Evan Horne [02] Death of a Tenor Man

by Bill Moody

  “Okay, how ’bout if I tell you your mother is looking for you? She’s worried, she can’t understand why you’ve just disappeared.”

  She stubs out her cigarette, finishes off her drink, and swivels on the stool to face me. “Look,” she says. “I don’t know you, but if you know my mother, you just trot back and tell her I’m going to stay disappeared. I don’t want to see her, I don’t want to talk to her, and I don’t want to talk to you, okay?”

  She grabs her purse from the bar, brushes past me as she hops off the stool, and heads for the door. I think of something else and follow her outside. She’s unlocking a late-model Camaro. I make a mental note of the license plate and call out to her.

  “Rachel, Sonny Wells is dead.”

  It’s almost unnoticeable, but she does pause, then glares at me, her eyes blazing. “Who the fuck is Sonny Wells?” She jerks open the door, gets in, and roars off in a spray of gravel.

  I go back inside. Natalie and Pappy are laughing about something. “904BNE,” I say to Natalie.

  “What?”

  “904BNE. Write it down. It’s a license plate.” Natalie fumbles in her purse for a pen and something to write on. She comes up with a business card and writes the number on the back.

  Pappy seems more relaxed now, as if he’s glad Rachel wouldn’t talk to me. “She don’t like you,” he says.

  “God,” Natalie says, “what did you say to her?”

  “I just passed on a message from her mother. What do you think?” I ask Pappy.

  He’s hunched down in the booth, the Panama hat on the back of his head. “You gave her the message, she don’t want it, so let it go.”

  “He’s right,” Natalie says. “Maybe she just really doesn’t want to be found.”

  “But why?”

  “Why gets you in trouble, piano man,” Pappy says.

  We get up to leave. As we pass the bar, Cal waves. “Come back on Friday and play,” he says.

  Natalie and I walk Pappy to his car. He drives a huge Chrysler station wagon. His bass, Trouble, rests in a canvas case in the back. There’s a sticker on the window, This Car Protected by Smith & Wesson.

  Pappy heaves his bulk inside and starts the engine. “I’ll call you tomorrow about the funeral. I gotta talk to the preacher.”

  “All right, Pappy. See you.”

  We watch him drive off and stand for a moment in the parking lot.

  “What was that Lavonne stuff about?” Natalie asks.

  I have the same feeling I had when I caught Louise Cody using Pappy’s nickname. “I don’t know, but Pappy does.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Natalie and I drive back in the direction of the Rio and my apartment. We finally get to the inevitable point where it’s her place or mine. “It’s still early,” I say. “Are you hungry?” We’re at a traffic light on Decatur and Charleston.

  “Not really.” She cracks the window on her side a bit as the VW’s AC struggles to cool the car. “Smells like rain.”

  She’s right, and it’s the weather that finally decides the dilemma for us.

  Overhead the sky is black, and in minutes large drops splatter against the windshield, followed by booming cracks of thunder. A spider web of lightning flashes across the sky. By the time we reach Sahara, it’s as though someone is pouring buckets of water over the car. The streets flood quickly, making the intersections like ponds, with cars throwing up huge sprays as they try to plow through faster than they should.

  I lean forward and peer out the windshield. The wipers are as useless as the VW’s feeble headlights. Natalie grabs the overhead handle as I roll through another intersection. Several cars are pulled over, and a couple are stuck, their drivers with the doors open, standing up on the door frames, looking for help.

  “We better get out of this, hadn’t we?”

  “Yeah. Flash floods. I remember hearing a few years ago there were Caddys and Mercedeses floating upside down in Caesar’s parking lot.” I turn up Desert Inn and stay behind a van, using its taillights to lead the way. “Guess it’s my place.”

  When I look over at Natalie, I catch her smiling at me in the glow of the dashboard light. “Well, at least this is original. You didn’t run out of gas.”

  A few blocks from my place the rain subsides slightly, enough for me to see the turnoff to Ace’s street. His Jeep, with four-wheel drive and plenty of height, is in the driveway. We get out and make a dash for the apartment, but we’re soaked in seconds under the deluge. We duck under the patio covering, with the wind whipping at our clothes.

  In another flash of lightning, I see a reflection in the glass big enough to be Karl. I push Natalie aside. She cries out as I spin around, feeling a rush of adrenaline course through my body.

  “Hey, Evan, I thought I heard you drive up.”

  “Jesus Christ, Ace, you scared the hell out of me.” I lean against the sliding glass door for a moment to catch my breath.

  “Sorry, who did you think I was?” Ace says.

  Ace suddenly becomes aware of Natalie. She’s staring at both of us, her hair in wet strings over her face. “Hi,” he says, sticking his hand out. “I’m Ace Buffington.”

  Natalie shakes his hand and looks at me. “Say hello to Natalie Beamer, Ace.” The three of us stand there for a moment listening to the wind and thunder.

  “Well, let’s get in out of this,” Ace says, as a plastic patio chair rockets across the yard and flips into the pool.

  “Yes, can we?” Natalie says.

  I get the door unlocked and we all go inside, Natalie and I dripping on the carpet. I go in the bathroom and get a couple of towels and hand one to Natalie. She puts it over her head and starts drying off.

  Ace stands there watching us and finally says, “Look, I’ve got a great idea. I’ve got a nice bottle of chilled chardonnay next door. You guys get dry and come on over. Anyway, Evan, I’ve got something I forgot to give you this afternoon. I want you to hear it.”

  Natalie stops drying her hair and looks at me from under her towel. I shrug at her. “Sure, Ace. Sounds good.”

  Ace claps his hands together. “Great. Hey, your friend needs something to change into. I’ll be right back.” Ace goes out and I look at Natalie.

  “Sorry, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  Natalie smiles. “I don’t know. A bottle of wine sounds good if he’s got some cheese and crackers to go with it.”

  Ace is back in a minute with a white terrycloth robe. “Here, this should work,” he says, handing it to Natalie. “It’s clean. I just washed it not too long ago. See you guys in a few minutes.”

  Natalie goes in the bathroom to change while I get into some jeans and a T-shirt. When she comes out, her hair is brushed back off her face and the robe is cinched around her waist. “I hung my clothes over the shower rail,” she says.

  The robe looks good on her. I catch a flash of tanned thigh and an expression in her eyes as she walks across the room that makes me wish we weren’t going to Ace’s.

  “Like you said, it’s early,” Natalie says, reading my look. “C’mon. Let’s not keep the man waiting.”

  Ace works fast. By the time we get to the main house, he has three wine goblets on the coffee table next to a tray of cheese and an assortment of crackers.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Ace says, motioning Natalie and me to the large sofa. He pours wine in all the glasses and raises his in a toast.

  “To good friends,” he says. We clink glasses and are treated to a pure musical note. “I love that sound.”

  “They’re beautiful,” Natalie says, holding her glass up to the light.

  “I got them for Janey,” Ace says. He looks at me and I can see the trace of pain in his eyes. “Excuse me for a minute.” He sets his glass down and goes off to the kitchen.

  While Ace is gone, I tell Natalie about Janey. “They were very close. I don’t think they spent a night away from each other the whole time they were married.”

  “He see
ms like such a nice man,” Natalie says. “It must be very hard on him.”

  “That’s why he’s so wound up about writing this Wardell thing. It’s keeping him busy, giving him some kind of focus.”

  Ace comes back with part of a sliced ham, some small plates, and another helping of composure. “Just in case you’re really hungry.”

  “Yes,” says Natalie as she begins cutting into the Brie and forking a couple of slices of ham on her plate.

  “How about some music, Ace?”

  “Right, I forgot,” Ace says, snapping his fingers. He goes over to a wall unit that houses a complete stereo system and puts on a CD. The sound of a very familiar tenor saxophone suddenly fills the room. Ace adjusts the controls to his satisfaction, then comes back with the case and hands it to me.

  “Wardell Gray. Just found this at Tower Records this afternoon. Must be a new reissue.”

  There’s a photo of Wardell Gray on the front of the plastic case. Wardell Gray Memorial, Volume I is the title. I turn it over. On the back is a list of the tunes, several as alternate takes—“Twisted,” “Easy Living”—and a few versions of a tune called “Southside.” The personnel is also listed: Al Haig, piano; Tommy Potter, bass; Roy Haynes, drums.

  We listen a few minutes as Wardell shows us how to play tenor saxophone while we drink the chilled wine and munch on Brie, ham, and crackers.

  After the fourth version of “Twisted,” Natalie is looking more and more puzzled. “Why so many versions of the same song? What’s it called?”

  “‘Twisted.’”

  “Yeah,” Ace says. “Annie Ross put lyrics to Wardell’s solo.”

  “Annie Ross the actress?”

  “That’s right,” Ace says. “She used to sing with Lambert, Hendricks & Ross.”

  “I didn’t realize it was the same person,” Natalie says. “I’d like to hear her lyrics sometime.”

  “You will,” I say. Ace has quite a collection. In addition to hundreds of CDs, Ace has a vinyl collection that goes back to 78-rpm records.

  “Record companies do this a lot on reissues, especially for someone long gone like Wardell. They have the master tapes, so they include all the takes that were done on that particular recording session. The original album probably had only one take of each tune.”

  “Are they all different?” Natalie asks.

  “If you listen very closely a number of times, you’ll hear some slight difference in each take. The producer or leader chooses the best one for release, but in jazz sometimes the first take is the best.”

  Ace refills our glasses as we polish off most of his ham and cheese. Natalie, leaning back on the sofa, a smile on her lips, listens intently as several versions of “Southside” play. She recognizes “Sweet Lorraine” and smiles happily at her discovery. When the CD finally ends, she says, “What was the name of that last one?”

  I don’t recognize it either. I pick up the CD case and look for the title. I’ve suddenly had enough wine. I set my glass down and stare at the case.

  “What’s the matter?” Natalie says, noticing my expression.

  “That last track, it’s called ‘Lavonne’.’’

  Ace looks from me to Natalie. “I don’t get it.”

  I look again to make sure there’s no mistake, and of course there isn’t. “The doctor at UMC told me Sonny Wells’s last words were, ‘See Lavonne’.” I explain to Ace. I look at Natalie. “You saw Pappy’s reaction when I asked him about the name Lavonne.” Natalie nods her head. “So that’s what that was about.”

  Ace is still confused. “So who’s Lavonne?”

  “That, Ace, is the final jeopardy question.”

  “Jesus,” Ace says, jumping to his feet. “This could be the key to the whole thing. We’ve got to figure this out!”

  “Ace,” I say, “settle down. Let’s not get carried away. We don’t know if it means anything. Lavonne may just be Sonny’s sister.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Ace says, looking clearly disappointed.

  I’m not sure if I’m just caught up by Ace’s enthusiasm or whether I believe it myself, but I want to be sure. I have him play the track several times to see if there’s some musical clue I’m missing.

  There’s a nice piano intro, two choruses by Sonny Clark, followed by Frank Morgan’s alto and Teddy Charles’s vibes. Wardell finally comes in for three choruses before they take it out. If there’s anything there, I don’t hear it.

  “Where was that recorded?” Ace says. “Maybe it’s something to do with the location or the date.”

  I look at the notes again. “Different band, and this was in L.A. on February 20, 1953.”

  “No,” Natalie says. “I think it’s the name Lavonne.”

  “Maybe it’s an anagram,” Ace says, brightening again. “Hang on a minute.”

  He gets some paper and pencils. We all spend twenty minutes trying for names with the same combination of letters, like some bizarre variation of Scrabble. The best we can come up with are Val Neon and Al Nevon. Finally, I throw my pencil down.

  “We’re trying too hard to stretch this. If it’s anything, and we don’t even know that for sure, it’s just a name. A lot of jazz tunes, especially blues, are named for women.”

  “Yeah,” Ace says, scratching his head. “‘Nica’s Dream’, ‘Along Came Betty’, ‘Donna Lee’.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?” Natalie asks, smiling at me over her glass.

  “I’m not even going to touch that one,” I say.

  “Well, it won’t keep me awake,” Ace says. He gets up and stretches his arms over his head. “I’m going to kick you guys out and go to bed. I’ve got classes in the morning.”

  “Thanks for the wine and the robe,” Natalie says.

  Ace sees us out. The storm has gone as fast as it came. The sky has cleared now, with only a few clouds hovering around the moon. Natalie and I go back to my place. This time there’s no dilemma. There’s a rustle of terrycloth on skin, and somehow we manage to squeeze together on the twin-size bed. They do have their advantages.

  In the morning Natalie is awake and up before me, already brushing that long blond hair. She looks down at her white jeans. “They’re a little wrinkled, but at least they’re dry. The bathroom is all yours.”

  I stand under the shower, thinking I’ve been spending far too much time alone lately and maybe liking it more than I should. Maybe that’s going to end now. Natalie and I have a lot in common, including a taste for a single twin bed, but there’s still a lot to work out, and I have a letter to write.

  To pay Ace back for the wine party, we decide to invite him to breakfast. “C’mon, Ace, you’ve got time before your first class.” He’s half-dressed when I knock on the door.

  “Yeah, I guess I do,” Ace says, checking his watch. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  We decide on a place at the Lakes, another of those master-planned development communities built around water. Last night’s rain has eased the heat somewhat, so we sit out on the patio with a view of Las Vegas while the misters’ fine spray keeps us cool.

  None of us has come up with any names that make sense from Lavonne. It’s been fun trying, but as Dr. Straub said, deathbed utterances usually aren’t coherent anyway. We talk music, teaching English, and Natalie’s impression of police work. Then halfway through this relaxing breakfast I see something that brings me back to the reality of the past few days.

  I just happen to glance through the window inside the restaurant. A couple, who appear to be arguing over their morning coffee, are at a table where I can see them but they can’t see me. Even in this glass-diffused view, Louise Cody still reminds me of Lena Horne.

  Seated opposite her, dressed as immaculately as he was at Spago, is Anthony Gallio.

  They must have come in through another entrance. I wonder if Karl and Tony are nearby. Louise looks upset. Gallio seems to be pressing her about something and occasionally wags his finger in her face. Finally, he picks up the check and angrily heads
for the cashier, leaving Louise alone at the table.

  She looks on the verge of tears. She glances around to see if anyone is watching her, then takes out a compact from her purse, checks the mirror, and brushes her hair with her fingers. A minute later and she’s gone too.

  In a few moments, I see Gallio pull out of the parking lot in a white Cadillac. He looks our way once, but I know he can’t see our table. He’s just checking traffic before he turns into the street. Louise Cody follows a couple of minutes later and drives off in the opposite direction.

  “So what do you think, Evan?”

  “About what?” All this time Ace and Natalie have been talking. “Sorry, I was thinking about something else.”

  We finish breakfast, Ace and I argue over the check, and Natalie is trying to figure out what’s bugging me. I signal her with my eyes that we’ll talk about it later.

  By the time we get back to the apartment, the sun has climbed and begun its relentless daily baking of the city. As I unlock the door, I glance over at the pool. “That’s what I’m going to do,” I say to Natalie. “Want to join me?”

  “You’re forgetting I don’t have a swimsuit, and I don’t think Ace’s neighbors would appreciate midmorning skinny-dipping. You go ahead, but only after you tell me what you saw at the restaurant.”

  “Anthony Gallio and Louise Cody. They were inside, arguing about something, it looked like. They left separately.”

  “That’s the second restaurant we’ve been at with him,” Natalie says. “Well, at least he didn’t join us this time.”

  “I’m just glad he didn’t see us.”

  “What do you make of those two together?”

  “I don’t know, but I think it’s time I had a talk with Louise.” I change into swim trunks, grab a towel, and head for the pool. “If you want something to do, maybe you could call a couple of places and get an idea about funeral services.”

  “Sure,” Natalie says. “I’ll try the police and see if they’ve located Sonny’s sister if you want.”

  “If you get John Trask, you might see if he’ll run that license plate for Rachel’s address.”

  Natalie frowns at that. “I don’t know. Trask is Coop’s friend, not mine. I don’t know if I’d be comfortable with that.”