by Bill Moody
She smiles for the first time. “Thank God. I’m so sick of this California health thing.” She takes a drag off her cigarette and blows a cloud of smoke over my head. “People see you from across the street with a cigarette, and they start waving their hands in the air. Don’t they see the smog? L.A. is one big smoke bowl. A little cigarette isn’t going to dent that. Now what about this robbery?”
I feel like I’m talking to a hip grandmother as I try to explain the misunderstanding, what I’m looking for, and how I’ve ended up here. Gladys doesn’t seem disappointed or surprised.
“Well I knew you weren’t a cop. What are you anyway, a private dick?”
Good question; that’s something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately. I explain about my accident, tell her some of the people I’ve played with, and eventually get to the Clifford Brown tapes. Gladys listens attentively, genuinely sympathetic.
“I’m so sorry, son. I know how much you boys like to play. It must be awful.” She smiles and pats my hand. “Clifford Brown, huh? Yeah, he was out there then. I think he played at the Lighthouse.”
I can’t help smiling. “Excuse me, but how is it you know so much about jazz?”
“Tom, my husband. He ran this studio for years. I helped him out with the office, but I was around for a lot of the sessions. They used to walk right through that door you came in. Sometimes at three or four in the morning. Chet Baker came by one night.”
“Chet Baker recorded here?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Gladys searches her memory. “He was such a beautiful boy. Sent me a postcard from somewhere in Europe. But Tom used to round up musicians and bring them over here after their jobs. That went on for years.”
“What happened?”
Gladys shrugs and stubs out her cigarette. “The business changed. The only way Tom could make a go of it was to do demos, some masters for rock groups, lots of vocals. He sold some of them to the majors, but jazz was his passion. He used to tell me, ‘Honey’—that’s what he called me—‘someday these tapes are going to be worth a lot of money, and these musicians are going to be famous.’”
“What happened to those tapes?”
“When we stopped doing jazz, Tom put them in storage. Airtight, waterproof boxes, thought they’d be safer here than at home.” Gladys sighs, lost for a moment in some distant memory. “Hollywood has changed a lot since those days. Hookers, drug dealers, looks like Times Square out there on Hollywood Boulevard. That’s what I meant about the robbery. Somebody broke in here a few weeks ago.”
“And those tapes were the only thing stolen?”
“Yeah,” Gladys says, “like they knew what they were looking for. I haven’t talked about them to anyone, so I don’t know how anyone would have known.”
I think I do, but I decide to let Gladys in on that later. “Do you have any idea who was on those tapes or when they were done?”
Gladys gives me a sad look. “I knew you were going to ask me that. Tom kept pretty good records, wrote everything down on three-by-five cards, but they—”
“They were in the boxes.”
Gladys nods. Well, that’s that. Somehow Raymond Cross stole the tapes or had someone steal them for him—maybe Spinner—because he knew about the recordings or just got lucky. Through the collectors’ network? Musicians? It’s impossible to tell.
“Wait,” Gladys says. “There is this.” She opens a desk drawer and takes out a torn white three-by-five index card. “They must have torn it when they looked into the boxes and dropped it on the way out.” She hands it across to me.
It’s not quite half the card. There’s a piece of cellophane tape still attached to one edge. The writing is neat printing in pencil, and two names are still visible.
Piano—Nolan Thomas. Trumpet—Conrad Beale. C.B. I look up at Gladys, feel like my body is drenched with adrenaline.
“Do these names mean anything to you?” Come on, Gladys, show me just how hip you are.
“Sorry.” She shakes her head. “That was so long ago.” Then she sits up straight and places both hands on the desk. “Wait a minute.”
She disappears into the back, where I guess the studio is. Five minutes later she’s back with a metal file box. She sets it down on the desk and opens it. “I’d almost forgotten about this. Tom’s filing system.”
There are divider tabs with the letters of the alphabet, and the box is stuffed with cards. “What’s that first name?”
“Nolan Thomas.”
Gladys flips through T’s and pulls out a card. “Here you go.”
There’s not much on it. Thomas’s name, piano, and several dates—listing, I assume, the times he recorded—and an address and phone number. The last date is 1955. The address and phone will likely not be good. What am I thinking of? Thomas could also be dead. Still, he was probably a union member, and they might have an address.
The same information is on the card for Conrad Beale, except there’s no address listed at all. “Could I look through that box?”
Gladys looks at her watch. “Suit yourself,” she says. “I’ve got to do some writing. You can look all you want, make notes, but right here. You can’t take it with you.”
She moves some papers aside to reveal a laptop computer. She opens it up and smiles at me. “I’m on the information highway.”
I spend the next thirty minutes going through the box while Gladys clicks away on her computer. Most of the names mean nothing to me, and the cards vary from entry to entry. Some are done in different hands, maybe by the musicians themselves. A few names, however, catch my eye. Art Pepper, Al Haig, Zoot Sims, Jack Montrose, Frank Butler—all prominent on the jazz scene in Los Angeles in the ’50s. How many of these musicians would even remember dates in a place like Cosmos? With the passage of time, the drug haze, memory lapses, it was definitely a long shot.
I put all the cards back in the box and turn to Gladys. She nods at me and clicks on the mouse a couple of times, and the screen goes blank. She shuts the case and turns to me.
“What did the police say about the robbery? You reported it, right?”
“Of course, but they didn’t offer much hope. I showed them the torn card, but what would they do with that? If I had a card with Miles Davis’s name on it, they wouldn’t recognize it.”
I start to hand back the torn card, but Gladys stops me. “You keep that if you want, if it will help. And I’ll tell you something else. If you get those tapes back, I’ll make it worth your while.”
I pocket the card. Fee number three. “Gladys, if I find these tapes, it’ll be my pleasure to return them to you for nothing.”
She blinks at me. “You’re a good boy, Evan Horne.”
“Thanks. One more thing. Now that you’re a nineties gal, Gladys, why don’t you enter all those cards on your computer?”
“Good idea,” Gladys says. “Good idea.”
There’s no ticket on my car and still time to get back to the Musicians Union and check again with Tommy James. This time he’s in.
“Hey,” he says, “got that trumpet for me to see?”
“Not this time, but there’s something else.”
“Shoot,” James says. He leans back in his chair.
Where to begin? I give him an edited explanation about the tapes and what I’m trying to find out. He listens, frowns occasionally, but doesn’t interrupt until I’m through.
“Yeah, I can help you with the names, see if they’re still members,” he says. “You said Nolan Thomas and Conrad Beale. Piano and trumpet, right?” He writes down the names on a pad. “Hang on a minute and I’ll check.”
I wait, but not patiently. I wander around James’s office, looking at the souvenir photos on the wall. There’s one PR photo of Benny Goodman inscribed to James, one of a very young Tommy James posing with his trumpet. The others are group shots, James smiling with a lot of people I don’t recognize.
I open the window, light a cigarette, and gaze out at Vine Street. A light rain begins to f
all, but the cool air feels good. I can’t believe I could get this close and strike out. There has to be some connection between the tapes stolen from Gladys Cowen and the ones bought by Raymond Cross from Spinner.
James comes back in a few minutes. “Found one of them. Nolan Thomas.” He hands me a slip of paper with an address and phone number. “Thomas is still a member. No listing for the other guy. Hell, man, these guys got to be late sixties, early seventies now.”
“I know, it’s a long shot.”
James sits down behind his desk again, studies me a few moments. “Even if these are the guys you’re looking for, they might not remember. And finding somebody who used to imitate Clifford Brown, well, that’s something else again.”
“I know. Well, thanks, Tommy.”
“Don’t mention it. I still want to see that trumpet, and if you find a guy who can play that much like Clifford Brown, I want to see him too.”
A radio interview I’d once heard with Stan Getz right after the saxophonist’s death is much on my mind. The interviewer was academic sounding, a jazz historian, much like Ace Buffington. I could tell from the sound of his voice that he was intimidated to be sitting across from one of the greatest saxophonists of all time. For Getz’s part, he sounded bored and a little wary of the interviewer, who began by asking Getz about a recording he’d made with Lionel Hampton. He hoped Getz could identify the trombonist. Getz sounded genuinely puzzled.
“I never recorded with Hamp,” Getz said.
“Well,” the interviewer said, nervously contradicting. “Maybe this will refresh your memory.” He played the cut and must have been watching Getz’s expression closely. The saxophone solo was clearly Getz—the elegant sound, even at that stage of his career, unmistakable. The trombone solo followed, then the record ended.
“Well,” the interviewer said. “Wasn’t that you?”
There were a few moments of dead air before Getz said, “I’ll be damned…I have no recollection of that, and I’m…I’m sorry, I have no idea who the trombone is. Could we hear that again?”
This is what I hope Nolan Thomas is going to tell me now.
I find him with a student at his home studio. The student is a tall gangly kid of about sixteen and he’s clearly intimidated by Nolan Thomas.
Thomas is a short wiry man with coffee-colored skin. His hair and his pencil mustache have gone snow-white. A bulky sweater hangs well over his waist. His tiny feet are encased in worn terry cloth slippers.
“Be with you in a minute,” he says, motioning me to a chair to the left of the baby grand piano.
The room is dominated by the piano. On the wall are photos of Thomas on various gigs or smiling with people, some I didn’t recognize. In one he’s being hugged by a young Charlie Parker. There are shelves of record albums, books, a mini-sound system for CDs and cassettes, and in one corner a red Naugahyde recliner chair and a small television.
I’d called him earlier and explained what I wanted, and he reluctantly agreed to give me thirty minutes. “I’ve had students all day,” he said. “One to go.” Now he was almost finished.
“Play that part again,” Thomas says to the student, pointing to the music. “You still don’t have it right. Your mama told me you ain’t been practicing like I told you, have you, Ronnie?”
Ronnie is silent, staring at the keyboard. I feel for him. He reminds me of my own bouts with teachers, especially Cal Hughes.
“Well?” Thomas says. “All right, play it again.” Thomas turns to me and winks, and turns on his impish smile.
Ronnie struggles through the cycle of fifths once again, this time to Thomas’s satisfaction. “Yeah that’s it. Now let me hear them blues scales.”
Ronnie complies and looks up at Thomas for approval.
“All right, now get out of here, and next week I want to hear some improvement.”
“Yes, sir,” Ronnie says. He stands, gathers up his music, and makes a quick retreat.
“Boy’s got some talent,” Thomas says. He drops into the recliner and turns on the TV. “Gotta check on my Lakers,” he says. “You follow basketball?”
“A little, used to go to some games once in a while.”
Thomas grunts and then moans as Magic misses an easy layup. “Now what’s this about Clifford Brown?”
I take a deep breath and look at Thomas. Is he going to think I’m crazy? He watches me expectantly, waiting for my question.
“Do you remember recording with Clifford Brown?”
Nolan looks as if I had just asked him if he’d ever had dinner with Donald Trump. “Clifford Brown? I told you on the phone you got the wrong guy, son. I never recorded with Brownie. You think I wouldn’t remember that?”
The cassette in my pocket feels heavier than usual when I take it out. “This is the cassette I told you about over the phone. Okay if we just listen to a little of it?” I nod toward Thomas’s tape player.
“Be my guest.” He turns the sound on the TV down. I put the tape in and press the play button. The first eight bars are a piano solo. Nolan cocks his head, and moves closer to the speaker as the band comes in. I reach for the player but he holds up his hand, signaling me that he wants to listen to more. After the trumpet solo, he listens to the two piano choruses and smiles, nods his head.
I press the stop button as the tune ends and ask the same question the radio interviewer asked Stan Getz. “Well? Isn’t that you?”
Nolan is laughing now, nodding his head. “Yeah, baby, you got that right, that sure is me.”
All I can feel is relief at his admission. Finally I’ve got what I came for. But the relief is short-lived. Thomas continues to laugh. Finally he gets control and lights a cigarette.
“Oh, man,” he says. “I’m sorry, man, I know you think you found something big, some lost tape in somebody’s attic or something like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that’s me playing piano, but that ain’t Clifford Brown.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure. I know who it is, too.”
“Who?” There’s so much more I want to ask.
“That’s a guy called Connie—Conrad Beale, but they called him Connie. Lotta talent, but he got too into Clifford Brown, never could get his own voice, you know?”
“Do you know if this Conrad Beale ever played with Duke Ellington, even for a short time?”
“Oh yeah,” Nolan says nodding his head. “That part you got right too. Connie never let anyone forget that. But he was only there a minute—three nights at the Coconut Grove. Somebody got sick or something, I don’t remember how, but Connie got the call.”
“Tell me about the recording session. Do you remember doing it? Cosmos Records. Tom and Gladys Cowen ran it.”
Thomas runs a hand through his hair and stares at a spot on the floor. “If you say so. I remember some couple had a studio, record a lot of people. Damn, they still in business?”
“Gladys is. Her husband died several years ago. The studio was across from Shelly’s Manne Hole, in that little alleyway.”
“Okay, okay, yeah I remember,” Thomas says, his head bobbing to his own words. “We used to get fifty bucks a pop, I think. Never heard what happened to any of those things.”
“Tell me about this recording.”
“We were working for some little joint in Hollywood. Connie, me, bass, and drums. I don’t even remember who they were now. This guy—Cowen, you say his name was—came by and asked if we wanted to make some quick bread, cut a few tunes. We said, hey, why not. A gig’s a gig. We got over there, set up, and were just messin’ around, waiting for him to get set up. Connie went into his Brownie bag, playing ‘Joy Spring,’ ‘Jordu,’ one of them tunes. Well, the recording guy, Cowen, just flipped out when he heard Connie do that.” Thomas looks away, remembering more. “Yeah, that music is bringing it back now.
“He said, ‘My God, you’re Clifford Brown.’ Connie could do it, sound just like Brownie. Knew all the tunes,
most of Brownie’s solos. Well hell, you got the tape, you know. Anyway, the guy said he’d up the money to seventy-five bucks if we laid down some tracks with Connie doin’ his Brownie thing. We said sure.”
“What happened after that?”
“Nothing. Never heard of his tape till you played it just now. I did some other stuff for this guy. Always paid up front. It was cool.”
Now for the big question. I’m almost afraid to ask. “Do you know if Connie Beale is still around?”
“He was about five years ago. I ran into him once. Said he was about retired from the post office.”
“Was he still playing?”
“Just casuals, weddings, dances, that kind of thing. Musicians never quit playing ’less they have to.”
“Do you know how to get in touch with him?”
“Naw, it was just one of those chance meetings. I hadn’t seen him for years.” Nolan Thomas watches my reaction, sees my disappointment. “I know you thought you found you some Clifford Brown nobody knew about, right?”
I feel a disappointment that goes deeper than Nolan Thomas could possibly fathom. There was always that sliver of hope that I might be wrong, but now Nolan Thomas has just confirmed what I suspected all along. It still comes as a jolt, hearing the truth. It always does.
“Yeah, but believe it or not, I’d rather know it’s not Clifford Brown. Thanks, Nolan, you just helped me figure something out.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I get back to my place feeling pretty satisfied with myself. Part of the mystery at least is solved, but I still have to find Conrad Beale and check with Coop to see if anything has turned up on Raymond Cross’s disappearance.
I get a beer out of the refrigerator and call Natalie. We have an arrangement. Sometimes she stays at my place, sometimes I stay at her apartment in Santa Monica. If either of us feels like just being alone, we do that too, no questions asked. So far it’s working.
“Hi, what are you doing?”
“What every student does after exams. Lounging around, drinking wine, watching trash TV, and—oh my God. Is your TV on?”