Solo Hand

by Bill Moody

  “The Cayman Islands,” Coop says. “The Switzerland of the Caribbean. Barnes told us that much, so when this is all over, Crisp will get his money back and probably offer you a great deal of thanks.”

  I haven’t talked to Carlton. He must be stunned by all this. “What about the photos, the video of Lonnie and Crisp?” I explain to Coop how the photos were taken.

  Coop smiles. “Interesting. Barnes says he burned them.”

  Barnes had confessed he’d faked the returns and substituted the Rusty Riddle records for Lonnie’s. They’d planned to sell those off eventually when things calmed down and use Lonnie’s as promos or ship them to distributors for sale abroad. Barnes, it seems, had all the bases covered, and was going to cut Lonnie out at the end.

  “Well, that’s about it,” Coop says, getting to his feet. “We’ll be in touch.” For the first time he asks about my hand. “You going to be able to play again?” he asks.

  “That’s what I want to know too,” I say.

  I leave Police Headquarters after calling Carol Mann. I owe her some explanation, and it’s always good to talk to her. Having an objective listener clears your head.

  I drive up 7th Street toward San Vicente thinking about Kesha, Lonnie’s daughter—along with Grandmother Sarah, another casualty in this mess.

  Lonnie, I learned from Coop, had arranged for Sharon to take Kesha to his grandmother’s. If there’s any justice, Sarah will be awarded temporary custody, at least until Lonnie’s trial is over.

  Dr. Mann is waiting for me in her office. “Hello, Evan,” she says. “I see now why you were so short with me the other day.” Carol too has seen the news. I fill her in on as much as I can.

  “So you see, I was kind of preoccupied.’

  “I guess so. Sometime I want to hear the whole story.” Carol looks at her appointment book. “Are you going to come back to the group? I think you should,” she says.

  “I know, Carol, but first I want a straight answer.”

  “Have I ever given you anything else?”

  “No, you haven’t, and I appreciate your honesty, but I have to know.” I stretch out my hand and flex my fingers. “Is this ever going to be any good to me again?”

  With everything over now, I find myself back to the big question once more. I watch Carol carefully for some sign, some giveaway that will tell me I’m all wrong.

  “For the piano, to play like you used to? I talked to Dr. Martin this morning,” she says. “He has high hopes if you continue the therapy and work. hard. But—”

  “But what?”

  “There is a real possibility you won’t regain complete use of your hand, at least not at the level you were at before.” She leans forward. “I’m sorry. Don’t give up, Evan, keep trying. You’ve got to accept that reality and go on from there.”

  I squeeze my fingers into a fist.

  “I already have, Carol. I already have.”

  CODA

  Later that evening, in one of my rare appearances in a suit and tie, I park a couple of blocks from the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in downtown Los Angeles. The crowd of fans waving pens and pads and holding up cameras that line the streets in front is larger than usual, with Lonnie and Charlie Crisp on every TV news show in L.A.

  I watch the parade of country music stars get out of limos, wave, smile for the cameras and the crowd, and make their way up the red carpeted steps into the auditorium.

  Skirting the police barriers, I walk around the corner just in time to see Lonnie’s Rolls, SOUL I, arrive with T.J. behind the wheel. I walk over behind the crowd to the street side of the car just as Megan Charles steps out on the arm of Charlie Crisp. Cameras flash and he is immediately accosted by one of the TV crews set up on the steps.

  T.J. sees me and rolls down the window. We watch a blonde with stiff hair and frozen smile thrust a microphone in Crisp’s face. He leans in to hear her question and tries to get in a few words over the crowd noise.

  Crisp is all smiles in a sequined black cowboy outfit topped off with a pearl-gray hat. It’s twilight now, but he wears dark glasses. He answers the reporter’s questions briefly, while Megan looks on rather sadly. She should be wedged between Crisp and Lonnie. Maybe someday she will be. Crisp waves once again at the crowd, then takes Megan’s arm and heads for the entrance.

  “I gotta admit he’s lookin’ good for a country dude,” T.J. says. “Whatta you think he told them?”

  I’d seen the earlier newscast. The crews had staked out his hotel. Crisp had been understandably vague about everything and said he was sure there was more to the story than he knew.

  “Probably a lot more no comment,” I say. I study T.J. He still has that faraway look in his eyes from the night before. He has studiously avoided reporters.

  “I talked to Lonnie’s grandmother today,” T.J. says. “She don’t believe none of it.” He shakes his head and taps his hands on the steering wheel. “Don’t know if I do either. The man had everything. Damn!” He slams his hand on the steering wheel. “Well, how you doin’?”

  “I’m going to spend some money,” I say. I won’t get the bonus and it’ll take a while for the financial mess to be untangled. Megan is still taking a hard line on that.

  “There you go,” T.J. says, laughing. He starts the Rolls. “Well, I got to park the bitch.” I don’t know if he means the car or Megan.

  “See you inside, T.J.”

  I make my way to the entrance and suddenly I’m painfully conscious that tonight I’m not going in through the stage door, but in the main entrance with a guest pass in my pocket, courtesy of Charlie Crisp.

  The auditorium is filling up rapidly with the usual mix of celebrities, friends, family, and various hangers-on. As they take their seats, the crowd is still buzzing over the late news that Lonnie too has been charged.

  I head for the backstage area. With the way things have come out, the real stir is there. I know it’s reflex, but I feel the familiar backstage flutters. I still can’t conceal my disappointment in not playing.

  Down in the orchestra pit, I catch Buster Browne’s eye. His Fender bass slung over his shoulder, he waves, points to the music on the stand in front of him, and shrugs.

  I flash my pass to security and shoulder my way through the crowd. There are more interviews going on backstage. News crews jostle each other for access to the stars. No sign of Carlton Burroughs, but I’m not surprised. He’ll leave this to Megan, and if he watches at all it will be from in front of his television at home.

  I spot Rick Markham standing at the bar, sipping brandy. He catches my eye, comes over, puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “Well, you did it, Evan, you really did,” he says. “Evidently I owe you some thanks as well. I discovered some improprieties at Pacific.”

  I nod and wonder if that meant Charlie Crisp, remembering the photo of him and Markham. After I told Rick Markham what I’d found in the warehouse, he’d ordered a complete check of his inventory and found a lot more bogus returns, some with Pacific. Emerson Barnes must have had an awfully good contact inside.

  “Maybe I’ll go to work for Pacific Records,” I say.

  Markham thinks I’m serious. “Interesting thought,” he says. He regards me seriously for a moment, the same way he did when we first met in his office. “I don’t know, I think you might be too independent. Buy you a drink?”

  “No, thanks,” I say.

  “Well, good to see you, Evan. Stay in touch.” Well, at least he didn’t say let’s do lunch. I watch him walk away, untouched it seems by everything.

  “How ya doin’?”

  I turn around and find Charlie Crisp standing behind me, the cowboy hat tilted back on his head, a brandy in his hand. “How’s it going, Charlie?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, thanks to you everything is just fine and dandy. You’ll be hearing from my accountant soon,”

  Megan Charles and a man in shirtsleeves and tie approach us. The man is wearing a headset and carries a clipboard. “Five minutes
, Mr. Crisp.”

  “Right,” Crisp says. “How’s the sound?”

  “Good, Mr. Crisp, good. No problems.”

  “I’ll just double-check,” Megan says.

  “How’s Lonnie doing?” I ask Megan. She’s dressed in a black evening gown, shaken maybe, but still cool and efficient. Except for money, the two of us have come to a kind of truce.

  “Not well. He’s broken, Evan. I know he’d like to see you.” She hurries off to chase down the stage manager.

  Crisp watches her go. “Sharp lady,” he says. “She’s the reason Bo has been so touchy. When you saw them talking in Las Vegas it was about her joining me. I told Bo he don’t have to worry. There’d still be plenty for him to do.”

  Crisp downs his brandy. “Jail or not, your boy and I are going to have a hit. Hell, he can use the royalties for his defense. I’m betting when this is all over he’ll get off lightly.” He begins walking slowly toward the wings.

  “Is that important to you, Charlie?” I follow along.

  Crisp stops and looks at me. “Fame is a vapor,” he says. “Popularity an accident, and money takes wings. Only character survives.”

  “Where did you get that?” I ask. His outburst surprises me. I don’t know whether he means me, himself, or Lonnie.

  Crisp smiles sheepishly. “I wish it was mine. Well, part of it is. The rest is courtesy of Mark Twain. First time I heard that it brought me right up out of my chair. I never forgot it.”

  “So what now?” It gets quiet backstage as the house lights dim.

  “Me? After tonight I’m going home to Nashville and take it easy for a while, sit on my porch, sip some good bourbon, and contemplate my good fortune.” He straightens the hat on his head. “Why don’t you come down? I’ve got some more poetry I’d like you to see.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that.”

  A tympani roll silences everyone and an announcer makes the opening introductions. The music comes up and applause rolls through the auditorium as Kenny Rogers strides on stage from the opposite side. Standing in the wings, Crisp and I watch Rogers take his place at a Plexiglas podium and make his opening remarks.

  He begins with a brief aside about Lonnie’s absence that hushes the crowd. Rogers lets it take its course, then continues.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, with a selection from his newest, soon-to-be-released album, The Soul of Country, let’s welcome Nashville’s favorite son, Charlie Crisp!”

  “Come see me,” Crisp says, then he’s gone.

  There’s more applause as Crisp jogs on stage. He shakes hands with Rogers and takes the mike.

  Lonnie should be out there too, but he isn’t. T.J. doesn’t play football anymore and I don’t play piano. Sometimes things just don’t turn out the way you think they should.

  “It’s a pleasure to be here,” Crisp says. “I’m always happy to have the opportunity to introduce a new song. So is my agent, for that matter.”

  Crisp laughs along with the crowd before he continues. “I’d like to dedicate this to someone I’ve come to know pretty well this past week. I won’t mention his name. He’s kinda shy.” He glances toward the wings at me. “I don’t want to embarrass him. We call this one ‘Friends Don’t Go Away’.”

  Right on cue, the conductor raises his baton and the orchestra goes into the intro. There’s another wave of applause, then the house lights go down and Charlie Crisp is framed in a spot.

  I listen for a minute, then turn to go. I have to admit Crisp is in good voice and the arrangement is sharp. The wings are dark now, so I don’t immediately see Sharon. She’s standing in the shadows, waiting for me.

  She smiles and hands me a small gift-wrapped box.

  “Open it later,” she says.

  I start to say something but she puts her finger to her lips. I nod, walk down the steps, and leave through a side door that I know has painted on its other side, MUSICIANS’ ENTRANCE. For me, at least tonight, it’s only an exit.

  In my car, I think about Sharon for a few minutes. Cindy is waiting with a bottle of wine, a salad, and two more of her “cute” fillets for our celebration dinner. I look forward to it.

  I start the car, shove an Oscar Peterson cassette into the tape player, and open the small square box Sharon has given me.

  It’s wrapped in green foil. Inside, in colored tissue paper, I find a shiny red rubber ball.

  The card reads: “Just squeeze me. Love, Sharon.”

  Duke Ellington. I bounce the ball in my hand for a moment, listening to Oscar’s fingers fly over the key board. I take a deep breath and squeeze the ball.

  This time I hold the count to twenty-five.

  Back to TOC

  About Bill Moody

  Jazz drummer and author Bill Moody has toured and recorded with Maynard Ferguson, Jon Hendricks, and Lou Rawls. He lives in northern California where he hosts a weekly jazz radio show, and continues to perform around the Bay Area. He is the author of seven novels featuring jazz pianist-amateur sleuth Evan Horne and two spy novels. Additionally, Bill has also published a dozen short stories in various collections.

  http://www.billmoodyjazz.com/

  Back to TOC

  Also by Bill Moody

  Evan Horne Mystery Series

  Solo Hand

  The Death of a Tenor Man

  The Sound of the Trumpet

  Bird Lives!

  Looking for Chet Baker

  Shades of Blue

  Fade to Blue

  Other Works

  Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz

  The Man in Red Square

  Mood Swings (Short story collection)

  Back to TOC

  Other Titles from Down and Out Books

  See www.DownAndOutBooks.com for complete list

  By J.L. Abramo

  Catching Water in a Net

  Clutching at Straws

  Counting to Infinity

  Gravesend

  Chasing Charlie Chan

  Circling the Runway (*)

  By Trey R. Barker

  2,000 Miles to Open Road

  Road Gig: A Novella

  Exit Blood

  Death is Not Forever (*)

  By Richard Barre

  The Innocents

  Bearing Secrets

  Christmas Stories

  The Ghosts of Morning

  Blackheart Highway

  Burning Moon

  Echo Bay

  Lost

  By Rob Brunet

  Stinking Rich

  By Milton T. Burton

  Texas Noir

  By Reed Farrel Coleman

  The Brooklyn Rules

  By Tom Crowley

  Viper’s Tail

  Murder in the Slaughterhouse

  By Frank De Blase

  Pine Box for a Pin-Up

  Busted Valentines and Other Dark Delights

  The Cougar’s Kiss (*)

  By Les Edgerton

  The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping

  By A.C. Frieden

  Tranquility Denied

  The Serpent’s Game

  By Jack Getze

  Big Numbers

  Big Money

  Big Mojo (*)

  By Keith Gilman

  Bad Habits

  By Terry Holland

  An Ice Cold Paradise

  Chicago Shiver

  By Darrel James, Linda O. Johsonton & Tammy Kaehler (editors)

  Last Exit to Murder

  By David Housewright & Renée Valois

  The Devil and the Diva

  By David Housewright

  Finders Keepers

  Full House

  By Jon Jordan

  Interrogations

  By Jon & Ruth Jordan (editors)

  Murder and Mayhem in Muskego

  By Bill Moody

  Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz

  The Man in Red Square

  Solo Hand

  The Death of a Tenor Man

  The Sound of the
Trumpet

  Bird Lives!

  By Gary Phillips

  The Perpetrators

  Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes (editor)

  Treacherous: Griffters, Ruffians and Killers (*)

  By Gary Phillips, Tony Chavira, Manoel Magalhaes

  Beat L.A. (Graphic Novel)

  By Robert J. Randisi

  Upon My Soul

  Souls of the Dead (*)

  Envy the Dead (*)

  By Lono Waiwaiole

  Wiley's Lament

  Wiley's Shuffle

  Wiley's Refrain

  Dark Paradise

  By Vincent Zandri

  Moonlight Weeps

  (*) Coming soon

  Back to TOC

  Here’s a sample from Bill Moody’s Death of a Tenor Man.

  INTRO

  I’m looking at old photos, a collection of jazz history, a gift someone has given me in a well-meaning gesture, designed probably to help fill the silent hours of my recuperation. The coffee-table book is filled with black-and-white moments from an era never to be seen again. This photograph is of twin tenors, Dexter Gordon and Wardell Gray, taken at a dub in Los Angeles in the early ’50s, probably the Club Alabam or the Bird Basket. Central Avenue all the way.

  In this grainy framed moment, the photographer has caught Dexter in full flight, his huge body blocking all but the bass player’s bands, towering over the microphone and Wardell, who stands a few feet behind him. Gordon’s eyes are closed, his shoulders raised slightly, both bands gripping the born like he’s choking it, his face caught in a grimace as if the note he’s searching for won’t come out of the born.

  Behind him, ultra-cool Wardell, a baggy suit banging on his slight frame, a hat on the back of his head, looks on stoically. But when I look closer, a pencil-thin mustache is curled slightly upward as if a smile is about to begin. Was it something Dexter had just played, or is Wardell amused by Dex’s struggle to get that note out? Maybe he’s thinking about what he’s going to play. And what were they playing when this photo was taken? A blues? A standard? Maybe it was “The Chase,” their most famous collaboration, and Wardell is waiting for his turn.