by Bill Moody
“Oh, I’m sure. Just have to tie up some loose ends and let him know where we stand.”
There’s some silence on both ends as we think about it. I take a deep breath then.
“Coop, you have a number for Andie?”
He laughs. “I knew you were going to call one of them. Just didn’t know which one. My money was on Natalie. Frankly, I’m surprised.”
“Yeah, well, so am I.”
“Hang on a minute.” While he’s away, I tell myself this may be a dumb thing to do, but that’s never stopped me before, and it’s something else I have to do. When Coop comes back, he says, “Okay. Got a pager number, that’s all.”
Yes, I think, maybe she’ll be too busy to answer. But I write it down in my book. “Thanks, Coop. On the way back maybe I’ll stop through L.A.”
“I doubt it. Hey, don’t be too hard on Ace.”
“Bye, Coop.”
I hang up the phone and walk outside for another cigarette, watching cars and buses pulling up, dropping off, picking up, people waiting impatiently for rides, remembering when Andie and I arrived here, what now seems like ages ago. The FBI car and agents waiting for us, Andie driving us into San Francisco, the Travelodge, the unlocked door.
Then I go back in and dial Andie’s pager, punch in the numbers of the pay phone, and wait. I decide to give it fifteen minutes, but it takes only five for the phone to ring. I let it go. Two, three rings, then pick it up.
“Lawrence.” Strong, businesslike voice, probably annoyed at interrupting whatever she’s doing, wondering what somebody wants on a Monday afternoon.
“I thought all you agents were special?”
“Oh, my God—Evan?”
“Yes, how are you?”
“Where are you?”
“SFO. Just flew in from Amsterdam. I’ve got some business here, and—”
“Are you free? Can I see you? Oh, my God.”
“Well, sure, I guess that’s why I’m calling.”
“I live fairly close to the airport. I’ll pick you up. What airline?”
I tell her, and she says she can be there in thirty minutes. “Evan, I’m so glad you called. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
“So am I,” I say, but she’s already gone.
While I’m waiting for Andie, I arrange for a rental car, to be picked up tomorrow morning. I take a map they give me and go outside, find a seat on one of the concrete benches, and study my route to Margo Highland’s home in Monte Rio, north of San Francisco. Maybe a two-hour drive, it looks like. I just hope Ace is not gone already.
In a little less than thirty minutes, Andie’s car skids to a stop. She jumps out, waves off one of the security guards, and ignores the “This is a loading zone only” announcement over the PA system.
“I can’t believe it,” she says, running over as I stand up. She gives me a big hug, and we both look at each other. She’s in jeans, sweatshirt, and tennis shoes. Her hair is a bit longer than I remember, and she looks great. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” She takes hold of my arm and walks me to her car. I throw my bag in the back as the parking security guy comes over to lecture Andie for leaving her car unattended. She digs in her purse and flashes him her FBI badge. “Back off.”
He stops in his tracks, glances at me, and puts his hands up. “Hey, no problem,” he says, and backs up several steps.
Andie looks at me and smiles. “Hey, it comes in handy sometimes.”
We get in the car, and Andie roars off.
***
On the drive from the airport, Andie keeps stealing glances at me, making small talk but avoiding any serious questions, as if she isn’t sure where to begin. I don’t either, and for a minute, I wonder if this isn’t a mistake. We try to overcome the awkwardness, but it’s going to take a while. I briefly go over the past few months and try to get her talking.
“So how long have you been in San Francisco?”
“Since right after L.A.,” Andie says. “I wanted a transfer and to get away from profiling for a while after…So this came up, and I jumped at it.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Bank robbery detail.”
At a stoplight, her elbow on the door, she rests her head on her hand and looks at me. “So how are you, really?”
“I’m okay. I talked to a shrink in New York, one of your people. She was good, talked me through a lot of things.”
Andie is nodding, still looking at me, when the light changes. The car behind us honks. She glares into the rearview mirror and stomps the accelerator.
“Andie, I haven’t called or talked to Natalie since I left.”
I watch her face relax. “I didn’t want to ask,” she says. “I was afraid to.”
“I know.”
She makes a sharp right up a steep incline, pulls into the driveway of a small apartment complex, and parks. “Are you hungry?”
“As long as it’s not on an airline tray. What I really want is a hot shower.”
“Okay. I’ll run out and get a few things and throw something together here. You can shower and take a nap.”
“I’m not going to argue with that.”
We go inside, and she shows me around. I recognize some of the things from her L.A. apartment—the books, prints, and the ever-present laptop on her desk. “Not much of an improvement, huh?” she says.
“I imagine you don’t spend much time here anyway.”
“More than you think. Well, towels are in the bathroom, then take your pick, bed or couch. I’ll be back soon. Make yourself at home.”
The minute she’s out the door, I strip off my clothes and stand under the hot water for ten minutes, feeling it wash the jet lag away, marveling at the varieties of shampoo Andie has. I get into some jeans and a T-shirt and stretch out on the couch. I don’t hear her come back, nor any of the noises she’s making in the kitchen, until I open my eyes. She comes over and sits on the arm of the couch, watching TV with the sound down.
I watch her for a few minutes, glad now that I called. “Hey, how long have I been out?”
She turns and smiles. “About an hour. Feel better?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I swing my legs off the couch and sit up, trying to get reoriented. “Now I’m hungry.”
She stands up and goes to the kitchen. “About five minutes,” she says.
I go in the bathroom, run cold water on my face, and start to feel human again. Andie is setting the table when I come out. “How about a beer?”
“Sure.” I watch her bustle around the kitchen and bring the food to the table.
“Nothing special,” she says. “Just some pasta and a salad.”
“Sounds good.” I sit down and take a long pull on the beer. Andie joins me, and we clink bottles.
“I can’t believe you’re sitting here,” she says.
“Neither can I. My mind is still in Amsterdam.”
“So are you going to tell me what this is all about?” She fixes me a healthy plate of pasta and points to a couple of bottles of salad dressing. She eats and listens; I eat and talk, telling her about Ace, the gig, and Chet Baker.
She dabs at her lips with a napkin and shakes her head. “You and dead jazz musicians. Just can’t resist, huh?”
“I’m beginning to wonder. I would never have gotten into this if it weren’t for Ace disappearing.”
“It’s going to be hard. You’re old friends.”
“Yes, I know.”
“So, how long are you staying?” Her eyes meet mine.
“Long enough to have things out with Ace. I’ve got a job to go back to in Amsterdam. Then I don’t know.”
She doesn’t comment on that, just nods and asks if I want coffee.
“Sure, and someplace to smoke.”
“Right out there, although I’m tempted to let you smoke anywhere you want.”
I go out on the small patio. There’s a table and chairs. She brings coffe
e out, and we sit down.
She shifts in her chair, stands up, walks to the railing, then turns around. “I can’t stand this, Evan. I want to tell you so much. If I had known where you were, I would have called, even come over there if I thought we had half a chance. I grilled Cooper, but he either didn’t know or wouldn’t say.”
“Well, don’t be too hard on him. He gave me your number.”
“Yes,” she says. “And you did call me.” The same look is there that I remember the day we sat in a car staking out Gillian’s brother, the day we talked about timing.
“It’s much better now,” I say.
“What?”
“The timing.”
“Is it? God, I want to believe that.”
“Just let it happen, Andie. Just let it happen.”
Later, I look over at Andie asleep, her hair tousled on the pillow. I get up, slip on my jeans, and go out on the patio to smoke. I hear the door slide open behind me and Andie’s voice.
“This isn’t where you slip away, is it, leave me a note or something?”
I turn and look at her and smile. She has her robe wrapped around her. “No, wasn’t planning on it.”
“No regrets?”
“None.”
She shivers and pulls the robe tighter. “God, you smokers will endure anything. Hurry up and finish.”
“What’s the rush?”
“We need to work on that timing some more.”
Chapter Sixteen
Andie won’t hear of me renting a car. “Take mine,” she says. “I’ve got some time off coming and I don’t need it. And besides,” she says, “this way I’ll get to see you again for sure.”
I don’t protest too much, probably for the same reason. I cancel the rental car and promise to call Andie. By late afternoon, I’m ready to go. Andie stands in the driveway waving as I pull away.
From her place, I get back on 280, heading for the city, and remember how to exit on Nineteenth Avenue, then follow the signs for the Golden Gate Bridge. I’ve missed most of the rush-hour traffic, but the jet lag is getting to me as I cross the bridge and continue north on 101. I see the first sign for Santa Rosa. Nearly fifty miles, and according to the map on the seat beside me, a few miles beyond that to the River Road exit.
I punch up the radio and get a San Francisco talk show for a while—anything to make the miles go faster. Then, closer to Santa Rosa, something called KJAZ, but it’s all smooth—Kenny G and clones. I turn the radio off and think about what I’m going to say to Ace. As Andie said, we’ve been friends a long time. How do you confront a friend when you know he’s lied but want to believe him?
For one brief moment, I almost hope he’s already gone, but even if he were, I know my next trip would be to Las Vegas. This can only be done in person. Plus, I want to talk to Margo as well and close the book on Chet Baker, at least for me. Something else I have to do.
There’s some slowing in Santa Rosa, but finally I break free of the jam, take the River Road exit, and head west for Guerneville and the Russian River resorts. The road winds through open country, vineyards, farms, redwood groves, and past the Korbel winery as I get closer to the Russian River. The sun in my eyes fades quickly, and finally the lights of Guerneville come into view. Monte Rio is four miles farther.
I crawl through Guerneville in the slow traffic. Everything seems to be on three blocks. When I stop at a crosswalk, I look to my right, and my eye catches a “LIVE JAZZ” sign in the window of a pizza place called Main Street Station. Through the glass I can see musicians on a small stage and a singer in front of them. I think I recognize her.
I circle the block, find a parking place, and walk back. There’s only a few people inside. I don’t recognize any of the musicians. I go in and stand by the door, listening for a minute. Margo Highland, backed by bass, drums, and guitar, is finding her way through “Body and Soul.” Fletcher was right. She does sound like a little girl who once saw something or experienced something she shouldn’t have, and she does it all without a microphone. I notice then there’s no bass amp, and the guitarist is playing a classical instrument. They take their acoustic music seriously at Main Street Station.
Margo finishes to light applause. The tall, white-haired drummer stands up and says, “Margo Highland, a beautiful girl for many years. She’ll be back again, so I hope you stay around.” He sits back down, and the trio launches into “The Peacocks.” I watch Margo walk to the back and take a seat at the bar.
I follow and sit down next to her. She turns and gives me a friendly smile. I remember the pictures at her place in Amsterdam. It’s easy to see she was once a model and quite beautiful. It’s still there. “Margo?”
“Yes, do I know you?” Her voice is light and there’s a slight accent or drawl. She leans away slightly and looks at me.
“No, but Fletcher Paige in Amsterdam told me to look you up.” Her smile gets bigger.
“No way. You know Fletcher?” She stares at me for a moment. “Oh, my God, you’re Evan.”
“Yes, and I’ve been sleeping in your bed. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Well, sure. Glass of red,” she says to the bartender when he comes over. “Hell, I haven’t had anyone as young as you in my bed in a long time, even if I wasn’t there.” She laughs. “Hey, don’t mind me, I’m just a crazy old Texas gal.”
“I’ll have a draft beer.” I turn to Margo. “I’m looking for a friend of mine.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize that may not be for long. “Fletch asked you about him in the e-mail. I guess he’s already been here and talked with you, about Chet.”
Her smile fades, and she looks around at the band. “He’s a friend of yours, you say?”
“Yes, I’ve been trying to track him down. Is he still here?”
We both turn at a loud crash of cymbals. The drummer stands up and addresses the audience again. “Steve Weber on bass, Randy Vincent on guitar, and yours truly, Benny Barth. I hope we’ve enjoyed playing for you as much as you’ve enjoyed listening to us.” Nobody really gets it, but he continues. “We’re going to recharge our batteries and come back for another set.”
“Benny is insane,” Margo says, laughing. Then she turns back to me. “Been here? Your friend has been driving me insane, asking me about Chet. He didn’t mention you much, though. Hell, I might have talked to him more then.”
“No, I’m not surprised,” I say.
“You want me to call him?” Margo says “I’ve got his number. I know he’d want to come down. He’s just up in Monte Rio.”
“No, I want to surprise him,” I say quickly. I don’t know if Margo really buys it, but she gives me directions to Ace’s hotel.
“Just turn left by the movie theater, over the bridge, and left again at the first street. It’s about halfway down on the river side.”
“Thanks,” I say, and start to go. “Hey, you sing good.”
Margo smiles and nods. “Thank you, that’s sweet. Come back and sit in. That old piano has a few tunes left in it.”
“Thanks, I just might do that.”
***
I pass the Northwood golf course and start looking for the bridge turnoff. The road winds along the river for another mile or so; then I see the lights of Monte Rio. There’s not much to it—a nursery, a hardware store, an old church, and a convenience store that used to sell gas. The pumps are still there but obviously inoperative.
At the stop sign, I see the movie theater on my left. It’s an old Quonset hut of corrugated metal with a mural painted on the side. I cross over 116 and turn left over the bridge, crossing the Russian River for the third time. After the bridge, I make another left and find the hotel at the bottom of a slight grade, redwoods towering around it. I park opposite the hotel, turn off the engine, sit quietly for a moment, and light a cigarette.
Now that I’m here, my anger at Ace rekindled, I also dread this meeting. In the back of my mind is the faint hope that he’ll have
some logical explanation, something I can rationalize and forgive. But I know in reality that’s not going to happen. Ace lied, sent me chasing around Amsterdam, and delivered me to a drug dealer to get himself out of trouble. Survivor instincts? Fear? Yes, but it could have all been avoided.
I finish my cigarette, get out of the car, and walk across the street. It’s dark now, and the redwoods loom high, black silhouettes in the star-filled night sky, the almost full moon peeking through. There’s nobody at the front desk, but there is a small sign next to a bell: Ring for Service. I do and hear footsteps almost immediately.
“Yes, can I help you?” The clerk is late twenties, short hair, and an earring in his left ear. “I’m afraid we’re full up.”
“Oh, no, I don’t want a room. Friend of mine is here, I think. Just want to surprise him. Charles Buffington.”
He opens a small ledger and runs his finger down a list. “Yes, he’s in number five.” He points to the river side. “Just out that door and along the walkway.”
“Thanks, I’ll find it.”
The walkway connects the two buildings and takes me along the side of the inn. I can see the lights of the bridge I just crossed up ahead. I don’t have to go much farther. Outside what must be number five, I see Ace, his back to me, sitting in a deck chair, his feet propped up on the railing. He doesn’t hear me or is lost in thought. When I get a little closer, I stop, look at him for a moment, then toss the portfolio. It lands with a loud smack on the wooden deck right behind his chair.
Ace jumps up as if he’s been jerked by a wire.
“Hello, Ace.”
He falls back in the chair, grabs the arms, then struggles to his feet again. “Evan? How did…what are you doing here?” He doesn’t even look like the Ace I’ve known for years. There’s an outside light, and in the shadows that play across his face, I see panic, shock, even fear.
“Surprised you, huh? I guess you thought I was still in Amsterdam. Too bad we never connected, but then you left kind of suddenly, didn’t you?”
“Evan, I didn’t know you’d come here, I…I don’t know what to say. How did you know I was here?”
“Margo Highland told me. I just saw her.”