by Bill Moody
“Somebody was killed over this tape.”
“So you told me.” Cal downs his drink. “Another?”
“Not for me. You go ahead.”
“I planned to.”
“Did you know Clifford Brown when he was out here?”
“No, heard him a couple of times at the Lighthouse, got the records. Phenomenal talent. Fucking car crash, and I’m sitting here still, drinking Scotch. What do you suppose God had in mind?”
“Do you know if he ever played with Duke Ellington, at the Ambassador Hotel, maybe just subbing for a few nights?”
“God, or Clifford Brown?” Cal smiles at the thought. “It’s possible. Duke would have liked Brownie. Lionel Hampton did. What a trumpet section that was. Brownie and Art Farmer sitting side by side, and a very young Quincy Jones. You think anything like Michael Jackson was on Quincy’s mind then? Jesus.”
I let Cal’s triggered memories rise to the surface of his mind. “Every radio station in America should play something of Duke’s every day,” he says. “This trumpet you have, what makes you think it’s Brownie’s?”
“His initials are engraved inside the horn.”
“Do you know for sure he had that done? That sounds kind of vain for Brownie. He wasn’t that way, despite his talent.”
“Who then?”
Cal shrugs. “Someone with the same initials.”
“Who also plays that much like Clifford Brown?”
“How much did you play like Bill Evans when you first came to me?”
“A lot, I guess, but no one would mistake me for Bill Evans.”
“Somebody who didn’t know—really know—might.” Cal leans forward, peers at me through the shadows. “You really want it to be him, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
“Do you know why?”
“I don’t know. Because I want to know I’ve found something valuable to jazz, something that people can enjoy, appreciate.” I look back at Cal. His gaze is steady.
“Listen to me,” he says. “That’s why you’re the one.”
“The one what?”
“To find the truth.” I don’t know if it’s the Scotch talking or Cal’s rambling mind. “What do the experts say about your hand?”
I tell him but leave out my fears about recovery. Cal knows about those.
“If it’s supposed to, it’ll work out. You may not play piano again the way you want to, but until you can, this is what you’re supposed to be doing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you do. You already know.” Cal’s eyes burn with passion; his voice resonates with quiet feeling. “Wardell, Brownie, they’re reaching out to you, somebody who understands them well enough, what they did, what they mean, what they represent. You have to prove that’s not Clifford Brown on that tape so the public, a record company, isn’t sold a bill of goods. But more importantly, so Clifford Brown’s memory isn’t tarnished. There’s a lesson in this for you too, if you look for it.”
“But what if it is Brownie, what if you’re wrong?”
“If you believe that, then prove that it is Brownie. Don’t give up, Evan, don’t give up.”
There are two messages on my machine. One from Natalie, telling me she’s studying for a big exam and she’ll see me tomorrow. The other is from a Roy Lewis of the Conn company in Elkhart, Indiana.
“I’m retired now, Mr. Horne, but I remember Clifford Brown’s scheduled visit very well. I was looking forward to meeting him, but as you know, he never arrived. As for the trumpets, I’m afraid I have no idea what happened to them. Please call me if you’d like to talk about this further.”
He leaves a number where I can reach him. Trumpets? More than one?
Cal is right. I already know. I know the lesson he was talking about as well.
Clifford Brown recovered from his first accident and played again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I wake up early, while the coffee is brewing, get on the phone to Roy Lewis at Conn. Hazy sunshine filters in the window, but according to a local Willard Scott clone, the weather forecast is for light rain that will get heavier in the next few days. The annual Malibu mud slides can’t be far off.
Roy Lewis is very pleasant and cooperative, doesn’t even ask why I want to know about Clifford Brown’s trumpets.
“As I said on the message I left, Mr. Brown, of course, never arrived at our factory. It was a terrible shock to learn of his death. Such a talent.”
“And you don’t know what happened to the trumpets?”
“No, I’m afraid not. That was so long ago. I assume they were put back in stock.”
“Do you happen to know if the trumpets were engraved with his initials, inside the bell of the horn?”
Lewis pauses for a moment, thinking about it. “No, I don’t remember that. Of course we could have done that if he wanted. I’m not sure if that was done here at the factory.”
I listen to Lewis, trying to remember something else I want to ask him.
“Are you still there, Mr. Horne?”
“Yes, sorry. Is it possible that someone at the company might have, how shall I phrase this, kept the horns as a souvenir?”
Now it’s Lewis’s turn to think. “Yes, I see what you mean. I suppose it’s possible, but very unlikely. They would have to be accounted for in the inventory.”
“But it is possible.” A trumpet or trumpets earmarked for a famous musician could easily get lost in the shuffle, misplaced, put away and forgotten over the years.
“Well, yes, but if you’re suggesting some impropriety on the part of myself or one of our employees, well—”
“No, no, nothing like that, it’s just that Clifford Brown was a very famous musician, and—”
“Yes, of course, I see what you mean. Well, I’m afraid there would be no way to determine that, unless of course you found one of the trumpets.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lewis. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Not at all. There is one thing you could do for me.”
“Sure.”
“If you should uncover something, discover what happened to the trumpets, I’d like to know.”
There’s no waiting at Rick Markham’s office. His secretary ushers me right in, and Markham is already on his feet, coming around his desk, his hand outstretched.
“Evan, great to see you again.” Markham is still not totally L.A. yet. His dark Brooks Brothers suits and ties haven’t been traded in for open silk shirts and gold chains. We shake hands, and he motions me toward another man seated on the small leather couch adjacent to his desk. “Evan, I want you to meet Barry Hastings. Barry heads up our reissue division, and I think you’ll find he knows his jazz.”
“How you doin’, man,” Barry says, bouncing to his feet. He’s probably mid-thirties—deep tan, long blond hair, blue eyes, white duck pants, deck shoes, and a black T-shirt. All that’s missing is his surfboard.
Hastings and I sit on opposite ends of the couch. Rick Markham moves a Grammy to one side and perches on the edge of his desk. “Now,” Markham says, “I sketched in what you told me yesterday for Barry, and he’s pretty excited.”
“If the tape’s real, this could be, like, deep,” Hastings says. He’s sizing me up, trying to figure me in with Markham. “You got a sample of the tapes, right?”
“Yeah, but as I told Rick, I’m representing someone else who asked me to see what I thought about the tapes and if possible determine their value. I just want to get an idea what something like this might be worth to a record company and how you would handle it. Then we’ll play the tape.”
“Barry?” Markham says. They’ve clearly discussed this before I arrived.
Hastings bounces up again and paces around the office. “If this is really Clifford Brown, this is, like, a major find. I don’t have to tell you the reissue game is big and good for us—no recording costs, artist fees, that kind of thing. But I need some background on how you or your client—is th
at the right word?—came into the tapes. Frankly, we’re behind some of the labels on reissue jazz series stuff. We bought some masters a few months ago and released a couple of things last year. What Mr. Markham tells me, you might have enough for a two-CD set or more. If there’s more, we hold some back for later release.”
Hastings spreads his hand in a gesture as if it’s already a done deal. Markham nods his approval and looks at me.
“Does that mean you’d be interested in buying the tapes?”
“Well, yeah, of course,” Hastings says. “Major promo, maybe even something like a tiny trumpet case to go with the set, some blurbs from Max Roach, Harold Land, Sonny Rollins, some heavy critics, that kind of thing. I’ve got a lot of ideas. This could be big, man, real big.”
I have a hard time aligning Barry Hastings with someone like Teo Macero, who produced Miles Davis. Hastings throws out the names, but his affinity for jazz is not reassuring. Maybe it’s the surfer image, the language quirks. They just don’t jell with the forced seriousness. On the other hand, he might be just what I’m looking for. I decide to really bait the hook.
“What if there was a trumpet to go with the tapes? The actual horn Clifford Brown used on gigs and recordings?”
Markham and Hastings exchange glances. “You didn’t mention that, Evan,” Markham says, “but I think it’s safe to say that would tie in with the promotion.”
Hastings stares at me. “You actually have Clifford Brown’s trumpet?” He looks around as if I’d brought it in with me and he’d missed seeing it.
“Possibly. The horn hasn’t been definitely authenticated as yet.”
There’s a hissing sound as Hastings leans back on the couch. “Wow, this is way cool.”
I look at Rick, who waves me off with his eyes. I already have reservations about anyone who refers to Clifford Brown as “way cool,” but then, this is the business side of the record industry, and I’ve never been in tune with that.
“Can you give me some idea of value here, some kind of estimate I can pass on to my client?”
Again Markham and Hastings look at each other. “Have you talked to any other label yet?” Markham asks. “Does anyone else know about these tapes?”
“No, and I think you know me well enough to know that I wouldn’t recommend the person I’m representing to try to play one against the other. He simply wants a fair price; I told him I’d prefer to go with a company I know.”
“Yes, I do know you,” Markham says. To Hastings he says, “Evan saved us considerable money a couple of years ago when he uncovered a record scam, and Charlie Crisp a good deal of embarrassment. I trust his judgment entirely.”
Markham goes behind his desk and gets into his M.B.A. mode. He consults some papers, then looks up at me. “This is all very preliminary, you understand, and totally contingent upon the tapes being genuine and warranty that they’re legal. We’re thinking in terms of fifty thousand dollars with a royalty clause, and of course a percentage to the Brown estate, assuming there are survivors. We would also be willing to add a finder’s bonus for you, which I think you will find most generous.”
This is the second fee I’ve been offered in a week, but I probably won’t collect this one either.
“Yeah,” Hastings says. “Let’s hear the tape.”
I hand it over, and we all listen for about fifteen minutes. I watch Hastings’s eyes get big, a smile spread across his face, as the sound of what I hope is Clifford Brown’s trumpet bursts from the small bookshelf speakers. Neither Markham nor Hastings has any comment on the rest of the band. Like everyone who’s listened so far, they’re overwhelmed by the trumpet, and psychologically convinced before they hear anything. Haven’t I told them this is Clifford Brown? I shut off the tape and wait for their reaction.
Hastings says, “Cool. You got to bid on this now, Mr. Markham.” He claps his hands together. “Jesus, a guy walks in off the street with undiscovered Clifford Brown. Un-fucking-believable.”
Markham is not quite so enthusiastic. “We have to have confirmation, Barry. It’s not like we’re buying bona fide masters from another label.”
“Exactly,” I say. “How would you go about authenticating the tapes?”
Hastings has his own answer. “Hey, man, trumpet is my thing. I know Miles, Art Farmer, Lee Morgan, Randy Brecker, and I know Clifford Brown.”
“How do you know Clifford Brown?” I ask Hastings. Barry just doesn’t strike me as a jazz buff.
Markham is already ahead of him. “The point is, it would be embarrassing for Pacific Records if it turned out these tapes are not genuine. We would certainly want to go ahead with this, but we need absolute confirmation.”
“But Mr. Markham, we—”
“No, Evan is right, and I trust him.” Hastings looks crestfallen, but nods in agreement. “Would you excuse us, Barry? I’d like to speak with Evan in private.”
“Sure. Later, man.” Hastings leaves, looking like he can’t wait to get to a phone.
“Where did you find him?” I ask Markham, once the door is closed.
Markham smiles. “I know what you’re thinking, but Barry knows the business, and despite his demeanor, he’s done some good projects for us.”
Markham studies me for a few moments. “Evan, what are you really up to? Why do I have the feeling that you’re holding something back?”
“Do you doubt the tape?”
“No. At least I think you believe that’s Clifford Brown, and I understand your enthusiasm. I don’t know how, with something like this, but we have to know the tapes are genuine and free of any copyright or ownership controversies.”
“I will tell you this. The tape has been tested by the FBI crime lab, and there’s no doubt it was manufactured sometime in the ’50s.”
“The FBI? How did they get involved?” When I don’t answer for a moment or two, Markham says, “They’re stolen, aren’t they?”
I get up and take the cassette out of the machine. “There’s a collector involved, and how he came into the tapes has still not been determined. You have my word they won’t be offered for sale if they’re not genuine and free of any illegality.”
“Fair enough,” Markham says. He swivels his chair toward the window, studies the smog layer of the valley for a minute, then turns back to me. “If this was a painting, a stamp, a book manuscript, authentication wouldn’t be too difficult. But music? How can we know for sure?”
“That’s the big question, but it’s something I think I can find out. I’ll pass your requirements on to my client.”
I start for the door, then turn back. “One more thing. Keep a lid on Barry, okay? We need to keep this conversation in this room. No press leaks, right?”
“Absolutely,” Markham says. “I’ll handle Barry just the way you want.”
I try several more music stores in Hollywood, but the results are all the same, including the Professional Drum Shop across from the Musicians Union. Ronnie, one of the owners, looks at the glass bottle, holds it up to the light, and frowns. His reaction is a replay of the clerk at the Santa Monica store.
“Glass. Haven’t seen anything like this for years,” he says. He thumbs at several larger plastic bottles lined up on a shelf behind him. “All the guys use that stuff now.”
“Yeah, I know. Even Wynton Marsalis.”
Ronnie gives me a look. “Where’d you get this?” He sets my bottle down on the counter and studies it.
“Just came across it, wondered when it was made.”
“Can’t even read the name. Ick Stu?”
“Any ideas?”
Ronnie shrugs. “Some of the old trumpet players might remember. Try the Union. You know Tommy James? He’s a business agent now, but he played trumpet with some of the bands.”
I walk across the street to the offices of Local 47 and wander around on the second floor. There’s no one in the office with Tommy James’s name on it. I stick my head into the one next door.
“You seen Tommy James?”
A husky man with dark hair and black-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose looks up from a magazine. “Yeah, he was around. Think he went for a sandwich. Anything I can help you with?”
“No, thanks. I’ll just wait, if it’s all right.”
“Help yourself.”
I take a seat in James’s office, thumb through some old copies of Downbeat, and wonder if it’s okay to smoke. I decide to try, and take out my cigarettes when a voice behind me says, “Don’t even think about lighting that.”
I stop, cigarette in one hand, lighter in the other. “Tommy James?”
“That’s me.” He’s a thin, wiry man with a thick brush mustache and a bad hairpiece. He walks around me and sits down behind his desk. He glances at my cigarette. “What I meant was, don’t think about lighting that unless you’re going to offer me one too.” He smiles and pulls an ashtray out of his desk drawer. “Shut the door. We’re not supposed to smoke in the building.” He reaches behind him and opens a window. Cool air drifts in the office and collides with the central heating.
James takes a long drag on the cigarette I light for him. “Man, it’s still good, but what the hell are these?” He frowns and looks at the cigarette. “Diamond Plus Menthol?”
“I’m trying to quit.”
James smiles. “I know that scene. I been trying for years, but somebody is always coming by my office offering me one. These things are worse than drugs.” He takes another drag but doesn’t put it out. “So how can I help you? You got troubles on your gig? What do you play?”
“Piano, but it’s not about that.” Theoretically, the Musicians Union business agents are supposed to oversee contracts with nightclubs and restaurants, but if a club owner wants to go nonunion, pay under scale, there’s very little they can do except put him on the unfair list and publish his name in the Union newspaper. Nobody reads that. Most of the reps are like James, former full-time musicians.