Solo Hand

by Bill Moody

  Head back, eyes slightly closed, an expression of subdued intensity on his face, the pianist, inspired by his rhythm mates, glided through a set that included some medium-tempo standards and a couple of rarely performed ballads and ended with a blues line played at such a perfect groove tempo that it swung effortlessly by itself.

  The pianist’s solo hand runs literally flew off the keyboard, flowing through the chord changes as if he’d written all the songs himself.

  I’d sat hypnotized, sipping my drink, only vaguely aware of Cindy beside me until they’d played the final chord. At the end of the set, her only gesture was to place her hand on mine and smile reassuringly.

  In spite of myself, I was letting more doubt creep into my mind, wondering if I’d ever again play like that pianist. I recalled similar experiences of my own. A bassist anticipating my every move over the keyboard, providing just the right note. The drummer’s cymbal, sizzling in my ear, pushing me forward, the three of us exchanging smiling glances when we all know we’ve made the same musical decision simultaneously.

  I remember a writer describing Bud Powell’s last days after he’d left 52nd Street and fled to Paris. “His head was bent over near the keyboard as if he were trying to recall how he used to play.” I had tried to keep it down, keep that memory locked away, but it was there, fresh and clear and vivid. Even Cindy’s invitational look when we got home had failed to dispel the vision.

  I’d fallen into my own bed, mentally replaying every tune I’d heard that night, thinking about the voicings, the shadings, the tempos, the pulse, what I would have done with my right hand.

  Now, just after three, the demons are once more upon me. I get up, walk out to the kitchen, and stand looking out toward the beach. I find my rubber ball carelessly discarded on a chair and sit in the darkness smoking, squeezing the ball until the familiar pain comes over me in waves. I let go finally and fall back against the chair. I will beat this, I promise myself. I have to.

  The next morning, groggy and restless, I’m on the phone to UCLA, trying to track down Emerson Barnes’s nephew. I have an excuse for the call all prepared, but I never get to use it. After being switched around several times from the registrar’s office to student housing and a couple of fraternity houses, I finally get a kid with a high-pitched voice.

  “Alpha Phi House,” he says.

  “Is there a Damon Barnes there, please?”

  He yells something to someone walking by, but I can’t make it out. In a minute he’s back on the phone.

  “Damon’s out of town,” he says. “Supposed to be back tomorrow. Any message?”

  “No, I’ll call him then.” I start to explain the purpose of my call, but the kid has already hung up. I barely get the receiver down when it rings. It’s an insistent Coop.

  “We need to talk right away, sport,” he says.

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s about your boy Rick Markham. I think you were right about him.”

  “Is this good news or bad?” I ask Coop.

  “We’ll see. There’s a coffee shop on Seventh and Pico. Meet you there in twenty minutes.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Coop has a cigar and coffee, going when I slide into a booth opposite him at the Egg & I. This is a late breakfast crowd and office workers taking a midmorning break. Water and coffee arrive as soon as I sit down.

  “Would you like to see a menu?” a waitress asks. She has a pencil in her hair and carries a tray of dirty dishes. She looks like she’s been on all night.

  “No, thanks,” Coop answers for me. “We’re not going to eat.”

  “So tell me what I was right about,” I say, lighting a cigarette.

  Coop looks at me with what I can only take to be a bewildered expression, as if he’s suddenly realized there’s more to me than a piano. I regret the years we’ve let slip by between us. Except for his police work, I know only that he had a bad marriage he never talks about to anyone.

  “We ran Markham and Elvin,” Coop says, puffing on his cigar. “Markham’s clean as a whistle; Elvin had a few minor run-ins but nothing serious—speeding tickets, one assault but the charges were dropped. Some broad in Hollywood he used to live with.”

  The girl at the funeral service? Elvin didn’t seem the violent type, but you never know what people are like until you live with them awhile.

  “What else?”

  “Guess where they were born?”

  “They? Both in the same place?”

  “Fairfield, Connecticut. Different birthdates but looks like the same father, same place. They both ended up in Hollywood at Pacific Records.” Coop pauses for a moment when the waitress comes to refill our coffee. “Kind of gives you pause to reflect on the complexities of life, doesn’t it?” Coop taps ash from his cigar in the saucer next to his spoon. “Does that suggest anything to you?”

  “Yeah, it sure does,” I say sliding out of the booth. “Be right back. I have to make a call.”

  Coop nods. “Thought you might.”

  I find a pay phone near the back entrance and dial Rick Markham’s number at Pacific Records. His secretary puts me through immediately.

  “Evan, good to hear from you,” Markham says. “How’s everything going?”

  “Better than I expected,” I say. “Listen, something has come up. I need to talk to you as soon as possible.” I can hear him rustling some papers.

  “Oh.” Nothing fazes Rick Markham. “Well, I’m pretty booked today. I’ve got to drop by a recording session at two. I might have a few minutes then.”

  “That’ll do. Where is it?”

  “The Tape Factory. Do you know where it is?”

  “Yeah, see you there.” I hang up and walk back to our booth. Coop is up and already at the cashier’s paying the check.

  “Your coffee is on the city,” Coop says.

  “You’re a real prince, Coop.”

  “That I am.”

  Thanks to an accident on Lincoln Boulevard I get to the Tape Factory a bit after two but Markham has left word for me at the front desk. A girl who looks about thirteen, in jeans and a T-shirt, directs me to Studio A.

  The musicians are already set up and running through the first chart. I don’t recognize the conductor, but I wave to a couple of the guys in the band I know. Markham is in the control booth with Eric.

  Markham glances up when I come in as if I’ve come bearing bad news. Eric is busy with the control board, setting levels for a sound check. He turns on a microphone that juts out of the board. “Can I hear the saxophones once more, please, Tom?” he says.

  The conductor turns toward Eric and waves. He holds up both hands, points at the saxes, and counts them in. Over the monitor speakers in the booth, Markham tells Eric, “Call me when you’re ready, please.” Eric nods and continues to adjust the board for sound levels during the playback.

  “Shall we go outside?” Markham says.

  We walk out in the hall around the corner. There’s a coffee and soft-drink machine against the wall. Markham deposits enough money for two Cokes and hands me one. He takes a long pull on his and then turns his attention to me. “You said something came up?”

  I’m surprised to see him at a recording session. This one must be special. Most record executives never leave their offices unless it’s for lunches or parties to launch new artists. As if reading my mind, Markham says, “I didn’t want to see you at my office. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I do now,” I say. “Tell me about Fairfield, Connecticut—your brother Elvin.”

  Markham smiles easily and leans against the drink machine. “I thought you might make that connection,” he says:

  “I wasn’t sure, but nothing else explained why Pacific Records would pay for Elvin’s funeral, or your interest in helping me.”

  Markham nods. “I only found out recently, about a year ago—after I’d fired Elvin. I didn’t know my real father.” He shrugs and continues. “I picked up bits of information over the years. I k
new my father had remarried and somewhere there was a half-brother. Elvin talked about Fairfield once, so much so that I became interested. He even mentioned a couple of familiar names. Birth records, well, you know the rest.” Markham shrugs again and takes another long drink of his Coke. “Once I found out for sure, I debated with myself as to whether I should contact Elvin. I don’t think he ever knew or had any interest.”

  “You’ll never know that now, will you?”

  “No, I won’t,” Markham says. He stares at the floor. “I threw some things Elvin’s way when I could, made sure he had money, but Elvin was a resourceful person.”

  “But why not come forward now? Jesus, you had the same father. Couldn’t you have gone to the funeral service?”

  “Not without connecting myself, Pacific Records, to someone who had stolen from the company.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Markham. You think anybody really cares now?”

  “I prefer not to take that chance.”

  I won’t get any more out of him on that score. I can see that. I’ve had a brief glimpse of another, more human side of Rick Markham, but now it’s back to corporate face-saving and image-making.

  We let several moments pass between us. “Any leads?” he asks.

  “No, nothing. Some guys jumped me on the beach last night and mentioned Elvin in the process, if you want to call that a lead. I don’t suppose you know anything about that.”

  “Of course not.” Markham looks genuinely distressed. He seems almost indignant that I could suggest such a thing. “Do you know who they were?”

  “Not a clue. They were warning me off. They were very clear about that, said Elvin was not very smart and I should be.”

  “And are you going to be?”

  “I don’t know. I won’t tell you how, but I got into one of the warehouses. The records are there, man, all of them.”

  Markham looks puzzled. “You’ve missed something,” he says. “Keep looking. Follow the returns. They’re the key to everything. Call me anytime,” he says, handing me his card. “That’s my cellular number on the back.”

  I watch him walk down the hall, back to the studio, one of the top record executives in Los Angeles. I stand there for a moment with my bad hand, a career that might be over, and jail a real possibility.

  I still wouldn’t trade places with Rick Markham.

  I grab a hamburger at a drive-thru and get home in time for a rare experience-a face-to-face meeting with my mailman. I’m seldom home when the mail comes. Even today there’s nothing vital—bills, advertising flyers, catalogs, junk mail—but he is holding a small package.

  “That for me too?” I say.

  “No, this is for Miss Fuller,” he says, winking at me. “You want to take it for her?”

  “Sure.” The label is one of those trendy mail-order clothes places, a favorite of Cindy’s.

  She’s in when I knock on her door. “Oh, you bought me a present,” she says, eyeing the package.

  “You know me better than that,” I say. “It is for you, though.”

  “Of course it is,” she says. She takes the package from me, hurriedly opens the padded envelope. She reaches in and pulls out a slim catalog and something in a cellophane bag.

  “Damn,” she says. “That’s not what I ordered.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, it was for you, see?” She holds up a shirt wrapped in cellophane. “But this is definitely not the color I ordered.” She holds it up to me and frowns. “No, this is definitely not you, Evan.”

  She’s right, it’s not a color or pattern I would choose myself, but I hold it up in front of me and smile.

  Cindy studies me for a moment. “No, definitely not.” She takes the shirt and drops it on the coffee table. “I’m sorry, Evan.”

  “Hey, don’t worry, it’s no big thing.” I give her a hug but she’s distracted.

  She sighs dramatically. “I know, it’s just that when you open a package you expect to find what you thought was going to be there.” She’s on the way to the kitchen when she stops and turns around. “That doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “Thanks for the thought, Cindy. Don’t worry, you can send it back.”

  She goes into the kitchen. I start looking through my mail, but my eyes keep going to the padded envelope. I hear the blender go on as I stare at the envelope and the shirt for a minute. And suddenly, I know what Markham meant, what I missed at the warehouse. I’d had the answer right in my hands and didn’t know it.

  All that time I’d spent in the warehouse, I hadn’t opened a single one of those record cartons.

  Since I already know the layout of the Inglewood location, I figure I might as well go back there. If I am right this time, the same will be true at the others anyway. Over dinner and margaritas at a Mexican restaurant in the Marina, I have to beg, plead, and promise Cindy all kinds of things to get her to go with me this time.

  She ignores me at first, but I get through to her in the end. I promise myself and Cindy that I’ll come through with most of it.

  The flat tire trick won’t work again, but I want Cindy in the car waiting for me in case I have to make a fast exit.

  It’s dark by the time I park at the far side of the parking lot surrounding the warehouse. Traffic is light and there are no trucks unloading tonight, which may be just as well. “You stay here,” I tell Cindy. “Lock the doors, but be ready to go when you see me come out.”

  “Evan.” She’s tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.

  “I know, you don’t like this. Don’t worry, it won’t take long.”

  I make my way across the lot and around the corner of the building to the loading dock. No sign of Al this time, but there are lights on inside. I try the door. Locked.

  There’s a doorbell button I didn’t notice the other night; I presume it’s for deliveries. I move away from the door, trying to decide what to do next. I could try to bluff my way in at the front, but I’d need some props for that—fake ID, clipboard, disguise—and unlike Rockford, I don’t have anything like that in the trunk of my car.

  I walk around to the back of the building, looking for another way in. There are several windows, but they’re secured with wire mesh, designed to keep people like me out. I circle the entire building and I’m nearly back to the front entrance when I think about the delivery button again. Passing the front entrance, I glance inside quickly. No one about, and it too is locked. There’s also a doorbell here. Only one thing left to try.

  I go back around to the loading dock and press the buzzer, jump off the dock, sprint back to the front entrance, and ring that bell as well. I race back to the loading dock, crouch down out of sight below the dock, and wait for an answer.

  It’s Al who comes out. He stands on the dock just above me, looking around. “Fucking kids,” he says, then goes back inside; as I had hoped, he’s more concerned about the front bell. With a hiss of air, the pneumatic door swings shut slowly. I catch it just in time and wait.

  I give Al a minute to walk back to the front with my fingers in the door. No footsteps, no sounds. I pull it open and, still crouched low, I’m inside.

  Ducking behind some skids, I wait a couple of minutes to see if Al comes back. Another minute and I head back to the cartons with the Angeles Records label, congratulating myself on my resourcefulness, and begin the search for Lonnie’s returns. My hands are shaking as I pull one of the cartons off the skid onto the floor. I press my knee on the top of the carton and pull open one of the flaps as quietly as possible.

  Yes! I feel like shouting. I don’t need a flashlight to see that these are not Lonnie Cole’s records. No promo labels on any of them. There must be a hundred copies in a carton. The name on the album cover means nothing to me—Rusty Riddle’s Greatest Hits, an album that would most likely be found in the bins of discount stores for $3.99, or show up on late-night television with an 800 number and an announcer saying, “Operators are standing by. Have your credit cards ready.”


  A quick glance at the number of skids tells me I’ll probably find thousands more of the same if I check, but I never get a chance. The next thing I know, Al is back shining a flashlight in my face with one hand and pointing a gun at me with the other.

  “Can I help you?” he says.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “You must be the asshole ringing the doorbells, right? Now, nice and easy,” Al says, “we’re going to go back up to the office. You’re going to sit down and I’m going to call the police.” The gun wavers slightly in Al’s hand. He’s alone, nervous, and obviously not quite sure how to handle this.

  “Look,” I say, “this can all be explained. Call the Santa Monica Police, ask for Lieutenant Cooper or Sergeant Dixon.”

  “You bet your ass I will,” Al says. He marches me back up front and has me sit down in a chair before a desk cluttered with shipping invoices and file folders. He keeps the gun pointed at me while he dials the police, identifies himself, and gives them the location. With my coaxing, he asks for Coop. He mumbles into the phone, so I can’t tell if he gets him.

  His eyes still on me, he nods a couple of times, then hangs up the phone. “Your buddy is coming,” Al says. “What were you doing back there, anyway?”

  “It’s a long story,” is all I can come up with.

  Coop and Dixon both arrive twenty minutes later, during which time I try to explain to Al what I’m doing in his warehouse at this time of night. He naturally thinks I’m crazy. He relaxes somewhat when he sees I’m not going to try to jump him, but keeps the gun on me the entire time.

  He’s very relieved when Coop and Dixon ring the doorbell.

  “Caught him red-handed,” AI says, “breakin’ into boxes.”

  “Okay,” Dixon says, “we’ll take it from here. You can put that away.” He points at the gun Al’s holding. Reluctantly, Al holsters it.