by Bill Moody
I’m speechless, just long enough for Grant to laugh. “No, the old memory isn’t that good anymore. Your friend at UNLV called me. Ace Buffington? What kind of name is that for an English professor? Sit down, and I’ll tell you all I know about Wardell Gray’s death.”
I slide into the booth and wait for a few minutes while Grant jokes with some of the customers passing by. He signals one of the waitresses and orders us a drink. Finally he turns to me. “Nothing,” he says. “That’s what I know about Wardell’s death.”
He shrugs. “Hey, everyone knows he was a junkie. It probably happened just like the papers said. An overdose. A shame, he was a great talent. I wasn’t here then. I was working at a station in Florida, the only white jock on a black station.”
We both look up as a well-groomed, very attractive woman I guess to be in her late fifties approaches the table. She pauses, gives me a brief glance, but speaks to Grant. “Art sounds great.”
“Thanks,” Grant says. “Come by next week. We’ve got Miles.”
The woman’s eyes widen. “But Miles Davis is—”
“Miles Schwartz, great clarinetist.” Grant nudges my shoulder. “I get ’em every time with that one.” He turns back to the woman. “Still haven’t seen her.”
The woman shakes her head slowly, a look of resignation on her face, then continues out of the lounge.
“What’s all that about?”
Grant pulls out a huge cigar and takes three matches to get it going. “She’s in here every Monday night. Her daughter, so she says, is a singer. Christ, everybody is a singer, and they all want to work here. Dropped out of sight, and she thinks she might show up here some time.”
“And has she?”
“Hell, how should I know? Hey, I remember where we met now. That benefit for Woody Herman at the Hollywood Bowl.”
“Right, your memory is better than you think.” It’s hard to keep him on track. His mind seems to flit everywhere. I try again. “Anyone still around who might know something about Wardell? A musician maybe?”
Grant puffs on the stogie and engulfs us in a cloud of smoke. “Let me think.” He taps his fingers on the table, then stabs at the air with his cigar. “There is a bass player, Elgin ‘Pappy’ Dean. Everybody just calls him Pappy. Doesn’t play much anymore. He’s almost as old as me. He was around then. Jesus, man, that was 1955.”
“I know, I know. You know where I could find this Dean guy?”
Grant looks around the lounge. “Yeah, that’s him, standing right over there at the bar. Guy in the Panama hat”
I follow Grant’s gaze. Elgin Dean is a very big, very dark black man with a white beard, talking animatedly with Art Farmer’s bass player. His tan suit, white shirt, and tie make him, except for Art Farmer, the best-dressed man in the lounge.
“Well,” I say to Grant. “I’ll give him a try. Thanks for the drink.”
“Anytime. Stick around for the next set.”
I leave Grant and head for the bar. It’s thinned out considerably now, although a line is already forming for the next show. I wait a minute or two until I see the bass player moving off, then introduce myself to Dean.
“Elgin Dean? I’m Evan Horne.” I offer my hand, which Dean takes more by reflex than courtesy. “Alan said you might be able to help me.”
Dean glances quickly toward Grant’s booth, then back at me with slight suspicion in his eyes. “Oh yeah?”
I launch into my research speech as quickly as possible. “You a writer?” Dean asks.
I know this tune. Musicians, myself included, are naturally suspicious of writers. They often don’t know who they’re talking to, they usually don’t know music, and generally they ask stupid questions. “No, piano player. Just helping out a friend over at UNLV.”
Dean holds up his empty glass. “Who you work with?”
“Lonnie Cole for a few years.” I signal the bartender to order a beer and look at Dean. “Scotch?”
“Cognac. You play on the live album?”
“That’s me.” The bartender brings our drinks. I offer Dean a cigarette. He takes one, lights up, and gives me a good going-over with eyes that have seen everything. “So, whatta you want that an old bass player knows? You call me Pappy.”
“Okay, Pappy. Wardell Gray. My friend is writing an article about him. Alan said you were around when he died.”
“Wow, Wardell.” Pappy throws his head back and laughs. “I haven’t thought of him for years.” He shakes his head. “That skinny little junkie sure could play.” He pauses for a moment, looking at his glass, then downs half the cognac. “Yeah, I was around then. Came out here with a territory band from Oklahoma. Stayed around, got some gigs here and there. Even made the Strip hotels when they needed a black face or two in the band, when Lena Horne or Sammy Davis was here. You know how that shit goes.” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “Well, that’s history now, and so is Wardell. Come on, let’s take a walk.”
I get Dean another cognac, and we walk over to a less-crowded part of the casino and take a couple of stools at a bank of slot machines. He fumbles in his pocket for a quarter, drops it in a machine, and pulls a handle. Not even a cherry. He shrugs. “Keno is my game•
“Did you ever work at the Moulin Rouge, after Benny Carter left?”
Dean smiles at me for the first time. “You done your homework, huh? Yeah, a few times. The west side was cool then, not all this gang shit we got now. These young bloods are crazy. I worked in a six-piece group, did some shows, that kind of thing.”
“And Wardell?”
“I was working that night, not at the Rouge. Little bar that had some jazz. Heard about it the next day. We was all shocked, man. Not about the drugs, but that the cat was dead, in the desert.” Dean shakes his head sadly. “Wardell was bad, man, bad. You ever heard those sides he did with Dexter? Wardell could have made it big.”
“So what do you think happened? Papers say he was with the dancer Teddy Hale and fell out of bed, broke his neck.”
Dean laughs outright at that. “Yeah, he might have been with Teddy, but I never bought that fall-out-of-bed shit. What else the papers say?”
“Head wounds, possibly from a blunt instrument,” I say.
Dean nods in agreement. “Yeah, that sounds right, like a pipe or a gun. Teddy coulda been bought off. Easy to make it look like Wardell OD’d.”
“By who?”
“Who do you think, man? You never seen that movie The Godfather? They ran this town, man.” Dean looks around as if someone might overhear us. I keep reminding myself we’re talking about a thirty-seven-year-old case that is apparently not even a case.
“I knew a couple of cats in the band,” Pappy continues. “They say Wardell had eyes for a woman hung out at the Rouge or was a dancer in the show. If she belonged to one of them godfather dudes, well...” Dean’s voice trails off, and he spreads his hands and smiles.
Maybe this was more than a theory. “But what about the police? There must have been some kind of investigation.”
Dean looks at me, puzzled. “You know what this town was like then? Selma. Redneck, baby, redneck. Sammy, Lena, they couldn’t even stay in the hotels they was playin’ in. Sammy went in the pool at the Sands and they drained it. Took Harry Belafonte and his calypso ass to break into the blackjack tables.”
Dean takes a deep breath and sighs audibly even over the bells of the slot machines all around us. “Far as the police cared, Wardell was just another dead spook in the desert. They didn’t investigate shit.”
“So that’s it, then. There’s no way to prove any of this, I guess.”
He points a finger at me. “There’s one way. You find that woman, you might be on to something. If I was you, I’d be careful though.”
“Why?”
“There’s still some of them godfather dudes around.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Those “Godfather dudes” Pappy Dean mentioned are still on my mind as I ease into the final tune of my first set of the day
at the Fashion Show Mall. So is Brent Tyler. I can see him walking toward me, phone to his ear, gesturing with his other hand. Must be a big deal mall emergency. I’m sure it’s more than a coincidence that his stroll to this end of the mall is at 2:45 PM. The timing is to see that my breaks are coming on schedule. Tyler runs a tight ship.
A piano player I knew in Los Angeles was once faced with a similar situation when the club owner insisted on a precise schedule—forty minutes on, twenty minutes off. Sometimes in a club the music runs over, the solos are longer, or someone requests something near the end of the set. And sometimes the breaks run over. Customers want to talk, someone wants to buy you a drink. This club owner wasn’t hearing it. Stick to the schedule, he’d said.
The next night this pianist brought in an alarm clock, set it on top of the piano, and at the end of forty minutes it rang loudly. He stopped playing even though he was in the middle of a song. The owner went berserk. The pianist had made his point. He was fired for his trouble. Brent Tyler, I decide, would make a good club owner.
My hand is tired and sore, but I’ve made it through in respectable fashion by keeping mostly to ballads. No complaints or response from the Las Vegas shopping public as yet. I finish with a flourish, feeling my right hand tighten up as I try to stretch over an octave.
Tyler steps over the velvet rope and leans on the piano. “How’s it, going? What was that you were playing?”
“Old Tadd Dameron tune. Never was a hit or anything.”
Tyler nods. “You might try some of the Carpenters’ songs. They’re big again. Saw them advertising on TV.”
I let that one pass while Tyler looks at his watch. “Your fifteen-minute break is about due, eh?”
I stand up and stretch. “Gosh, time flies when you’re having fun. Think I’ll get a cup of coffee.” I close the keyboard cover and head for the coffee concession, where, according to the sign, they roast their own beans. Tyler tags along and decides to join me. We order and he picks up the tab, checks his watch, and heads off to handle yet another mall emergency.
“You’re doing a great job, Evan,” he calls over his shoulder. Mission accomplished.
I find a free table in the smoking section, feeling just a little self-conscious in a tux while everyone around me is in casual clothes, but no one says anything. I’m sipping the coffee and watching the passing parade of shoppers when a voice behind me says, “You were with Alan Grant last night, weren’t you?”
I turn to see the same woman that stopped by Grant’s table. Today she’s dressed in a smartly tailored suit and carries a bag from Saks. Last night it was difficult to tell her age, but in the harsh mall lighting I can see she’s older than I thought, but still has a striking complexion and features like Lena Horne. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Mind if I join you for a minute?”
“Sure, sit down. I’ve got to go back in a couple of minutes.”
She takes in my tux and glances toward the piano, then back at me. “Now I remember,” she says. “About two years ago, you were here with Lonnie Cole at … Caesar’s Palace?”
“Golden Nugget downtown.”
“Of course. My daughter and I went. She loves Lonnie. She’s a singer herself. Maybe you’ve heard of her. Rachel Cody?” She smiles, then shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I’m Louise Cody.” She offers her hand. It’s cool and firm. When she leans in, I catch a slight whiff of some very subtle perfume.
“Evan Horne.”
“And you’re a friend of Alan Grant?”
“Not really. He was just helping me out with an old mystery.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“Well, it was a long time ago. I’m doing some research on the Moulin Rouge for a friend of mine at the university. One of the musicians died the second night. Wardell Gray. He was a saxophone player.”
Louise Cody smiles briefly again, and her eyelashes flutter. She has to be nearly sixty but she’s still a beautiful woman. “Your friend’s name wouldn’t happen to be Professor Buffington?” She catches my look. “Somehow he got my phone number, asked me lots of questions about the Moulin Rouge, but I told him I don’t remember much.”
“You there at the time?”
“Well, yes. Just a few weeks. After the trouble, my mother, well I was just a young girl then, and she thought it was too dangerous. That was pretty much the end of my dancing career. I went away to college, and now I’m a boring old real estate career woman.”
“And your daughter?”
Her eyes cloud over. She looks away and stares into space. “I haven’t seen her for some time now. That’s why I go to the Four Queens.”
“I’m sorry.” This was getting too heavy too quickly. I glance at my watch. “About time for me to go back to work. I’d like to talk to you about the Moulin Rouge sometime.”
“Well, I suppose I... what time do you finish?” She glances toward the piano. “This is a rather different engagement for you, isn’t it?”
“Four o’clock. Yeah, you could say that.” I didn’t feel like going through the story of my accident and how this was my big comeback.
“I have a house to show at four. I’m free after that. Perhaps we could meet someplace.”
“Fine, just tell me where.”
“There’s a coffee bar out near Desert Shores called Capio’s. It’s right near the freeway. Are you familiar with the city?”
“I’ll find it. See you then.”
She gets up with me and goes to the escalator. I can feel her eyes on me as I sit down at the piano, flex my fingers, and think about what I’m going to play. When I turn around she’s gone.
By the end of the next hour I’m scanning the mall for Mary Lou, my relief. My right hand is cramping badly, and I’m grateful I don’t have to play another set. Two hours and I’m finished. I feel like smashing the keyboard with my fist. I’ve been taking longer between tunes to save my hand. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
I look over my shoulder and feel relieved to see Mary Lou coming down the escalator with her briefcase full of music. She waves and joins me at the piano. Despite the heat outside, Mary Lou looks remarkably cool in a long black skirt, white blouse, and bow tie. I’m guessing she’s mid-twenties. Her hair is pulled back and held in place with a black barrette.
“God, the traffic was a bitch,” she says, dropping the briefcase on the floor. Mary Lou, I learned the first day, is a piano major at UNLV. She’s aiming for a symphony career but will probably settle for a public school music gig.
“What are you going to share with the shoppers today?” I ask.
“Mozart,” she says, digging into the briefcase for a stack of music. “I’ve got a recital coming up.” She notices me massaging my right hand. “Still bothering you, huh? Have you thought of trying a cortisone shot?”
“No, thanks. I don’t like drugs. I’ll put some ice on it later.” I surrender the piano bench to Mary Lou and head for the escalator. As I glide up to the second level, I look down at her. She arranges the music on the piano and launches into a concerto as if it were a Carnegie Hall recital.
Capio’s isn’t hard to find. The Desert Shores signs are all along U.S. 95. I take the Cheyenne exit and cruise the shopping center till I spot some patio tables and the Capio’s sign. It’s wedged between a Family Fitness gym and a greeting card shop. Louise Cody is already seated and waiting for me.
I leave my tux jacket and tie in the VW and suffer the hot fifty-yard walk, wondering if anyone ever gets used to it. The TV weatherman had talked about cooling trends with the temperature dipping to one hundred two degrees.
Heat doesn’t seem to bother Louise Cody. She has draped her suit jacket over the back of the chair. Her face is half covered by large, stylish sunglasses.
“It’s not as bad as you think,” she says as she notices my glance into Capio’s cool interior. “These misters really work.” Above our heads is a network of thin pipes that send off a cool welcoming spray. The mist is so fine, it evapor
ates before you get wet. Louise’s drink is okay, so I go inside, get an iced cappuccino, and join her.
“At least you can smoke out here,” she says.
I take a long drink of my coffee, get a cigarette going, and wonder why she’s so agreeable. I haven’t picked up any of the apprehension or reluctance Ace described when he talked to her. I put it down to what I hope is her connection to me as a musician, or rather my potential connection to her daughter. Maybe she just likes musicians. “So, tell me what it was like when the Moulin Rouge opened.”
She takes off her glasses and shakes her head. “I’ve been thinking a lot about it since your friend called me, more this afternoon. I’m afraid I wasn’t very nice when I talked to him, but I had other things on my mind.”
“Your daughter? Alan Grant told me you’ve kind of lost touch.”
“Yes, I haven’t seen her for weeks, and I’m getting very worried. Well, she’s a big girl. I guess I shouldn’t fret so much about it.” She forces a smile. “Anyway, you want to hear about the Moulin Rouge.”
“And Wardell Gray,” I remind her. “If you can recall anything.”
“That place jumped around the clock, but especially late at night. Once the shows were over at other casinos, everybody came by the Moulin Rouge. People never knew what big names they were going to see at the Rouge. Black and white entertainers who had known each other for years and worked on the same stages found this was the only place they could socialize together. A lot of the hotels would be deserted after two o’clock because everyone was at the Rouge.”
“And the musicians?”
“Same thing. You wouldn’t believe how much sitting in there was after the shows, but I don’t think anyone thought of it as making history even though it was the first interracial hotel-casino. But six months, and it was all over.” Louise shakes her head and stares out at endless rows of cars in the parking lot.
“What happened?”
“The night before it closed, the place was packed as usual. We were devastated. We had a show to do, and the next thing you know, they told us it was closed.”