by Bill Moody
I stand up to go. “Well, thanks for your help. If anything turns up I’d appreciate a call.” I leave Jenkins my number and Ace’s.
“No problem,” Jenkins says. “I’ll ask around. Maybe we’ll get lucky. But those files? They’ll be awfully dusty by now.”
I just make it to the Fashion Show for my first set. The crowd is light today, and even the food court is slow. I sit at the piano for a minute trying to think of something to play.
“Two o’clock, Horne. Let’s hear some music.”
I turn and look over my shoulder to see Brent Tyler coming down the escalator, his cellular phone in his hand. I bet he sleeps with it. He walks over and stands by the piano. I hit a couple of the keys.
“This could stand a tuning, Brent.”
“No kidding. I’ll get right on it.” He takes a pad and pen out of his pocket and makes a note, then he’s off on yet another mall mission.
I try a couple of standards, and already I can feel the first twinges of pain in my wrist. It seems to start earlier every day, but I feel adventurous. I decide to try “Lush Life.”
Billy Strayhorn wrote it for Duke’s band when he was only sixteen. It’s a difficult song to sing, with its strange intervals and complicated chord progression, and it’s just as hard to play. I stretch for the high notes of the melody and miss while a shooting stroke of pain climbs up my arm. I get through it, but Strayhorn would not be happy with my version. I go for some easier tunes for the rest of the set. Despite the climate-controlled mall, I’m in a sweat by the end of the hour.
I sip a Coke and smoke two cigarettes on the break and wonder what I’m trying to prove, enduring pain and frustration. It’s just not happening, and I wonder more and more if it ever will. I knew from an early age I wanted to do nothing but play the piano. When I heard my first Bud Powell record, jazz had me by the throat, and that’s what I’ve worked toward ever since.
Now, sitting here in a shopping mall, a hundred feet away from a grand piano that needs tuning, I get a glimpse of my future. If things don’t get any better, what’s the most I can expect? Cocktail lounge gigs with drunks hanging over the piano requesting their favorite songs and singing along? Not for me. I want to be part of a rhythm section, backing some bitch tenor player, or lead my own trio. If I can’t do that, then maybe I should give up the whole thing.
I finish my shift and turn things over to Mary Lou, envious of her dexterity on the keyboard, her painless playing. I stay around for a couple of tunes and think she’s got a future in music.
Outside, the VW is cooking in the late-afternoon heat. I crack the windows and turn on the AC full blast and head for home to wait for Coop’s call. A short dip in the pool and a couple of Henry Weinhards and I’m almost back to normal when the phone rings.
“Any time, sport,” Coop says. “My flight is at five-thirty.”
“I’m on the way.”
I pick up Coop in front of the Rio and we head for McCarran Airport. Turning onto Paradise, we enter the airport complex and pass a sign that thrills Coop.
“Will you look at that,” he says. “Wayne Newton Boulevard.”
I glance over at him. “You’re right, Coop. You and Natalie would never have made it.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t see some fucking jazz musician’s name on a street sign.”
“That’s exactly the point.”
I maneuver through the airport traffic and pull up in front of the Southwest Airlines doors. Coop grabs his bag, gets out of the car, then leans in the window.
“Watch yourself, sport. Trask tells me he’d really like to nail Gallio. He might try to use you. If it gets real sticky, give me a call.” He turns away and walks into the terminal.
Trask won’t have to try, I think. I’m going to be real cooperative.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ace must have been waiting for me and heard my car. He comes outside and walks me back along the side of the house to the apartment. “Message for you,” he says, handing me a piece of paper. “Dr. Straub at UMC. What happened? Was there an accident or something?”
“It’s nothing, Ace,” I say, unlocking the door. I go inside the apartment, and Ace follows me. “I was a witness, they took the guy to the hospital, and I was able to identify him, that’s all.”
“Who? What guy? Witness to what? C’mon, Evan, what’s going on?”
I look at Ace and shrug. “Okay, hang on a minute.” I flick on the AC and grab a couple of beers out of the fridge. I hand Ace one and bring him up to date with a very edited version of the attack on Sonny Wells. I still leave out Gallio, his nephew Tony, and Karl. Ace listens intently. With every sentence his mouth drops open farther.
“You mean this musician, Sonny Wells, was killed in the same place Wardell Gray was found? Jesus Christ!” Ace gets up and begins pacing around the room. “I don’t know, Evan, I just don’t know.”
“Look, Ace, let’s not jump to conclusions. Wells was an addict. This could have been a drug deal gone wrong, a mugging. It happens every day.” I knew what I’d said wasn’t convincing. I’m sounding like Danny Cooper, and I realize as I hear my own voice that it’s more for my benefit than Ace’s.
He sits down again and points at me with his beer bottle. “I don’t like any of this, Evan. Maybe we should just forget the whole thing. I’ll find something else to write about.” He suddenly notices his beer bottle as if he’s just discovered it in his hand. He takes a long drink, then looks at me for several moments. “You’re not going to quit on this, are you?”
We both know it’s not a question. “No.”
“Well, what do I say? Be careful?” Ace is genuinely troubled by all this, but there’s nothing I can tell him.
“You don’t have to.” I look at my watch. “Look, I gotta get out of here. When did Dr. Straub call?”
“About an hour ago. Said he’d be on duty tonight.”
I’d given Pappy and the doctor both numbers. “Okay, I’ll talk to you later. If Pappy Dean calls, tell him I’ll be at Pogo’s later.” I usher Ace out, jump in the shower, and change into some light khakis, loafers, a cotton shirt.
The VW is still an inferno as I drive down West Charleston to UMC. I go in the emergency entrance and find the usual collection of the injured waiting for treatment, arguing with nurses, and trying to get some help. I’ve never liked hospitals, and since my accident I like them even less.
Dr. Straub is bent over a counter at Admitting, filling out some forms. “Be with you in a minute,” he says, nodding at me. He looks tired already, and he’s probably only been on duty a couple of hours. He finishes the forms, hands them to a nurse, and thumbs toward his office. “C’mon, let’s go back there.”
He grabs another Coke, and we settle in his office. “I guess you heard about your friend. There wasn’t much we could do.”
“I know. Thanks, I appreciate your efforts.”
Straub shrugs. It’s all in a night’s work for him. “We’ve got him downstairs in the morgue, but there’s been no word from any next of kin. Didn’t you say something about a sister in Los Angeles?”
“I’m not sure. The police are trying to run that down now. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“No, there’s something else,” Straub says. “I was with him when he died. He was trying to talk but all I heard was ‘See Lavonne’.”
“Lavonne?”
“Yeah, that’s what it sounded like to me. Mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing.” I lean back in my chair. A woman’s name, I suppose, but not one I’ve ever heard. “Maybe it’s his sister.”
“Well,” Straub says, “it could have been anything. Deathbed utterances usually aren’t coherent.”
Maybe, but I think Sonny wanted me—or maybe Pappy Dean—to hear it. Who the hell is Lavonne?
“There’s one other thing,” Straub says. “Who’s going to claim the body if you can’t get hold of the sister? If there’s no next of kin available, it’s a county burial, the mod
ern-day equivalent of Potter’s Field.”
“Have you heard from Trask at Metro? Did they order an autopsy?”
Straub nods. “Already done. Severe brain damage from head trauma, and his system was full of dope.”
“Just like Wardell.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud.” I get up to go. “Well, thanks for passing on the message. I’ll get back to you if there’s any news on the sister.”
“Do that,” Straub says. He stands up, stretches, and rubs his eyes with his hands. “Well, I got bodies to sew up.”
I stop at a sports bar on Decatur. While I’m waiting for my order, I get some quarters and make a few calls. Natalie is out when I call the Rio. I leave a message for her and try to track down Pappy Dean, but there’s no answer at his place. Detective Trask has already gone for the day, so it’s strike three.
I sit at the bar and watch a couple of innings of a Dodger game on one of the six TVs suspended over the bar. I spend twenty minutes getting through a sandwich and french fries, pay the check, and try Natalie again. This time she’s in.
“Evan, I was wondering if you were going to call.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. Did you see Coop?”
“Yeah, just put him on a plane a little while ago. Look, I understand why you called him. It’s all squared away, so don’t worry about it.”
“I didn’t know what else to do. Gallio is a dangerous man, Evan.”
“Yeah, Coop filled me in.” I pause a moment, looking around the bar. “Natalie, Sonny Wells died this morning.”
“Oh, Evan, I’m sorry. Do you think—?”
“I don’t know what to think yet. I’ve got to find Pappy Dean and see if he’s come up with Sonny’s sister. I know one place to look, and there’s someone else I want to find who might be at the same place. Want to tag along?”
“Of course, that’s why I stayed around.”
“Okay, I’ll pick you up in about fifteen minutes in front of the Rio.”
I drive back to the Rio and spot Natalie in a crowd of people waiting for their cars from valet parking. She’s wearing a white blouse and white jeans that make her tan seem even darker. Her long blond hair is loose over her face, and the scent of subtle perfume enters the car with her.
I head up Flamingo and turn north on Decatur, conscious of Natalie beside me, watching me.
“Where are we going?”
“Place called Pogo’s. It’s been a jazz joint at least one night a week for more than twenty years, according to Pappy. He hangs out and plays there sometimes. The other person I’m looking for was spotted there a few nights ago.”
When we stop at a light, I look over at Natalie and realize how glad I am to see her. With some women, you’re captivated immediately because of how they look, what they say. That’s how it had been with Cindy Fuller. With others, after a while they slowly work their way into your soul. I know the first part is true already for Natalie. Immediate captivation. I’d have to wait for the rest to see if it was going to happen, but I have a good feeling about her.
“Coop told me you put in for some leave. How long can you stay?”
“I don’t know. I have at least a week coming. Coop arranged it for me.”
Thank you, Coop.
I continue down Decatur and start looking for Pogo’s after we cross Washington. We find it a few more blocks north in a small shopping mall. The sun disappears just as we pull up and park. There are red streaks in the sky to the west, and the temperature, according to a sign on a bank, still hovers around a hundred.
We go in and stop just inside the door. There’s a rectangular bar right in front of us, a pool table in the back to its right. Two guys in jeans and T-shirts with beepers clipped to their belts are shooting eight ball. To the right is an area of booths and tables so dark we can hardly see anything. In the back a tiny alcove, which must be the bandstand, is barren—no piano, music stands, nothing. The floor is littered with napkins and cigarette butts and peanut shells.
“Another glamorous jazz club,” I say to Natalie. “Let’s get a beer.”
Natalie follows me to the bar. There are half a dozen customers nursing drinks, watching ESPN on the TV over the bar. We order a couple of beers, and I decide to try the bartender with Rachel Cody’s photo. He’s a tall, heavyset man with a brush cut and glasses, in jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. When he brings my change, I show him the photo. With all that’s happened, looking for Rachel Cody has become secondary. Maybe it’s time to start.
“Ever seen her in here?” I say, laying the photo on the bar.
He picks it up, glances at me, and studies the picture. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to know?”
I shrug and smile casually. “She’s a singer, I’m a keyboard player. Friend of mine told me to look her up.”
“Why don’t you just call her?”
“I tried one number. I guess she’s moved.”
He lays the photo back down on the bar. “Keyboard, eh? Who wrote ‘Un Paco Loco’?”
“Bud Powell.”
“‘Relaxin’ at Camarillo’?”
“Charlie Parker.”
He smiles and holds out his hand. “I’m Cal. Welcome to Pogo’s. Sorry about the quiz, but some people don’t like to be found, if you know what I mean.”
“Sure, no problem. I’m also trying to catch up with Pappy Dean. Has he been in tonight?”
Cal smiles again. “Well, I know you’re okay if you know Pappy. Naw, he stops by sometimes during the week, but we only play here on Fridays.”
“Hey, Cal, how ’bout a couple of brews?” one of the pool players calls.
“‘Scuse me,” Cal says. He goes over to draw the beers for the pool players.
Natalie picks up the photo. “She’s very pretty. Who is she?”
“Remember when I told you I had dinner with a woman that reminded me of Lena Horne? That’s her daughter.” I fill Natalie in on Louise Cody and her missing daughter. Natalie smiles and hands back the photo. “You really are becoming a detective, aren’t you?”
Before I can answer, the door opens and Pappy Dean’s huge frame fills the doorway. He comes over, nods at Natalie, and puts his hand on my shoulder. “No music here tonight, man.”
“So I’ve been told. I was hoping to run into you. You know about Sonny?”
Pappy frowns and shakes his head. “Yeah, I checked with the hospital this morning. They told me.” He waves at Cal, and the big bartender sets down a glass of cognac on the bar. “C’mon, let’s go over there,” he says, indicating the darkened booths.
Natalie and I take our beers and follow Pappy to a corner table. The booth is cracked vinyl with the stuffing showing through in some places, and a chipped Formica-topped table. We all slide in around the table. “Any luck finding Sonny’s sister?”
Pappy shakes his head. “One guy I know who might have known her thinks she might be dead too.”
“If we’ve got a name, we could check DMV in Los Angeles,” Natalie says.
Pappy and I both look at her. “You a cop?” Pappy asks.
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
Pappy looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “Martha Wells. I’m only tellin’ you cause I want to see Sonny buried right, ya dig?”
I light a cigarette. It’s so dark I can hardly see Pappy’s eyes. “Look, if we can’t find her, I’ll handle the funeral. You just tell me what you want.”
“Why you wanna do that?”
“I just do, okay? So let’s not argue about it.”
“Who’s arguin’? I can help you out some, and I’ll pay you back for the rest.”
“Don’t worry about it, Pappy. Sonny didn’t deserve to die like that.”
“We gonna find out who did it?” he asks.
Natalie looks at both of us. “You guys are amazing. If anybody finds out, it will be the police. They will hand
le this.”
“You with Metro?” Pappy asks.
“No, Santa Monica. I’m in traffic,” Natalie says.
“You think Sonny Wells, a black junkie musician, is going to get a lot of attention from Metro?”
Natalie doesn’t have an answer for that.
“Okay,” Pappy says, looking back at me. “You got some ideas?”
I light another cigarette. In the flare of my lighter; I ask Pappy, “Who’s Lavonne?”
Pappy’s expression closes down like a curtain. “Lavonne who?”
“According to the doctor at UMC, those were Sonny’s last words: ‘See Lavonne’.”
I take a drink of my beer and continue to watch Pappy, but he’s not going to volunteer anything.
“Pappy, you’ve got to trust me.”
“Why I got to do that?”
He’s right. I can’t think of any reason he should. The three of us sit in silence for a minute, trying to think of a way to break the tension. I hear the door open and Natalie catch her breath. “Look,” she says.
I twist around in the booth to get a look. A blond glances our way, but I know she can’t see us clearly. She takes a seat at the bar and waves at Cal. He comes over with a drink, then leans in closer to speak to her, glancing toward our table a couple of times. She looks over and shakes her head. When I look at Pappy, he’s staring at her with what seems to be fascination.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say. I get up and make my way to the bar. I’m finally going to get to talk with Rachel Cody.
I take a seat next to her at the bar. “You’re Rachel Cody, right?”
She turns and gives me the most hostile look she can muster but says nothing. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Cal watching us while he dries some glasses.
“How ’bout if I tell you I’m a record company executive and I want to sign you to a contract?”
Rachel lights a cigarette and stares straight ahead. “How ’bout if you just fuck off.” Her voice is deep and husky. The blond hair is the same as in the photo, but the expression is very different. Her eyes are hard, and she’s tense and drawn.