The Sound of the Trumpet

by Bill Moody

  “Ronnie over at the drum shop said you played trumpet and that you might help me.” I take out the bottle of valve oil and set it on James’s desk. “Would you know what brand this is?”

  James leans forward, puts his cigarette in the ashtray, picks up the bottle, and examines it. He looks at the label, and a smile begins to form. He unscrews the cap and sniffs. The smile becomes a grin. “Damn! Slick Stuff in the old glass bottle. I got one of these at home somewhere.”

  “Slick Stuff?”

  “Yeah, that’s the name. See here.” He runs his finger across the label. “This is Slick Stuff, no doubt.” He sniffs again, then puts the top back on and sets the bottle down. “No mistaking that kerosene smell. Leaks out of the bottle, the valves, oil gets in your case, on your clothes. You can always tell a trumpet player by the smell of his tie. Where’d you get this, anyway? It’s all plastic these days.”

  “It was in the case for a trumpet I bought at a garage sale. I was just curious how old it was. You’ve used this?”

  “Hell yes, every trumpet player did. Let me see.” James takes a final drag on his cigarette and mashes it out. “I was on the road with bands in the late ’40s, early ’50s. We all used it then. Wasn’t nothing else.”

  I pick up the bottle and look at the label. Slick Stuff. ’50s tape, ’50s valve oil, and a postcard written by Duke Ellington.

  “Well, thanks for your time.” We both stand up, and James reaches across his desk to shake hands.

  “Anytime. Hey, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Evan Horne.”

  “Well, Evan Horne, if that bottle was in the trumpet case, you got yourself a real old horn. Might be valuable. Bring it by sometime, and I’ll look at it.”

  “I just might do that.”

  “Thanks for the smoke.”

  “Thank you. You just saved me a call to Vanua White.”

  Three messages on my machine at home. Natalie wants to have dinner, John Trask wants me to check in, and Ace sounds exhausted. I try Ace first, but get his machine.

  There’s a few bars of Louis Armstrong doing “Basin Street Blues,” then Ace’s voice. “This is Charles Buffington. I can’t come to the phone now, but if you leave a number and a short message, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  There’s a few more bars of Louie, then the beep. “Ace, it’s Evan, I’m just returning your call, and—”

  “I’m here,” Ace says, picking up the phone. “I’m screening my calls. I’m so sick of talking to collectors about Ken’s records.”

  “Bad, huh?”

  “Unbelievable. I just got rid of the last of them. Ken had over seventeen thousand records in his collection. They would have cleaned him out if I hadn’t been there to watch over them. There have been bids on the entire collection, so I’ve advised his sister to wait it out and go with the highest offer.”

  “Seventeen thousand? How did you find the right records?”

  “Oh, Ken kept very careful records, and they were all organized. Most of the big collectors do. One guy has a climate-controlled room in his house just for records. The whole collection was insured, of course, but money couldn’t replace some of the records Ken had.”

  “How’s Felicia?” I still have a vision of Ken Perkins’s sister walking into Bally’s, head down, her request still ringing in my mind.

  “She’s okay. Put the house on the market with a realtor, so at least I don’t have to be involved with that. How are you doing?”

  I fill Ace in on my news about the tape analysis, the valve oil, and my meeting with Rick Markham. It all adds up. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think the trumpet might be for real, Ace.”

  “Sounds like the tapes might be too. How else could they have been done? Listen, there’s another guy you should talk to. He was a collector, but he’s kind of a dealer now. He was here for the funeral, offered to help with the record auction. Seemed pretty straight. He goes by the name Blackbyrd; at least, that’s what it says on his card. Let me give you the number.”

  I copy it down. “Thanks, Ace. I also had a message from Lieutenant Trask. You know what he wants?”

  “Yeah, he called here, just kind of sniffing around, asking questions, said he’d be calling you, but I don’t think they have any leads on Cross. That’s how it sounded to me, like he was hoping you’d turn up something. I just don’t understand how someone can disappear like that.”

  “Well, I’m trying. I’ll stay in touch.”

  “Do that,” Ace says. “And watch yourself.”

  I get Natalie’s machine as well but tell her to come over, offering her dinner if she gets the message in time. Trask has already gone home, Dave Ochoa too, but I leave my number.

  I get restless sitting around, looking at the packing I still have to do, but I’m not in the mood to work on that. I decide to go for a walk on the boardwalk. Who knows when I’ll get another chance? I bundle up in a sweater and jacket and walk halfway to Santa Monica Pier, thinking about what I know and don’t know, while the other more hearty folks walk or bike or glide by on skates despite the mist like rain.

  Maybe I have it all wrong. The tape is ’50s, and so is the Slick Stuff valve oil, so maybe it follows that the trumpet is genuine as well. But Roy Lewis’s call from Conn bothers me. He seemed unaware of any engraving of Brownie’s initials on the horn or horns. Wouldn’t he know, if he was one of the designers? On the other hand, some executive could have done it after the fact, kept the horn as something to show off to friends, embellish the story.

  There’s still the music. Is it possible I’m just dealing with a simple theft of genuine, original master tapes of Clifford Brown, truly recorded sometime before 1956? Pappy Dean seemed convinced; Jack Montrose said it was entirely possible that it was Brownie but admitted someone just might be able to imitate him convincingly enough. Cal’s opinion carries a lot of weight with me, and he didn’t think so, but maybe for once he’s wrong.

  If it wasn’t Brownie, then how and when did this tape get made, and where did the trumpet, the valve oil, come from? And the postcard? I have no doubt it’s from Duke Ellington, and it’s addressed to someone with the initials C.B., but could it be faked as well? Was there someplace you could buy old postcards?

  I turn back toward my apartment, dodging some joggers and a couple of bicyclists. The ocean and the sky are contrasting shades of gray. As darkness settles over the beach, I walk a little faster, then stop and sit on one of the benches spaced along the walk, facing the beach.

  Meanwhile somebody named Cross, who committed a murder, is roaming around free and probably looking for the trumpet and me, unless he thinks he’s really gotten away with it. And why shouldn’t he? Ken Perkins is buried, and the police have no leads.

  Maybe Cross will get complacent, let his guard down, go back to whatever it is he does for a living. I can’t believe he’ll give up the idea of the tapes, any more than I will. He’s got one, and he probably assumes I have the trumpet, and maybe that’s enough to bring him out.

  I’m not sure Barry Hastings took my bait, but it shouldn’t take long to find out. If that worked, I’ll know very soon.

  I feel two arms come around my shoulders, warm breath on the back of my neck. “Got it all figured out, Mr. Piano Man?”

  I turn to look at Natalie. She’s wearing a short skirt, sweater, makeup, earrings, and a light raincoat—the best-dressed woman on the beach. “You need to change. You’re taking me to dinner. Exams are over!”

  “How’d you do?”

  “I don’t even want to think about it.”

  We walked back to the apartment, arms around each other’s waist. After much friendly haggling and indecision—Natalie wants Italian, I want a steak—we finally settle on a Mexican restaurant we both like in Santa Monica. The margaritas and food are good, the conversation better, and the promise of the rest of the evening better yet. We hardly talked about Clifford Brown, trumpets, tapes, or valve oil.

  Everything i
s fine until I get my car from valet parking. As I pull out of the driveway, a white sedan parked across the street makes a U-turn and follows us down Wilshire. The driver stays a couple of cars back, but he’s with us all the way to Ocean Avenue. I lose sight of him after that, and I wonder if I’m imagining things again.

  Hello, Mr. Cross?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Coop calls in the morning, just after eight. Before I tell him about the white car and that it’s possibly Cross keeping tabs on me, Coop’s already on to something new.

  “How’d you like to go to court this morning, strictly as an observer?”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “All will become clear,” Coop says. “An arraignment you might find interesting.” I imagine him smiling to himself, knowing I’ll be confused and puzzled. Is it Cross, some other lead?

  I sigh into the phone. “I know you’re not going to tell me why, so I won’t ask. What time?”

  “Nine. I know that’s early for you, but I think you’ll find it interesting.”

  Coop is standing outside Santa Monica Municipal Court, smoking one of his skinny cigars, drinking coffee out of a paper cup, when I arrive. “Full docket this morning,” he says. “Lots of bad guys and gals being arraigned. Let’s go. The wheels of justice are turning.”

  “There were other wheels turning last night.” I tell him about the car that followed us from the restaurant, and that it might be the same car I saw on the way back from Las Vegas.

  “I suppose it’s too much to ask if you got the license number.”

  “He stayed too far back, and I didn’t want to spook Natalie.”

  “She was with you?” Coop drops the sarcasm and angrily shoves his cigar into a cement planter full of sand. “You should have told me before,” he says. “This guy killed at least once. Detectives are supposed to remember things like that.”

  We go inside and sit in the back row of the small courtroom. A long line of prisoners handcuffed together is led in from a side door. They sit in a row up front, where an assortment of public defenders, defense attorneys, and assistant DAs are milling around the court tables, pulling out papers from overstuffed briefcases. A few minutes later, the bailiff announces the judge’s arrival, and court is in session.

  Coop leans over and whispers to me. “Fourth guy in line, Sammy Dell.”

  I still don’t know what this is about, or why I’m here, but Coop likes surprises, especially when he’s the instigator. The first three cases are dealt with in a matter of minutes. Drugs, car theft, and purse snatching start the day. The judge, a heavyset woman with a deep voice and short-cropped hair, goes through the drill, looking weary, as if she’s heard it all before. The court reporter sits stoically, the machine between his knees, his fingers moving over the keyboard, as names are logged into the record, charges read off, pleas entered, and deals made.

  Number four stands up, and, the DA reads from a file. “City of Santa Monica versus Samuel S. Dell.” Dell’s address is read into the record along with the charges: burglary of a recording studio in Santa Monica. That’s when I sit up straight and peer at Dell.

  “Thought that might get your attention,” Coop says, glancing at me with a smile.

  “That’s not Cross, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I say.

  The case is briefly discussed. Dell was arrested leaving the premises of Two Dot Studios on Colorado Boulevard in the possession- of two boxes of recording tape. The judge asks for a plea; Dell’s attorney enters not guilty, which brings a smirk from the DA. The trial is set for thirty days from today. Dell will remain incarcerated until trial.

  “Next case,” the judge says, glancing at her watch.

  I’m still staring at Dell when Coop gets up. “Let’s go,” he says. I follow him outside. Coop looks at his watch and lights a cigar. “You want to talk to him?”

  “I don’t know. Should I?”

  Coop says, “I came across the arrest report yesterday. Thought there might be some connection. At least he’s stealing the right kind of stuff. Dell was busted a few weeks ago by Hollywood Division, but it was thrown out over some Miranda shit, illegal search and such. All he had in his car were three stereo systems. Guess there wasn’t probable cause. They thought he was connected to some burglaries at some recording studios. Numerous priors.” Coop smiles again. “Making some sense now?”

  “Yeah, I’d like to talk to him. Can we do that?”

  “Hey, I’m a lieutenant, remember?”

  Coop signs me into the jail, and Samuel Dell is brought to one of the lawyer rooms. He looks scared but bored, as if he’s been through all this before.

  “Sit down, Sammy,” Coop says. “This is my associate, Mr. Horne.”

  “Yeah, right,” Dell says. “Got a smoke?” He clasps his hands together on the table in front of him. His fingernails are bitten to the quick.

  Dell takes in the visitor’s badge clipped to my shirt. He’s rail-thin, with long, lanky hair, pasty complexion, and a prominent nose. His eyes dart everywhere. He’s all but lost in the jail jumpsuit, a couple of sizes too big for him.

  “Not in here,” Coop says. “You know the rules by now.”

  “Fuck the rules, and it’s Spinner.”

  “Spinner?”

  “Yeah, you know, I like records and tapes.” He smiles like he’s said something profound.

  “How symbolic,” Coop says.

  “What was on the tapes you took, Spinner?” I ask.

  “Music. What do you think they were, the Nixon tapes?”

  Coop leans over Dell, about three inches from his face. “Listen to me, Spinner. I don’t care if you boosted The Best of the Village People. You cooperate with my friend here, and we might be able to cut you some slack.”

  Dell leans back away from Coop. He’s wary, but not scared. “Okay, okay.”

  Coop nods at me and walks away a few steps. “What kind of music?” I ask him.

  Spinner shrugs. “Any kind. I don’t care, I just sell them.”

  “To whom?”

  “Whoever’s buying. What the fuck’s this all about, anyway? You an attorney? I already got one.”

  “I’m looking for some missing tapes, Spinner. Music tapes. Jazz. You ever run across anything like that?”

  Spinner seems suddenly relieved. “Oh, you mean like the other guy asked me about.”

  “What other guy?”

  “The court reporter.”

  Coop and I look at each other for a moment, as if we’ve both missed something. “The court reporter? You mean, in court?” I guess Spinner means the reporter asked him to repeat something, but I’m way off.

  “No, I mean like out of court.” Spinner glances quickly at Coop. “Shit, I knew something was wrong. Guy came to my house, wanted to know about some tapes, offered to buy them.”

  “What guy?”

  “I told you, the court reporter. Not the one today, another one.”

  I suddenly know exactly what he’s talking about. “What was this guy’s name?”

  “Cross, at least that’s what he said.” Spinner looks from me to Coop. “What’s going on, anyway?” He tries not to show it, but he’s looking panicked.

  I sit back in my chair and look at Coop, who for once is surprised himself. “I’ll be right back.” He goes out and leaves me to pass a few minutes with Spinner.

  “Tell me about Cross, Spinner.”

  “Nothing to tell. Said he was a record collector. I told him I just had tapes, he said that was okay, he liked tapes as well. Wanted me to sell them.”

  “And did you?”

  “That’s the idea, ain’t it? Gave me two hundred and fifty. Safe too, like a court reporter is going to talk about receiving stolen goods.”

  Coop comes back with a guard, who takes Spinner back to his cell. Once we’re alone, he sits down in Spinner’s chair.

  “You’re going to love this. Raymond Cross is a court reporter, twelve years, perfect record, even the employee of the month once. I
think I know who he is. Lives in Malibu. No wonder nobody could find him. We were looking in the wrong places.”

  Now it all made sense. Sitting in a courtroom day after day, Raymond Cross had his own special source for records and tapes, and it was he who typed out Sammy Dell—Spinner’s--name and address.

  “Can we talk to him?”

  Coop says, “Cross went on vacation a week ago.”

  Blackbyrd is not black at all but has pale, almost white skin sprinkled with freckles, thinning, reddish blond hair, and thick wrists and forearms. He wears large, square, black-framed glasses on a turquoise neck chain. He continually takes them on and off as he swings back and forth from me to his computer screen.

  “I know,” he says. “I should have bifocals, right? Tried them. No good. Didn’t like them at all, so I got this.” He fingers the neck chain like a rosary, rolling it around in his hands when the glasses are not on. He spits out phrases in short staccato bursts that are countered by long monologues as we talk about record collectors.

  I left Coop to check further on Raymond Cross and found the ’60s ranch-style house in this older section of the San Fernando Valley. Greeted by Blackbyrd’s wife, Marie, I was escorted through the house to the kitchen, where she pointed out the screen door to the small structure at the end of the yard that at first glance looked like a tool shed.

  “He’s out there,” she says, “and don’t worry about Buck. He sees you with me, so he knows you’re all right.”

  “Thanks,” I say, opening the screen door and going down the steps. I hope she’s right. Buck is a huge Rottweiler, already at attention, watching my approach. He ambles forward and gently nuzzles my hand. I scratch his ear, and he emits a pleasurable growl that’s not at all threatening. He allows me to enter Blackbyrd’s domain. Inside, it’s anything but a tool shed.

  The walls are wood paneling that reach down to meet the sand-colored carpet. Most of the room is taken up by a corner computer workstation and Blackbyrd’s huge leather desk chair. It swivels, rocks, and rolls as he rotates between the computer, fax machine, and telephone. To the left of the computer layout are three glass-framed 45rpm records. I can’t make out the titles. Blackbyrd catches, me looking at them.