomorrow night, so I want to start at noon.

  I’ll be there.

  When Owen arrived the next day, the current members of the Eclipse Sextet were tuning up. LeMond was sitting on a couch, talking to the clarinetist. The engineer was testing his levels. Sandwiches, fruit salad, coffee, and beer were set out on a table. Owen had brought his trumpet. He sat down in a director’s chair against the wall beside two other musicians who weren’t in the band. He studied the room. The equipment was state-of-the-art. On the right-hand wall, there was a small kitchen and a bathroom.

  The band was very professional, talking quietly as they took their places. LeMond invited Owen to join in when the spirit moved him.

  The band launched into “Stardust,” stopping and starting several times. LeMond wasn’t happy with it. Then they jammed, improvising on a theme from “Scarlet and Red,” switching keys and tempos and concluding with a long solo by LeMond. After a half hour of this, LeMond told the band to take five and huddled with the engineer.

  The musicians gathered at the food table. One of them went into the bathroom. That was what Owen had been waiting for. He went and stood by the bathroom door. LeMond saw him.

  No need to wait, Val. Use the one inside, down the hall.

  Thanks, Sammy, I remember.

  Owen went through the soundproof doors to the apartment. It was silent. The housekeeper was ironing in the laundry room. He walked down the carpeted hallway, past the bathroom, to the study. The door was ajar. He slid open the drawer in the humidor and took out the key. He opened the armoire and, on his knees, groped for the cabinet in the back. Minutes later, he walked out of the apartment and rode the elevator to the lobby. It was a cool sunny afternoon. He broke into a sweat trying to find a taxi. Finally one turned the corner. His ninety-dollar trumpet remained beneath his chair in the studio. The Bolden cylinder was in his raincoat pocket.

  NEW YORK CITY—DECEMBER 22, 5:20 P.M.

  The lights of the city were coming on through Emmett Browne’s windows. The dim roar of rush hour traffic was punctuated by car horns. His ancient radiators were knocking.

  “Sammy LeMond misjudged Owen from the first,” Browne said. “But this time it proved fatal—to both of them.”

  Ruby, whose attention had been drifting, looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “Two weeks after the cylinder was stolen, LeMond suffered a heart attack.” Browne hesitated. “And you know how your father died.”

  “My mother told me it was a stroke.”

  “No, that’s not true. Your father froze to death, Dr. Cardillo.”

  Ruby was stunned.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you knew,” Browne said.

  “You could be a little more sensitive,” Devon said angrily. She didn’t think Ruby could absorb another shock. “You want the Bolden cylinder. It’s obvious my mother knows nothing about it. And I certainly don’t.”

  “I realize that now,” Browne said.

  “He assumed I would know, Devon,” Ruby said evenly. Turning back to Browne, she shifted into her physician’s voice. “Acute hypothermia—where was he, exactly?”

  “In a car,” Browne replied. “Parked in the woods near Sugar Hill, New Hampshire.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “I don’t know. The state police declared it a suicide.”

  “I’ve never heard of a suicide like that.”

  “He was on a logging trail, a mile into the woods, two miles from a paved road. Not a place you would pull over to rest. The car had been rented here in Manhattan. The gas tank was full. There were no engine problems. No sign of foul play. And the autopsy revealed no evidence of a heart attack. The police concluded that he drove himself there after dark and turned off the engine.”

  Devon took Ruby’s hand.

  “Did he leave a note?” Ruby said.

  “None was found.”

  Ruby picked up her teacup and set it down again without taking a sip. “When did this happen?”

  “January 1984.”

  My final year of medical school, Ruby thought. A year after he tried to blackmail me in San Francisco. “So my father stole the cylinder. Tell me, how do you come to know all this?”

  “Earlier that month, your father came to me with a business proposition: he wanted to sell me the Bolden cylinder. He’d found out I was after it. At first, I thought it was a hoax. He wasn’t the first person to claim he had a Bolden recording. And he seemed nervous, jittery. He allowed me to play the cylinder—just once—on an Edison phonograph. When I heard ‘Tiger Rag,’ I knew the cylinder was the real thing. The cornetist was playing on a level I hadn’t heard before and haven’t heard since, except maybe from Louis Armstrong. Of course Owen wouldn’t tell me how he came by the cylinder. I told him I needed to know, but he saw I was bluffing. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was so eager to possess the cylinder, I didn’t really care.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “He offered to sell me the cylinder for one hundred fifty thousand dollars. I said I would give him ninety thousand, no more.”

  “It’s worth that much?” Devon said.

  “It would be worth three times that now. He accepted my offer, but wanted cash. I told him I needed two days to put that together. We shook on it, and he left with the cylinder. I never saw him again. Only later did I discover he had stolen it.”

  “How?” Ruby asked.

  “Sammy LeMond’s wife came to see me. Because of their club, she and LeMond knew a lot of musicians. Someone had heard on the grapevine that Owen visited me. He wasn’t the most discreet person. She asked me what I knew. I told her what I just told you. When she informed me that Owen had stolen the cylinder from her home, I was horrified, of course. She said her husband had been having heart trouble. He was recovering from an angina attack, and the shock of being betrayed and robbed had been too much for him. He complained of dizziness and headaches, and woke up one morning with chest pains. She called an ambulance, and he suffered a heart attack en route to the hospital. It was bad. She said he w
as so weak, another one like that would kill him. I assured her I didn’t have the cylinder. I promised I would find out what I could. I put my private investigator, Nate Kane, on it. A week after visiting me, she became a widow.”

  “How awful,” Devon said.

  “When Nate picked up Owen’s trail, all he discovered was how Owen had died.”

  “But what happened to the cylinder?” Devon said.

  “If I knew that, I would not have written to your grandmother, or met with you today. Obviously it wasn’t among Owen’s possessions. I don’t have many years left, and I’d like to have it. So I thought I’d try once more to search.”

  “Where is LeMond’s wife now?” Devon said.

  “She still lives in New York. The cylinder was never recovered. I think she lost interest.” He paused. “She inherited LeMond’s club in Harlem. I don’t know if she goes there anymore.”

  “What’s the name of it?” Devon asked.

  Browne scribbled on a piece of notepaper and slipped it across the desk to Devon. “It’s called Algiers,” he said. “On 124th Street.”

  “One more question,” Devon said. “If you had managed to buy this cylinder from my grandfather, would you have returned it to LeMond’s wife?”

  “I don’t know,” he said after a moment’s hesitation, and Devon took that as a no.

  Riding down from Browne’s office in the ancient elevator, Ruby flipped open her compact and checked her makeup. She applied lipstick. “I’m okay,” she said, anticipating Devon.

  “I’m sorry I brought you here.”

  “It’s all right,” Ruby said breezily.

  “You’re sure?” Devon said, studying her warily.

  “Devon, even if every word that man told us is true, I wouldn’t trust him any more than I trusted my father.”

  “Neither would I,” Devon agreed, as they stepped outside.