by Bill Moody
“Probably not, but I can tell you this. I have Trask’s blessing and I guess the reluctant blessing of the Las Vegas Police.”
“What do you mean?”
“Trask agreed to have the remaining tape analyzed, and he’s making a cassette copy for me.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“There’s a couple of people I want to listen to it.”
I cross Las Vegas Boulevard at Sahara, giving the Strip lights one quick glance. The Sahara is remodeling, and to my left, Bob Stupak’s Stratosphere Tower looks like it’s nearly finished. I continue on to Eastern Avenue. The Hobnob is gone, given up entirely now to heavy metal, so Pappy Dean tells me, but Melrose, another of those out-of-the-way, unlikely places for jazz, has emerged as the new hangout. It’s tucked away in a corner of a small shopping center next to a 7-Eleven. Parking is no problem—the lot is only about half full—but I’m early. It’s only eight-thirty. The sign in the window reads Mary Koral’s All-Stars.
Inside, the musicians are setting up under a bank of TVs that are the real attraction of Melrose, all tuned to different sports programs—two hockey games, an ESPN studio show, and the Lakers game from L.A. On Wednesday nights and Sunday afternoons, the TV sound is off and Melrose is transformed into a jazz club.
The bandstand is a small dance floor immediately in front of the TVs. There are dark green leatherette booths, and several tables jammed together are occupied by some early arrivals, who pay no attention to the soundless televisions.
In the corner, to the left of the TVs a saxophone player licks his reed, puts it in his horn, and blows a few tentative notes into a tenor. He smiles, says something to a short, dark-haired man rolling a set of vibes into place. The vibraphonist strikes one of the metal keys and leans in closer to listen, cocks his head as if he can’t believe what he just heard. He tries again, seems satisfied, then does a series of fast runs that make the mallets only a blur in his hands. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.
I take a stool at the bar, which takes up one entire wall, and order a draft beer from one of the lady bartenders. They’re all dressed in black pants and white golf shirts. The other end of the bar opens into a separate dining area with a dozen or so tables and booths. At the bar small groups of people are talking, laughing, telling stories, glancing around the room to see who’s there, who’s not.
By nine the pianist is adjusting the controls on his electric piano and the drummer—clearly the oldest member, with thinning gray hair and thick glasses—is seated behind his drums, craning his neck at one of the TVs. A sign hangs around his neck that says Out of Order.
Pacing around his instrument, the vibes player finally turns to the rhythm section and counts off a tempo. There’s one false start as the bass player’s amp acts up, but he quickly finds the problem, and they’re off on a fast minor blues called “No Room for Squares.”
The vibes player has the first solo. His hands flying effortlessly over the keyboard, he half sings, half hums—loud enough for me or anyone at the bar to hear—his lines, leaning in, now rocking back, then returning to the keys as if he’s forgotten something. He brushes over the chord changes like a runner circling the bases after hitting a triple, carefully touching each base but veering outside the base path.
The rest of the band is tuned in to his route. They like what he’s saying and rise to the occasion, even though this is the first tune of the night. He ends his solo with a flourish, backs away from the vibes, then suddenly leans in again for an afterthought, strikes one last key with the handle end of the mallet, and smiles and nods, acknowledging the smattering of applause. Taking two steps back, he holds the mallets on his shoulder like a soldier with a rifle, released from the present-arms command.
“Dude can play, huh, piano man?”
I turn at the voice of Elgin “Pappy” Dean at my shoulder. He smiles broadly at me, tilts the Panama hat back on his head. “How you doin’, man?” His huge arms envelop me in a bear hug.
“Hey, Pappy. Great to see you, and you are, as usual, lookin’ good.” With the hat goes the tan suit, white shirt, and Miles Davis tie. Pappy stands back and holds out his hands to his sides. “Don’t I always?”
I signal the bartender for another beer and a drink for Pappy as the tenor player shuffles up to the microphone to offer his story, the rhythm section cooking behind him.
“Who’s the vibes player?”
Pappy gives the band a quick glance. “Dave Pike. Don’t nobody grunt and groan and play vibes like that, ’cept Dave.”
Dave Pike. Now I remember. Many years with Herbie Mann, lost for as long in Europe with the other jazz exiles—Chet Baker, Dexter Gordon. “What’s he doing here? I thought he lived in L.A. now.”
“Did,” Pappy says, “thought he’d play some jazz in Las Vegas. He won’t stay. Ain’t nothin’ here for a bebop vibes player like Dave Pike. He better go back to Europe. That’s the only place they give a shit about jazz.”
Pappy is right, and Las Vegas isn’t New York or L.A. “So, how’s Louise? Ace tells me you two are seeing each other.”
Just the name brings a smile to Pappy’s face. “She’s fine, just fine, and we’re gettin’ along real good, real good. She can cook, too.” Pappy shakes his head. “Not like my last old lady. She couldn’t cook potatoes.” Pappy laughs again loudly.
He sips his cognac, sets the glass down, and glances again at the band. “Now I know you didn’t call me to ask about Louise, but I don’t know if I want to know why you called.”
“Don’t worry, Pappy, nothing dangerous.” I doubt if Pappy can help at all, but it’s a place to start. “You know any trumpet players who sound like Clifford Brown?”
“Clifford Brown? Here comes that shit from the past again. I know lots of trumpet players who want to sound like Clifford, especially this young dude, Wynton Marsalis. Then there’s Freddie Hubbard, who took his from Lee Morgan.”
“No, I mean somebody else, somebody not famous maybe, somebody who could play so much like Clifford Brown you couldn’t tell the difference.”
We both look toward the bandstand. The piano player—dark complexion, graying curly hair—is hunched over the electric keyboard slicing off jagged lines from the blues before he hands things over to the bassist.
Pappy shakes his head and looks at me. “What are you into now, Mr. piano man detective? Your hand okay now?”
“It was, but I overdid it,” I say, holding it out in front of me, flexing my fingers. I’d already decided to tell Pappy as little as possible, and nothing about the trumpet, at least for now. “Some guy thinks he’s found some recordings of Clifford Brown that nobody knew about.”
“You heard the tape?”
“Yeah, couple of times. Sounds like Brownie to me.”
“But you think the dude might be puffin’ your coattails?”
“Exactly, but I want to be sure.”
“You got the tape?”
“I’m getting a copy from the police.”
“The police?” Pappy sets his glass down, gets off the stool. “Bye.”
“Wait a minute, it’s nothing like that.” I grab his arm. “The tapes were stolen. The police are just trying to find the owner.” Pappy stares at me, holds my gaze for a moment, knows there’s more. “Oh, hell, Pappy, the owner was killed, okay? They have no leads, and when I told them there was a possibility the tapes were phony, they agreed to let me look into it.”
Pappy says, “Like I said, bye.” He gets up again.
“Look, just hear me out. My part has nothing to do with the murder. I just want to know if the tapes are genuine.”
“What you talkin’ ’bout, murder? Damn, Clifford Brown, tapes, murder. Why you always into this heavy shit?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
It takes a few more cognacs and some heavy persuasion, but Pappy finally agrees to help, or at least listen to the tape. He sighs, runs a hand over his face.
“Okay, I owe you, man. Let me think a
bout this. You goin’ back a long ways again. I’ll call you. You stayin’ with the prof?”
“Yeah, same number.”
Pappy sets his glass down. “Later, but one thing,” he says as he walks away. “There was only one Clifford Brown.” He walks off muttering to himself. “Wardell Gray, Clifford Brown, shit.”
I stay for the rest of the set, listening to Dave Pike humming, moaning, groaning, literally talking to his instrument as if convincing it to do things it can’t. He gives a clinic in bebop vibes. The drummer, apparently moved by his performance, periodically unleashes an almost inhuman moan of his own at the end of several tunes.
I massage my right hand with my left. When trombonist Carl Fontana ambles to the bandstand, the urge to join in is overwhelming.
Back at the house, Ace has already gone to bed. I let myself in and make a cursory check of the doors and windows. No more break-ins, and the record collection is back in order. I feel for Ace, who has lost some of his most precious recordings.
He’s left me a note to call Natalie. I pour myself a drink and dial her number. This time I’m successful.
“How’s Miss F. Lee Bailey?” I say when she answers. Her voice sounds sleepy, but then she’s instantly awake and alert.
“Evan? What’s going on up there? Ace told me what happened, and there was a story in the paper today about a murder of a record collector. Please tell me you’re not involved.”
“Afraid I can’t do that.”
There’s a pause before she continues. “Oh, Evan, how? What happened?”
I give her the capsule version, and she listens without interrupting. Just one of the things I like about Natalie.
When I finish she says, “How deep are you going to get into this? You’re not a witness, so I don’t see how you can be much help to the police.”
“I can help them with this tape, maybe determine if it’s really Clifford Brown or not, maybe track down the musicians who made it if it’s not Brown.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“We have our ways.”
“Evan, stop joking around. This is a murder you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, know a good lawyer?” She doesn’t laugh. “Okay, I’m just going to poke around a little. The police have no leads, so the music is the only connection to the whole thing. That and these crazy record collectors.”
“And you’re just compelled to follow it through.”
Now it’s my turn to pause. It’s suddenly become very important to me. I want to know if that’s Clifford Brown on those tapes. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“When do you think you’ll be back?”
“I don’t know. Couple of days, maybe. I’m going to Ken Perkins’s funeral, see who turns up there. Maybe I can connect with some of these collectors. Ace knows a lot of them.”
“Call me as soon as you get back?”
“Promise. Get some sleep, counselor.”
“It would be a lot easier if you were here.”
“For me too.”
Neither of us says good-bye, we just hang up.
I have one more drink and make a list of things I have to do. One is to call the Conn instrument company and find out what I can about Clifford Brown’s trumpet, which is safely at the Silver State Pawn Shop. The second is to get some more information on Clifford Brown. Tim Shaw, who I wrote a couple of things for at Blue Note magazine, seems the most likely source.
The last thing I do is call the police and give them the license number of what might be Cross’s car. I report it as abandoned at McCarran Airport by the rental company.
When I finally go to bed it’s with thoughts of Clifford Brown, wondering what he would have thought if he’d known his name would come up in a murder investigation nearly forty years after his death. One thing I’m sure of:
Clifford Brown’s music, that’s the key to the whole thing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ace is in a coat and tie when I wander over to the house. He doesn’t look either happy or rested. “Another meeting with Ken’s lawyer and his sister this morning,” he says.
“How’s she taking it?”
“Very well, but she told me they hadn’t had much contact over the last few years. Seems like she just wants to get it over with and go back home.” Ace sighs and shakes his head. “I just can’t believe he named me in his will. You know what he did? He left me records, my choice, any ten records from his collection.”
“He must have had a reason. From what you tell me, most of these collectors aren’t the most ethical types. He must have trusted you.”
“Well, you’re right about that, but I hardly knew him. Taking records from his collection just doesn’t seem right. I know more than I wanted to about Ken, and I’m not the only one named in his will.”
“What do you mean?” I pour myself some coffee and try one of the cinnamon rolls Ace has brought out.
“Ken owed money to several collectors—there’s a list. In lieu of payment, they get to pick out records too. I don’t know, it’s like looting someone’s home after a tornado. It just isn’t right.”
“Well, if that’s what he wanted.”
“I know, I just hate to deal with these guys. Wait’ll you see them. They’ll be turning up here for the funeral, circling like buzzards.”
“What about the rest of his things, the house?”
“Left it all to his sister. She’s turning over the house to a realtor. She wants to sell his collection as well, and she wants me to run the sale.”
I don’t envy Ace his task, but I’m interested to see who turns up for the funeral, and I’m sure the police will be too.
“Well, I better get going,” Ace says. “Talk to you later.”
“Can I use your fax number?”
“Sure. The machine is in the office.”
I spend the morning making phone calls. Tim Shaw at Blue Note promises to fax me some articles on Clifford Brown. “You working on something?” Shaw asks. I’d written for Tim over the past few years—reviews, insights on playing jazz piano, and a few profiles. “Clifford Brown is old news.”
“Maybe. It’s only Clifford Brown related. I just need some background material.” I can tell from his voice that Tim thinks there’s more to it than simple research.
“Okay, I’ll send you what I’ve got in my files,” he says, “but if there’s a story, I want it first.”
“You got it.”
I also put in a call to the Conn instrument factory in Elkhart, Indiana. If I remember right, Brownie was supposed to get a new horn before his next gig with Max and the band in Chicago. What I want to know is whether it was before or after the automobile accident.
I get transferred around to several people, but nobody at Conn seems to know anything. Most, it seems, don’t even know who Clifford Brown is.
“That was what, forty years ago?” one guy in marketing says. “Nobody here was even working then.”
“Any other ideas? It’s important.”
“Well, one of the designers—he’s retired now, of course—I think still lives in the area. Saw him at a company picnic last summer. He’d be the one to talk to.”
“How do I get a hold of him?”
“Let me check the personnel records, see if we have a current address. If we do, I’ll have him call you.”
“Thanks, you’ve been a big help.” I leave him Ace’s number and my own in Venice. When I get off the phone, the fax machine starts spewing out articles from Tim Shaw. I take the curling paper outside on the patio with another cup of coffee. The articles make for some very interesting reading.
There’s a moving tribute from Quincy Jones, who worked with Brownie in Lionel Hampton’s band, an interview with Max Roach, and some other short news items from various music magazines, most written within a year or two of Brown’s death. Tim also included the liner notes from an album called The Beginning and the End, which I have as a CD reissue. Three of the tracks were supposedly made the night before
Brown died; the notes claim that he was scheduled to pick up the new trumpet from Conn on the way to Chicago. Before the accident.
But an interview in another magazine with Billy Root, a saxophonist on that gig, contradicts the whole story. Root says that date was made months before the car crash. Tim has scribbled a note in the margin telling me Root lives in Las Vegas, so I can check that out myself. Thank you, Tim.
If Brown never made it to Elkhart, then what happened to the trumpet? If he did, was the trumpet picked up by someone at the scene of the crash, lost, misplaced, or perhaps never found until now? Another quote from Max Roach says a lot of companies gave the trumpeter horns. The articles raise more questions than answers. How many horns were there? In any case, I still don’t know if the one at Silver State Pawn is Brownie’s or not.
Around noon I call Metro; I ask for Trask but get Dave Ochoa instead. “There’s supposed to be a cassette tape for me. You know anything about it?”
“Yeah, it’s here, but you’ll have to sign for it.” Ochoa sounds bored and annoyed at talking to me.
“Fine, I’ll be down within the hour.”
“Eager, aren’t we?”
I do my best to ignore Ochoa’s sarcasm. “Has the reel-to-reel tape been sent off for analysis?”
“Yeah, Trask said to tell you it went out yesterday, to the FBI lab in Salt Lake City. Waste of time, I think.”
“Why’s that?”
“Nothing on it but music. What’s that going to tell us?”
“Maybe nothing, maybe a lot.” I hang up before Ochoa can say any more, glad I won’t have to deal with him. My last call of the morning is to Pappy Dean.
“Damn,” Pappy says, turning his head toward the speaker. “You tellin’ me that’s not Brownie?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He listens a couple of minutes, glances at me, and says, “Can we hear all of it?” He leans back against the seat and smiles as I head west on Charleston. “Got you a nice ride,” he says, running his huge hands over the Camaro’s seats. “This detective business must pay good.” He winks and smiles at me.