by Phil Swann
“Mr. Callaway,” Colson said, extending his hand, his voice as low and reedy as a cello. “I’m Sebastian Colson. Thanks for coming in.”
“No problem,” I replied, shaking his hand. “I assume you guys worked everything out?”
I looked at Clegg, but he stayed silent.
Colson answered, “I’ve informed everyone who needs to be informed about why you were in Miss St. James’s house.”
“So, we’re done here,” I said.
“Not quite. Have a seat, Mr. Callaway.”
I looked at Clegg as I sat. It was only then I noticed the G-man’s demeanor was less than cheery.
Colson took a seat behind his desk, crossed his arms, and leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Callaway, are you familiar with Gabriella?”
“Gabriella who?”
“The singer, Gabriella.”
“Oh, her. Sure, she’s that girl from…Columbia , or somewhere? Sang that song ‘Midnight Tango,’ didn’t she? Not a bad voice, I suppose. Though I’d call her more of an entertainer than a singer—just my opinion, of course.”
Colson smiled. “Actually, she’s from Argentina. So, you do know her?”
“I don’t know her at all. I only know of her. Why?”
“You’re going to work for her.”
I shot Clegg a look and then looked back at Colson. “Come again?”
“Gabriella has been given a television variety show. You’re going to be in her orchestra.”
“Why would I do that?” I asked, directing my question to Clegg.
Colson answered, “Because one of the producers of her new show is none other than Anthony Cabaneri.”
This brought me out of the chair. “Hey, wait a minute, you guys. I was sent out here to find out how Galaxy Pictures was making money. I did that. My work in Hollywood is done. I need to get back to Vegas and my gig at the Sands. Isn’t that right, Clegg?”
Clegg didn’t answer.
“Clegg?” I asked again.
Colson went on, “Cabaneri and Gabriella have been seen socializing around town.”
“So?”
“We think Gabriella and Anthony Cabaneri are now a couple.”
“How lovely. I wish them nothing but happiness.”
Colson uncrossed his arms, leaned forward, and I suddenly felt like I was fourteen years old, and in the principal’s office. “Mr. Callaway, the matter regarding your activities with Galaxy Pictures, and the subsequent death of Miss St. James, have been explained, but that’s not to say anybody’s happy about it. I’ve expressed my dissatisfaction, as well as that of the mayor’s, on this matter to all the relevant parties, including Agent Clegg here. The bottom line is we should have been informed about your operation. We’ve been trying to bring Anthony Cabaneri to justice for years. Also, had we been informed, we could have been useful to your operation. As it stands now, Cabaneri is off scot-free, and all we have to show for it is a dead actress in our morgue.”
“And Lionel Benbrook in your jail,” I added. “That’s not nothing.”
Colson looked at Clegg. “You want to tell him?”
Clegg’s scowl became even more pronounced. “Benbrook was stabbed two hours ago as he was being transferred. He’s dead.”
“What?” I gasped, falling back into the chair.
Colson added, “And we have no idea by whom, or how. Like I said, we should have been told about your operation from the start.”
I ran my hand down my face and let out a long breath. I didn’t know Colson, but I knew his type. Flying off the handle was only going to make the attorney dig-in the heels of his wingtips even more. I needed to remain calm, in control, and appeal to the man’s sense of justice and fair play. I softened my voice and turned the Callaway charm knob up to ten. “Look, Mr. Colson, I’m sorry. That stinks about Benbrook. And I completely understand your frustration. You have a legitimate beef about not being informed about the Galaxy Studios operation, but sir, that’s between all you important guys. I was just a hapless bystander; a minion, if you will. It’s not my problem.”
Colson smiled, but it wasn’t the kind of smile that warmed one’s insides. “I’m afraid it is your problem, Mr. Callaway. You see, you were part of a clandestine operation being run in my city. And now that things have gone south, I’m left with the task of cleaning up your mess. Okay fine, I’ll clean it up. But I think that earns me, at the very least, a favor in return. This opinion, just so you know, is also shared by the state attorney general.”
“What kind of favor?” I asked, certain I wasn’t going to like the answer.
“Nothing unreasonable. I just want you to continue your investigation into Anthony Cabaneri.”
So much for staying calm. “I wasn’t investigating Anthony Cabaneri!” I shouted, leaping to my feet. “I was spying on Frank Jennings, Lionel Benbrook, and Galaxy Studios. It just so happened Cabaneri was a part of it.”
“Semantics.”
“No, it’s—” I looked at Clegg for help. I got none. He remained silent, his eyes locked on Colson. “And just what do you want me to do?”
“Get close to Gabriella, for starters. That’s why we’ve arranged for you to be in her orchestra.”
I rolled my eyes and summoned up as sarcastic a laugh as I could muster. “You’ve got to be kidding. Look, Colson, that’s not how things work. Just because I’m in her orchestra, I’m still just a sideman. Sidemen don’t have a lot of access to the star, much less an opportunity to get close to them.”
“Agent Clegg tells me you’re a resourceful young fella, Mr. Callaway. I’m sure you’ll figure out a way.”
I buried my face in my hands. After a few seconds, something came to me, and I raised up. “Cabaneri’s hitman saw me at Tiffany’s house. Cabaneri will surely be suspicious if I suddenly show up playing in his girlfriend’s band.”
“Honestly, Mr. Callaway, I doubt Anthony Cabaneri has ever heard of you. Most likely, the man who killed Miss St. James was an ad hoc professional who had no direct contact—nor will ever have any direct contact—with Anthony Cabaneri. That’s Anthony’s genius. You never find him anywhere near the scene of the crime, but in the unlikely event Cabaneri does connect you as being the same person who played in the orchestra at Galaxy Pictures, then so what? You’re a top-notch musician. It’s what you do. The fact you’re also in Gabriella’s orchestra is nothing out of the ordinary. Not in this town.”
I shook my head. “And what if I just say I won’t do it? Then what?”
Colson looked at Clegg.
Clegg answered me but continued leering at Colson as he did. “I’ve been informed that if we don’t do what Mr. Colson asks, he will open his own investigation into Galaxy Studios. If he does that, everything will go public, our operation, Miss St. James, all of it. If that happens, it’s possible you’ll be exposed as an undercover government operative.”
“No, it’s likely,” Colson added, without a hint of subtlety.
I fell back into my chair. “Guys, aren’t we all supposed to be on the same team here? Why are you doing this, Colson?”
Colson pounded his fist on his desk. “Because I’m sick and tired of Anthony Cabaneri waltzing away from one indictment after another. Every time I get close to nailing the bastard, a witness goes missing, or evidence gets misplaced, or some other coincidence occurs that gets him off the hook. I’ve had it, gentlemen. Mr. Callaway, you’re not from this town and have no connection to the LAPD. That makes you the perfect undercover man for this job and our best shot to take Cabaneri down once and for all.”
“Our best shot or your best shot, Counselor?” Clegg asked.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Colson replied.
“Word is you’ve got your eye on the governor’s mansion. Bagging Anthony Cabaneri would be a nice trophy to launch your campaign with, wouldn’t it?”
Colson shrugged. “Think what you want, Agent. I’m just looking out for the good of this city.”
“Right,” Clegg responded.
He smirked. “I have a…relationship, let’s call it, with the music contractor who does the hiring of musicians for a lot of these television variety shows. He got into some hot water a while back, and I made the problem go away. He owed me and the city of Los Angeles a huge favor. Congratulations, Mr. Callaway, you start tomorrow.”
A light breeze was blowing in from the west, and the palm trees were responding accordingly. The southern California sun was delivering just the right amount of sunniness to the City of Angels, and under different circumstances, I would have declared it a beautiful day.
Clegg and I stood on a landing outside of City Hall and took in the cavalcade of citizenry bustling along the sidewalk below us. Either from indignation or stunned silence, neither of us had uttered a word since leaving Colson’s office. Finally, I decided if Clegg wasn’t going to say it, I was.
“I can’t believe that guy. How can he do this to us? How could you let him do this to us?”
Clegg put on a pair of dark shades, and muttered back, “I’ve got orders from D.C. to comply with Colson. My hands are tied.”
“What do you know about him anyway?” I asked.
“Not much,” Clegg answered. “He’s supposed to be smart, ruthless, and the ultimate political insider. But rest assured, starting right now I’ll be digging into everything District Attorney Sebastian Colson has ever done, or even thought about doing.”
“And, in the meantime, I’m doing a TV show.”
Clegg took off his sunglasses and looked over at me. “Yes, you are. Sorry about that. But you still work for me, Lieutenant. That means I want to know everything you learn before Colson ever gets wind of it. Am I clear?”
“No problem,” I said, starting down the steps to the street, “The less I have to talk to that guy the better.”
Clegg grabbed my arm. “Trip, I’m not running this op. This is Colson’s show entirely. That means I’m not in control of the cast of players. Hell, I don’t even know who the cast of players are. Watch yourself, you understand?”
I nodded, “Unfortunately, I do.”
Chapter 3
I was not what one would describe as an avid viewer of television, evidenced by the fact I didn’t even own one of the contraptions. I worked nights, snoozed most of the day, so I never saw the point. I did have a boob tube once when I first moved to Vegas, but that was only because the roach trap I rented after I got to town came with one. I might have turned it on once to see if it worked. As I recall, it didn’t. But that was okay because I figured if anything important happened in the world, I’d hear about it soon enough, or read about it the next day in the newspaper. In my experience, few things in life required instant notification. As far as its entertainment value was concerned, put me down in the column of the unimpressed. Cagney up on the silver screen, or better yet Ella live at the Flamingo? Now, that’s entertainment.
Perhaps that was the reason why I wasn’t the least bit nervous when I arrived the next day at the studio complex in Burbank. The only thing that had me off kilter was my ridiculous call time, ten in the morning. What kind of proper gig requires any respectable musician to arrive at ten in the morning? Even the scoring sessions I did at Galaxy Studios didn’t start until after three. This blatant disregard for well-established professional norms told me everything I needed to know about the third-rate Philistines I was about to be working with.
I gave my name to Burt, the old security man at the studio’s main gate, and after some thoughtful consideration on his part, was directed to where I should park. I found this amusing, for even though the parking lot was large, there weren’t many cars parked in it. Nevertheless, I respected old Burt’s position, heeded his instructions, and nested my bird forthwith. With horn case in hand, I alit from my Falcon and entered the nondescript white building on a quest to find a man named Larry Levine, a.k.a. the chump Colson coerced into booking me on the wretched job.
If the outside of the building was nondescript, the inside was utterly monotonous. An endless maze of wide corridors interrupted by the occasional pair of double barn doors I could only presume were portals onto soundstages—empty soundstages I reasoned, given that all the doors were closed, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. It was eerie, if I’m honest. Had I not known better, I would have sworn the entire facility was abandoned.
After more than a few frustrating minutes of ambling around and going nowhere, I finally saw a young man jogging toward me with a headset wrapped around his neck. The closer he got, I realized he was, in fact, a she in dungarees and a flannel shirt. Regardless, she looked like she belonged and could direct me to where I needed to go.
I told the young lady my name and occupation, and asked where I might find the Gabriella show, and more specifically, Mr. Levine. Without saying anything, she motioned with her finger for me to follow her. She led me around several darkened corners, and down a much narrower hallway until we arrived at another pair of double barn doors. These doors were open, and a festive, rainbow-colored sign hung above the entrance. It read: The Gabriella Music and Comedy Hour.
“He’s in there somewhere,” she said, pointing inside.
I thanked her, but she was off before the words were out of my mouth.
I had spent two weeks on the set of the Galaxy Studios’ picture, so I wasn’t a newbie to life on a soundstage. However, as I would soon come to learn, life on a soundstage for a film, and life on a soundstage for a television show, were two completely different show business animals.
Get yourself an airplane hangar, throw in some lights, cameras, and a bevy of over-caffeinated humans, and then stir—vigorously. Where the Galaxy soundstage was quiet, relaxed, and methodical, bordering on the scientific, The Gabriella Music and Comedy Hour soundstage resembled a three-ring circus, minus the rings. People were running in all directions and shouting at the top of their lungs. Furthermore, some of the language being offered up was, to say the least, a bit on the salty side. And that’s coming from someone who’d been working in Vegas for the last four and a half years.
Beyond the cameras—I counted four of them—there were dozens of stagehands bouncing around doing stagehand things, constructing set pieces, dragging cables of every size, shape, and color north, south, east, and west, and situating tiers of portable seats, which I presumed were for a live audience, into the center of all the madness. At one point, I narrowly missed being run over by a massive rack of costumes being pushed across the floor by a woman of some age. A young man was running behind her with a script in his hand, shouting something I couldn’t make out. I was reasonably certain the woman wasn’t paying any attention to him, but then again, how could she? The cacophony was beyond distracting…it was almost painful. I couldn’t see how anyone was supposed to do his or her job amidst such chaos. And on top of everything else, it was so cold inside the studio, a polar bear would’ve asked for a scarf and mittens. I’d been on some insane gigs before, but until then it had only been a quaint expression. At that moment, I felt like I had truly entered an asylum. How I longed for the sanity of the Vegas Strip. Now there’s a sentence that’s never been uttered before.
After a few well-deserved whines of “why me?” I concluded if I never got started, it was never going to end, so I blew some hot air into my hands, turned up the collar of my blazer, and proceeded to weave my way through the loony bin. I had no idea what Levine looked like, but I knew his type. Las Vegas didn’t typically use the services of music contractors. Club owners and conductors preferred to book their own talent. But it did have more than its share of agents, managers, and other guys who claimed to be working on behalf of the musician. They seldom did. Point is, all these folks had a look about them. That’s why it didn’t take long before my eyes focused on a pudgy, middle-aged man sitting on a wooden stool next to a piano. He had a clipboard in one hand, and a lit cigarette in the other. He had well-lubricated
dark hair, bifocals perched on the end of a stubby nose, and a coal black Van Dyke beard. I’m not sure what impressed me more, his precisely etched beard or, despite the artic climate, the short-sleeved white shirt he was bravely sporting.
“Mr. Levine?” I said, forcing a smile.
“Yeah?” the man replied, not looking up.
“Trip Callaway.” I offered my hand, but none was offered back.
He glanced up over his specs, placed his cig between his lips, removed a pen from his shirt pocket, and then made a mark on his clipboard. “I hope you can play,” he mumbled through a puff of smoke.
“I assure you I am quite capable,” I responded, determined to melt his icy demeanor with typical Callaway warmth.
“What do you know about tango music?” he asked.
I shrugged. “It’s in four…or sometimes two, I suppose.”
“Uh-huh,” he replied. “So not much, then. Figures.”
“Is there more I should know?”
Levine shook his head as if he were disgusted by the whole affair. “A traditional tango band consists of a piano, bass, a couple of violins, and two bandoneons. You do know what a bandoneon is, don’t you?”
“It’s sort of like an accordion, isn’t it? But with buttons, not keys?”
“At least you’re not a complete moron,” he mumbled.
“Thank you,” I replied, without a trace of sarcasm.
“What tango groups don’t have are trumpets. But the powers that be wanted to Anglo-up Gabriella’s sound for an American TV audience, so that’s why you’re here. I’ve also put in a bone, a utility wind player, and a drummer.”