by Phil Swann
“Tell me about Las Vegas,” she said.
“What do you want to know?”
“What’s it like to live there? What’s it like to work there? What are the casinos like? Is it really Sin City? Tell me everything.”
I laughed. “That could take some time.”
And then, from out of nowhere, she shot me the most devilish grin and said, “I’ve got all night. How about you?”
I’m not certain, but I might have gulped.
Once I remembered how to breathe again, I returned her grin, adding a little spice of my own, and then with classic Callaway storytelling flare began to regale her with fantastical tales of my adopted home.
I told her about the famous hotels and casinos, the people, the musicians, even about my friends Luther and Betsy Beaurepaire at The Jam Jar. But I didn’t stop there. I told her about Indiana, Pop, how I was kicked out of Indiana University my senior year, and about my passion for old cars, old songs, and old movies. I told her how I came to Hollywood because I wanted to work on a film and a TV show, but intended to return to Vegas as soon as the Gabriella gig was over, which was all true. In fact, I was unusually truthful about everything I told her. My only lie was a lie of omission insomuch as I said nothing about Agent Clegg and my work for the U.S. government. The weird part was that even as it was happening, I was keenly aware it wasn’t standard Trip Callaway operational procedure. I lie. A lot. Especially to women. And doubly especially on the first date. But there was something about Miriam. She was just so darned easy to talk to. So much so that I might have gotten carried away because I talked nonstop through dinner and into the gelato. But what was amazing—truly amazing—was that she didn’t mind. She seemed genuinely interested in what I was saying and enjoyed hearing me say it. In other words, she was perfect.
After the cappuccino, I rested my arms on the table and leaned forward. I looked in her eyes and smiled. After a moment of saying nothing at all, I finally asked, “So, you want to go see who’s playing at Shelly’s Mann-Hole?”
She returned my gaze and put her hand on top of mine. “Sure. Or, we could just go back to my place and put on some music.”
The look in her eye left no question as to her meaning.
“Yeah, that’ll work too,” I replied.
She smiled and nodded. “I’ll just visit the powder room first. Excuse me.”
As I watched her get up and walk away, I came to the uncomfortable realization no free man ever wants to come to. I was pathetically, inexcusably, head over hooves, one hundred percent smitten.
Chapter 6
The following morning I rushed back to my apartment, changed clothes, wolfed down a bagel and cream cheese, but still made it to the television studio with time to spare. It was the day the guest stars were coming in for rehearsal, so I was expecting everyone to be even more on edge than they were the day before. I, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more relaxed. Wonder why.
I wasn’t concerned about the guest stars because I’d worked with Vic Damone before, and was in the orchestra at the Sands when Frank invited Jack Benny up to the stage from the audience, so I knew what to expect from both of them. And though I’d never worked with Berle, I had no reason to believe he’d be anything other than professional and was looking forward to seeing ol’ Uncle Miltie in person. I was also looking forward to seeing Miriam again, even if it had only been a few hours since I left her house. Decorum forbids me from elaborating on the rest of our evening together—a gentleman doesn’t talk about such things—so I’ll just say this: it was memorable.
The overall atmosphere on the set was pretty much the same as it was the day before, except it wasn’t as glacial, which meant the sweater I had worn under my sport jacket was for naught. I ascended the platform and took my chair next to Daniel, who greeted me with a pleasant good morning. I returned the salutation and then looked around the bandstand. Ira was working on his kit, and Miriam was in her chair tuning her clarinet. She glanced over at me and gave me the smile I had been longing for. I smiled back and got on with attending to my own business.
As usual, Chuckles, aka Maestro Goetz, and the tango band all came in together five minutes late. Once they had taken their seats, I noticed that one chair remained empty. Interestingly, it belonged to the bandoneon twin who I suspected had been intoxicated the day before.
“It appears we’re a man down,” I whispered to Daniel.
He glanced over at the empty chair. “Wonder what that’s about?”
I looked over at Miriam to get her reaction, but she didn’t look back.
Moments later, Gabriella made her grand entrance. She was in another outrageously revealing outfit, this time choosing yellow as the primary color, and was even more animated than the day before. Again, Anthony Cabaneri was at her side looking like he’d just finished eighteen holes at Pebble Beach, right down to the most ungodly pair of blue and green checked pants I’d ever laid my eyes on. I wondered if Gabriella had been made aware of the missing player, but that question was answered when I saw Goetz jump up from the piano and intercept her and Cabaneri before they got beyond the cameras. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I did hear—check that, everybody heard—Gabriella’s reaction.
“Well, where is he?” she yelled.
Before Chuckles could answer, the director walked onto the set and announced that Mr. Berle was arriving. The stage cleared, and Goetz hurried back to the piano, leaving Gabriella to let out a huff. Cabaneri patted her hand and then departed to parts unknown with the director.
Given Gabriella’s volatile personality, I was sure we were heading for a show biz disaster of epic proportions. But when Berle walked through the barn doors, I witnessed a metamorphosis right out of a science fiction movie. Gabriella plastered a smile as big as Buenos Aires across her painted face and became as sweet as Doris Day dipped in a bucket of honey.
“Señor Berle,” she cooed, her voice going up two octaves and her demeanor transforming into someone who was downright coquettish. “Such an honor. Thank you for agreeing to appear on my silly little show.”
Had her transformation not been so amazing to witness, it might have been stomach-churning. But to her credit, it worked because it was obvious the old funnyman’s pants were completely charmed off.
I’d heard countless horror stories about the show business legend, persnickety, impatient, and prone to foul moods, so I was curious to see how Berle would react to someone as green as Gabriella. Turned out, he couldn’t have been nicer. He joked around with her, the crew, as well as with all of us in the band, and offered up more than a few honest to goodness, double-over, one-liners. When he and Gabriella finally got down to business, he was, as I suspected he would be, the consummate pro. They went through a humorous rendition of “Anything You Can Do,” with Berle at his comedic best. He made one or two suggestions on their choreography but was fine with everything else. It went so seamlessly, in fact, that they were done in just over an hour.
Jack Benny came in next, and though not as gregarious as Berle, was just as pleasant. So too was Gabriella. They flew through a funny version of “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime.” He asked about which side of Gabriella he should stand on and if he was singing the correct lyric, but other than that, nothing else. In under an hour, he was good to go too.
When it came to Damone, the only true singer of the lot, he was literally in and out in minutes. He ran through his hit “You’re Breaking My Heart,” and after the director addressed some camera blocking that would happen during the part of the show where he and Gabriella would chat, Vic was released.
With all the guest stars’ rehearsals complete, Gabriella decided she wanted to run through her remaining solo songs again. I was sure this was when the wheels were going to come off the wagon, and Gabriella would return to her usual fire-breathing self, but no. She made a few corrections to the tempos, but other than that was satisfied with everything else.
After she left the set, the director came in and remi
nded the band that the next day was prerecord day at a recording studio in Hollywood. He then thanked us for a good rehearsal, and just like that, my day was done. I was beginning to see the appeal of television gigs, especially for a musician. I’d worked more grueling bar mitzvahs.
I was packing up my horn when I looked up and saw Miriam rushing out the door. I was bothered for a moment, but then reckoned she had another gig to get to. Since being in L.A., I’d learned that many musicians, especially those in demand, would often go from one gig to another in a single day. I suspected Miriam fell into that category and had booked a last-minute recording session or something. But she could have said goodbye, I thought.
Daniel and Ira had scurried off too, so it was just me, the tango boys, and Chuckles left on the bandstand. A perfect time, I reasoned, for me to get to know the mysterious Maestro Goetz a little better.
“She did great,” I said, walking up to Goetz, who was still sitting behind the piano. “You must be proud of her.”
He looked up and gave me a terse nod.
“Yes sir, a real professional,” I added. “I was most impressed.”
This time he didn’t reply at all, not even a nod. I would not be dissuaded. “The arrangements seemed to work too. Didn’t you think so?”
“They’ll do,” he answered. At least, I think that’s what he said. It just as easily could have been a belch.
“Thanks,” I replied. “I couldn’t help but notice we were missing a player today. I hope he’s okay.”
Without warning, the man came to his feet, raised his abnormally hairy eyebrows, and in a voice laced with a fair amount of gravel, yelled, “Why wouldn’t he be?”
I jerked backward by reflex. “I just meant…you know, if he’s sick…or something…I hope he’s feeling better.”
Goetz’s eyes were the coldest pair of peepers I’d ever looked into. They were narrow, unblinking, and completely without color; not blue, not green, not anything. Just dark, soulless voids floating inside two immense sockets.
After staring me down for what seemed like an eternity, Goetz shoved the music off the piano and into his black briefcase. He pushed past me and stomped out of the studio, with the rest of the old men in the tango band marching out behind him like obedient ants following their queen, or in this case, their king.
“Don’t mind him, Mr. Callaway,” Anthony Cabaneri said, materializing behind me out of thin air. “He’s just a little stressed out.”
The second I heard my own name come directly out of Cabaneri’s actual mouth, my stomach did about ten loopity-loops, but on the outside I stayed as cool as Miles.
“No offense taken,” I said, adding a nonchalant shrug. “I suppose if my daughter was debuting a new TV show, I’d be stressed out, too.”
“Anthony Cabaneri,” he said, extending his hand, with a warm smile.
“Trip Callaway,” I replied, shaking it
“You did stellar work on those arrangements, Mr. Callaway. I know Gabriella appreciates it. You’ll, of course, be compensated for your work.”
“Thank you, but it was nothing, really.”
“No, it was something, and I have a feeling you know that. You handled it, and her, quite well. Not an easy task. I was impressed.”
I didn’t respond.
He continued, “So, how are you enjoying your time in Hollywood? I’m sure it’s not as exciting as Las Vegas.”
“No, but it’s—” I stopped. “Sir, how do you know I’m from Las Vegas?”
Cabaneri flashed another toothy smile. “I try to make it a habit of knowing everything about the people who work for me, Mr. Callaway.”
It was, I suspected, an intentionally unnerving comment, and it took more than a little intestinal fortitude for me not to toss a goodly portion of my breakfast bagel all over the piano. After all, this was the thug who had had three people killed within the past week—and those were just the ones I knew about, but I kept my head.
“Completely understandable,” I responded.
Cabaneri came around me and leaned against the piano. “You know, Trip—I hope it’s okay I call you Trip?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Thank you. As luck would have it, Trip, I have several business associates in Las Vegas.”
“Really? Well…that’s nice.”
“Yes, it is. And you should know that many of those associates speak favorably of you.”
“I’m pleased to hear that.” I paused, and then added, “And the ones who don’t?”
“Oh, they don’t know who you are.”
I was trying to decide which business associates he might be referring to when the next thing he said nearly caused my legs to go out from under me.
“So, I understand you worked on that musical picture at Galaxy Studios. It’s unbelievable what happened over there, isn’t it?”
“And what was that?” I responded, summoning up the most clueless expression my little face could muster.
“Didn’t you hear? The head of the studio was killed. Murdered, by none other than his business partner.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, my voice going up a perfect fifth. “I think I did read something about that in the papers. You’re right, that is unbelievable. I mean, I didn’t know the man personally, but…yeah, that was something.”
“Something, indeed,” Cabaneri echoed. “Honestly, murdered by your own business partner, can you imagine?”
“No, I can’t. That’s…something.”
Cabaneri stared at me for what seemed like a fortnight and said nothing. Finally, he let out a sigh, and then smiled, “Well, guess we never know, do we?”
“Never know what, sir?”
“Who we’re in business with.”
I tried to be casual. “Well, that’s probably true for some people, sir. But certainly not you. Like you said, you like to know who’s working for you.”
Cabaneri looked at me with a narrow squint—or perhaps that was just how he looked at people—but either way, he gave me another properly long stare. “Well, I just wanted to say hello and thank you for the fine work on those arrangements. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Trip.”
“Likewise, Mr. Cabaneri,” I replied.
As soon as Cabaneri walked away, the debate inside my head commenced. There was a part of me that was sure the jig was up. The mobster knew who I was and why I was in the orchestra for his girlfriend’s television show. How he’d found out, I didn’t have a clue. Maybe he’d spotted me following him and Goetz, or maybe he’d seen me at the docks, or maybe I wasn’t as hidden up in the rafters of that warehouse as I thought I had been. Or maybe he’d found out some other way I hadn’t even considered, but however he did it, he knew, I was certain of it.
Then again, there was the other part of me that wasn’t so sure. After all, if he was on to me, why not just show me the door? It was well within his power to do so. Finding another trumpet player would have been as simple as ringing up Levine and asking for one. So, maybe he didn’t know. Maybe making people feel uncomfortable was just Cabaneri’s dark magic. That was more than possible too.
In truth, I could have stood there for the rest of the day going back and forth on the two possibilities, but in the end, I concluded there was no way for me to know for sure, and therefore, in my naturally optimistic Trip kind of way, chose to believe that my cover was still intact and that Cabaneri didn’t have a clue about anything. The ability to do that was my dark magic.
Despite this bold, and rather sanguine, declaration, I did walk a little faster than normal out to the parking lot. Perhaps I hadn’t totally bought into my story because even though I saw nary a soul around me, I had the weird sensation I was being followed. Or maybe I was just sensing the cloaked presence of Square Head and Tonto again. Or maybe Cabaneri, being the careful criminal he was, had put a tail on me.
Once I reached my car, however, my paranoia completely vanished, as did all thoughts of Square Head, Tonto, and even Cabaneri. The slip of paper had been
placed under the windshield wiper. I pulled it out and read it. It simply said: Sorry I had to rush off. Nightcap tonight at my place. Ten o’clock. M.
Once again, all was butterflies and rainbows in Trip’s world.
I could’ve driven straight to the Roosevelt and checked in with Clegg—actually, I should’ve driven straight to the Roosevelt and checked in with Clegg, but in all candor I was tuckered out. I hadn’t gotten an abundance of sleep the night before, and given Miriam’s lovely invitation, it looked as if I wasn’t going to be getting any on this night, either, or at least I hoped I wouldn’t. That being the case, I saw no reason why I shouldn’t go back to my apartment and grab some zees before the festivities with Miriam commenced later that evening. Besides, I reasoned, I didn’t have any new, earth-shattering news for the G-man. And what I did have, like that I’d talked to Cabaneri, de hombre a hombre, and that my music conductor was named Ricardo Goetz and was Gabriella’s el papa, could just as easily and efficiently be delivered via Ma Bell.
When I opened the door to my apartment, nothing seemed out of sorts. It wasn’t until I set down my horn and moved to the bedroom that I started noticing little things here and there out of place. I’m not a fastidious person by nature, but I do like my stuff to be just so-so. I think it was the dresser drawer being left partially opened that caused me to realize something definitely wasn’t right. Unfortunately, that realization came too late.
My memory of what happened next remains fuzzy. Like trying to recall a dream you’re still feeling the effects from well after you have woken up, but strangely can’t recall what the dream was about. What I do remember is hearing something crash to the ground and thinking that someone was in the room with me. Then my head rattled, my knees turned to rubber, and the room started to spin. After that, only darkness.
Chapter 7
When I was fourteen, I was on the high school football team. At five feet five and a hundred and twenty pounds wet, I had no business being anywhere near a football field. But this was a small farming town in southern Indiana, and back then that’s what fourteen-year-old boys did, if they wanted to have any kind of social life, that is. I remember one Friday night we were playing a high school from Bloomington. I don’t recall if we were winning or losing, but I suspect losing badly given that in the fourth quarter the coach put me in the game.