The Sound of the Trumpet

by Bill Moody

  I almost miss the restatement of the theme, but somehow manage to recover as Steve takes us out. There’s some polite applause from the people nearby.

  “All right,” Steve says, grinning at me. “Another one?”

  “Okay, one more.” Cross has moved a little closer. “You know ‘Jordu’?”

  I can’t resist seeing if Cross reacts to one of the Clifford Brown tunes, and I know Steve, like every jazz trumpeter, knows it.

  “Sure,” Steve says. He takes out the mute. Open horn on this one. There’s a one-measure pickup before we join him on the theme. Steve is neither Clifford Brown nor Connie Beale. His sound is brighter than either of them, but he nevertheless reminds us that this was sort of how Clifford Brown did the tune.

  While Steve winds his way through the changes, I keep one eye on Cross. He’s nearly at Natalie’s shoulder now. I try to signal her with my eyes, but she doesn’t get it, just smiles in return.

  Steve gets inspired and stretches out more than I expected. I take just one chorus, as I feel my hand begin to tighten up. By the time we finish the tune, I feel the first twinge of pain creep up my wrist. I could play through it, but not tonight. That’s all for me. Two tunes.

  “Thanks, Steve,” I say, standing up and shaking hands. I wave at the bassist and drummer, who are friends now, and join Natalie. Cross has melted into the crowd, but I keep him in sight.

  “That was great,” Natalie says. She touches my wrist. “Okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m good for about fifteen minutes. The guy breathing down your neck was Cross.”

  “Where?” Natalie says. She turns around to follow my gaze. “God, I didn’t even know. I thought you were sending me some kind of secret love signal.”

  “No, that’s flickering eyebrows. I’m going to look for Rick. It’s time to get this show going.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “I don’t think so. I just want to play the tape with Cross here, see if we can provoke him into something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.” Natalie looks worried. “Look, nothing is going to happen, okay? Keep an eye on Cross while I round up Rick”

  I go back into the larger room and find Rick talking with a couple other record types. I catch his eye and he breaks away.

  “Cross is here, so I think it’s time.”

  “Okay,” Rick says. “We can go downstairs to the music room. How are we going to play this?”

  “Let me be the bad guy. Just act like you’re very interested, and then follow my lead.”

  “Gladly. What do you want me to do?”

  “For starters, just get him downstairs and occupied for a few minutes. Something I want to check on, then I’ll be down.”

  “You’re going to leave me alone with Cross?”

  “Take Barry with you. He can hit him with his surfboard. He needs his confidence restored.”

  “Okay, but don’t take too long. Where’s Cross?”

  I point him out to Rick. He goes over and speaks to Cross. He has a drink in his hand and some kind of leather dispatch case tucked under his arm, which I’m sure has the tape inside. No sign of the trumpet.

  I go back out the front entrance. The valet attendants are huddled together, working their way through sandwiches and Cokes.

  “Hey guys, I need something out of my car. White Pontiac. Go ahead with your food. I’ll just run down and get it myself. Got the keys?”

  “Here you go,” one of them says, holding up the envelope. He was too busy gawking at Natalie to remember I drove up in a Camaro.

  I find Cross’s car easily. Besides mine, it’s one of the few that’s not a Mercedes, BMW, or Cadillac. I check the trunk first, and right there under a blanket is the trumpet case, the trumpet inside. I grab it, close the trunk, and start walking back to the house, when I stop abruptly, knowing exactly how I’m going to get it out of here.

  I toss the keys in the envelope to the valet guy and go back inside, looking for Steve Patterson. I find him at the bar, drink in hand, talking to a girl with a pile of blond hair in a skintight black jumpsuit. She appears to be hanging on his every word.

  Steve notices me come up beside them. “Hey, Evan. Gonna play again?”

  “Not tonight.” I look at the girl. “Can I borrow him for just a minute?”

  “Sure,” she says.

  Steve gives me a look and notices the trumpet case. “Don’t go away,” he says to the girl. To me he says, “What’s with the trumpet?”

  I pull him aside and tell him what I want him to do. He frowns, doesn’t really understand, but agrees. We go over to where the band is set up, make the switch, then I head for the front entrance again.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow and explain everything. Thanks, Steve. Good luck with Cat Woman.”

  Back outside I see the valet guys again. “Didn’t need it after all,” I say and grab the keys to Cross’s car for the second time.

  They probably think I’m just one of these crazy record types as I jog back to Cross’s car and return the trumpet case to the trunk. Then I stroll back to the house, drop the keys in the box.

  Now it’s time to listen to some music.

  The party has thinned a bit, but there’s still enough of a crowd that I don’t find Natalie for a few minutes. She’s been looking for me.

  “Where have you been? Cross went downstairs with Rick and Barry Hastings about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Just taking care of a minor detail. Let’s go.”

  We go down a hallway off the main party room and find the stairs. Rick Markham, Raymond Cross, and Barry Hastings are already there. Rick sees us come in.

  “Evan, there you are. Join us, please. Let me get you a drink.”

  Hastings, standing at the wet bar, glares at me; Cross sits in an ultramodern chair with a satisfied smile, clutching his leather case. The room is an oversize den with a sound system on one wall and a large-screen projection television dominating the other wall.

  Rick says, “Mr. Cross has been telling me how he came into the tape. We’re just about to listen to it. You two have met, I take it.”

  “Yeah, at LAX. I bet that’s an interesting story.”

  Cross smiles again. “I’m sure Mr. Horne omitted some salient points, when he told you about the tapes.”

  “Tapes? I think there’s only one. The Las Vegas police have the other one, don’t they?”

  “True,” Cross says, “but only temporarily. That tape is my property and will be returned to me shortly once their investigation is completed.” Not flustered in the least, he unzips his case, takes out a reel tape box, and hands it to Rick Markham. “Shall we?”

  Rick hands it to Barry, who threads it on the machine while Natalie and I sit down opposite Cross. It’s almost like the night at Ken Perkins’s house, when I first heard the tapes.

  Barry hits the play button, and the room is filled with the music of Clifford Brown, except now I know it’s not Brownie. I can’t believe how cool Cross is, sitting there with a satisfied smile on his face watching Rick and Barry’s reaction to the music. He really thinks he’s going to pull this off.

  Rick gives Barry a signal, and he stops the tape about halfway through. “Very impressive, Mr. Cross. Pacific Records would be very interested in these tapes, provided the police release the other one to you and there are no—how shall we say—problems.”

  Cross looks at me first. “I assure you, Mr. Markham, the problem with the police is just a slight misunderstanding and will be sorted out in due time. The tapes are my property and are indeed Clifford Brown.”

  Rick looks at me. Natalie tenses beside me as I set my drink down and scoot up on the edge of my chair.

  “Evan?” Rick says. He looks like he’s waiting for a cue.

  “Pacific Records would be making a big mistake putting much stock in this tape or the one the Las Vegas police have. The slight misunderstanding Mr. Cross mentions is much more than that. He’s wanted for questioning in the mur
der of Ken Perkins, and both tapes were stolen from Cosmos Recorders in Hollywood several weeks ago.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Cross says, the timbre of his voice revealing the first crack in his veneer of confidence. His appeal is to Rick Markham, who isn’t sure where I’m going with this. “I spoke to a Lieutenant Cooper when I arrived at LAX the other day. I was neither detained nor charged with anything, much less murder. Mr. Horne is simply disappointed that he will not play any role in the discovery of these tapes.”

  “Whether the tapes are stolen or not, Mr. Cross is a suspect. And there’s something else.” I get to my feet and take a cassette out of my pocket in a gesture that’s become, in the past few days, as automatic as taking out my wallet. “May I?”

  “Of course,” Rick says.

  I go over to the sound system and put the cassette in the machine, press the play button. It’s the same tape I’ve played so many times for myself and also for Markham and Hastings. I lower the volume and turn to Rick.

  “Cross is right. The tapes are genuine. They’ve been tested by the FBI lab and confirmed as being manufactured in the ’50s. But this trumpet you’re hearing is not Clifford Brown.” Just for effect I raise the volume for a few moments, then lower it again.

  Cross jumps to his feet. “Oh please, do we have to listen to this?”

  Rick does a good job at looking surprised. “What are you saying, Evan?”

  “The recordings were made in 1955, but the trumpet player is a man named Connie Beale. Both he and the pianist on the tape, Nolan Thomas, will submit affidavits to that effect if necessary.”

  Barry Hastings’s shock is genuine, since he’s not in on any of this. “You gotta be kidding, man. That’s Clifford Brown. Nobody could imitate him that well.”

  “Connie Beale could and did. In 1955, he was a very talented trumpet player who idolized Clifford Brown. He learned all the solos and had the technique and sound to imitate Brown precisely.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Hastings says. “It can’t be done.”

  “Yes it can, Barry. The more distinctive the sound, the easier it is to imitate, and Clifford Brown had one of the most distinctive, original sounds in jazz. Connie Beale knew every nuance of Brownie’s playing.” I shut off the tape and take the cassette out of the machine.

  “And where is this Connie Beale now?” Rick wants to know.

  Cross has sat down again. He hides it well, but he obviously didn’t know I’d found Connie Beale. He wants to know too.

  “He’s working at a club in Hollywood. I heard him play the other night. Nolan Thomas, the pianist on, the tape, teaches in his home.”

  There’s a minute or two of silence as everybody digests what I’ve said. Markham is not quite sure what to do. He clears his throat and looks at Raymond Cross.

  “Ah, Mr. Cross, we seem to be at an impasse here. Evan has raised some significant questions that will have to be answered to our satisfaction before we can proceed further with this.”

  “This whole thing is ridiculous,” Cross says, for a moment allowing his facade of calm to break. “You’re going to take the word of this—this—piano player who thinks he’s a detective. Horne is trying to convince you of something that is just not true. I also have something else that will prove these tapes are genuine.” He pauses for a moment to make sure he has everyone’s attention. “I have Clifford Brown’s trumpet to go with the tapes.”

  Barry Hastings is suddenly very interested again. “Wow, man, I’d like to see that.”

  “You will, you will,” Cross says, “and then we’ll talk further. I don’t know who this Connie Beale is or where Horne came up with him. I suspect it’s something he’s totally fabricated.”

  “The trumpet is Connie Beale’s, too,” I say, “and no, it’s not stolen, at least not from Beale.”

  “Of course it’s not stolen,” Cross says. “I have a bill of sale. I bought it from another collector.” The half-truth has restored some of Cross’s confidence.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” I say to Rick. “I’d go very carefully here if I were you. Natalie and I have to go.”

  As I walk past Cross, he half whispers to me. “This is not over yet, Horne.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Natalie and I go back upstairs. The party has thinned even more, and the band is on their last set. I wave at Steve Patterson on the way out. He tilts his trumpet toward us in response.

  “C’mon,” I say to Natalie. “I want to beat Cross out of here.”

  “Me too,” Natalie says. “You really rained on his parade.”

  I get my car from the valet guys and drive halfway down the block, then stop and back into a driveway that gives me a clear view of the front of Markham’s house. I turn off the engine and lights.

  “What are you doing?” Natalie says.

  “Just want to check something.”

  A couple of minutes later Cross emerges from the house and asks for his car. There’s a brief conversation with the valet attendant, who probably wonders why Cross doesn’t look like me, but his car is brought around quickly. Cross gets in and drives off, comes right past us.

  I didn’t need to make the switch after all. Cross never even checks the trunk.

  “Sometime later tonight or tomorrow, he’s going to be even more pissed at me when he discovers that once again he doesn’t have the trumpet.”

  INTERLUDE

  June 26, 1956

  Clifford Brown didn’t know how long they had been out of Philly—a few minutes, a few hours. He stirred on the seat, shifted his position, and opened his eyes slowly. He could see the top of Richie’s head against the window, Nancy’s hands on the wheel, and spots on the windshield. Rain. He didn’t want to see that.

  The back window was cracked open a couple of inches. He could smell the rain, see the dark sky, the blur of headlights passing them on the opposite side of the turnpike. He hunched down farther in the backseat, seeking the darkness, closing his eyes again.

  He couldn’t tell if it was minutes or hours before he came, awake again, not sleepily this time but instantly wide awake. Everything about the rhythm was wrong. The car was moving too fast. He opened his mouth to speak, but for some reason he couldn’t call out to Nancy, tell her to slow down. The rain was heavy now, slashing against the car, the wipers whipping back and forth with their own relentless throb, the tires slapping against the wet pavement.

  His whole body tensed, anticipating something. He saw the blur of a yellow sign streak by them as they headed into a curve. Then he felt something beneath him, the rear wheels breaking loose, the car sliding. It wasn’t his imagination. He glimpsed Nancy’s hands gripping the wheel tighter, saw her in profile, her face tensing, eyes opening wide, Richie suddenly sitting up.

  “Watch it, baby,” Richie said, putting one hand on the dashboard as if to steady the car, but it kept sliding.

  Nancy said, “Oh,” then, “Richie!”

  “Slow down, baby, slow down,” Richie said, his voice pitched higher.

  Brownie was upright now, feeling the car suddenly slow, his heart pounding in his chest as Nancy jammed on the brakes, but the tires gripping only water, sliding farther sideways until they were facing the cars behind them.

  Brownie gripped the seat with both hands, his eyes wide as the car spun and spun and spun, completely out of control, then ripped through the guard rail, the engine sound suddenly becoming a high-pitched whine as the car left the ground and plunged downward over the embankment.

  Brownie saw the trumpet case pop off the seat beside him and fly out the window, felt his head hit the roof of the car, rain on his face, saw Richie upside down in front of him as glass shattered and the car made its agonizingly deliberate descent to the embankment.

  All their voices screaming in unison as the car smashed into trees, but by then Clifford Brown didn’t know anything.

  The car rolled over again and again, then reached its final resting place upside down, the wheels spinning i
n the rainy Pennsylvania night.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Like a guy watching football, Natalie is still glued to the TV, totally mesmerized by the O. J. Simpson trial, when I call Steve Patterson.

  I’ve already run some errands, walked on the beach, and gone through the motions of scanning the want ads for a new place to live, but my heart is not in it. I want to stay in Venice.

  “It’s research,” Natalie says. “I’m getting some tips from Marcia Clark.”

  “Whatever. You’ll probably be watching it in class all next semester.”

  “Yeah, if it’s over by then.”

  I’ve waited till noon to call Steve, to give him time to recover from playing Rick Markham’s party. His phone rings several times, then there’s a click, followed by a different pitch to the ring before he answers.

  “Don’t worry, man,” he says when he picks up. “I had a ten o’clock session, TV thing for one of these cop shows. Another date at one. What do you want me to do with the trumpet?”

  Car phone. I can hear traffic noises in the background. “Can you bring it with you to the session?”

  “Sure. I’ll be at Sunset Recorders. Just going to grab some lunch. Funky old trumpet. Whose is it anyway? It’s got C.B. engraved in the bell.”

  “Not who you think. It’s a long story I’ll tell you sometime. Thanks, Steve. See you at one.”

  I hang up the phone, thinking by now Raymond Cross has certainly discovered the trumpet missing and knows I have it. All I can do now is report in to Danny Cooper and wait for something to happen.

  Natalie clicks off the television, stands up, and stretches.

  “Noon recess?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve had enough for today. Are we doing anything?”

  “Lunch and two stops. Want to tag along? Someone I’d like you to meet.”

  We get to Sunset Recorders right before Steve’s session begins. I leave Natalie in the car and run inside to find Steve amid a cacophony of dissonant noisy conversation as thirty musicians tune up and compare notes.