Evan Horne [03] The Sound of the Trumpet

by Bill Moody

  At dusk, the lights of Philadelphia glowing in the distance, they stopped for gas. There wouldn’t be time later, Brownie reasoned. The truck stop was lined with big rigs, their engines idling ominously while the drivers rushed into the diner for coffee, past the busy bays of gasoline pumps.

  Brownie felt rested even though he’d driven most of the way, riding on adrenaline, the only drug he needed, anticipating the gig at Music City. It would catch him, he knew, later tonight, after they were a few more miles down the highway. Then it would be his turn to curl up in the big backseat, and hope he wouldn’t wake up till they were in Elkhart.

  He got coffee in a paper cup for Nancy while Richie gassed up the car and joked with a trucker at the next pump. Nancy was smiling sleepily at him, standing by the car, stretching, yawning, rubbing her eyes.

  “Girl, you slept right through,” Brownie said, handing her the coffee.

  “Have to if I’m going to drive the rest of the way tonight,” Nancy said, squinting at the dials on the gas pump. Richie exchanged glances with Brownie and rolled his eyes. Nancy was a novice driver, with poor vision and barely able to negotiate a U-turn.

  The attendant, dressed in a dark green, grease-stained Texaco shirt and pants, gazed at the Buick. He said, “Nice car. Where you folks headed?”

  Brownie turned to him, smiled. “Philly. I’m playing tonight at Music City.”

  “Is that so?” the attendant said, taking the money from Richie, not knowing what Brownie meant.

  “You cool?” Richie said, pocketing the change and glancing at Clifford.

  “Oh yeah,” Brownie said. He climbed into the backseat and was asleep almost before the car pulled away.

  CHAPTER NINE

  By six I’m on the road, climbing out of Los Vegas into the darkness, the glow of the Strip’s lights growing fainter and smaller by the mile in my rearview mirror. The pawn ticket for the trumpet is in an envelope, taped under the front seat; the nearly empty bottle of trumpet valve oil is in the glove compartment. That should be one of the easiest things to check out at any number of music stores in L.A. Everything else is confusion.

  Ken Perkins is dead, shot by someone maybe named Cross, who I never got a good look at. A tape that may or may not be Clifford Brown is all I have that’s tangible. I run over several scenarios in my mind, starting with the premise that the tapes are genuine. If that’s the case, how did Cross get them? Master tapes would have to have come from a record company or some recording studio.

  Did Cross steal them, have someone steal them for him? How did he know about their existence? Is this simply another instance like the Dean Benedetti tapes of Charlie Parker, or the more recently discovered tapes of John Coltrane at Atlantic Records? Tapes of Clifford Brown lying around on a shelf somewhere, forgotten for years until somebody cleans out a store room or an attic and says, “What have we got here?”

  A discovery of that magnitude would be big news, but as Jack Montrose said, “It happens.”

  On the other hand, what if the tapes are not genuine? How was it done, and who made them? Was there perhaps a very talented trumpet player—and is he still around—who could sound so much like Clifford Brown everybody would be fooled? Something Montrose said still bothers me, but I don’t have it yet. A remark about the Clint Eastwood movie Bird. I’ve seen the film several times, and somewhere in a box at home I have the sound track. Maybe that will bring it into focus.

  Traffic is light as I reach the Halloran Summit and start the descent into Baker, a cluster of lights four thousand feet below me. Another hour to Barstow, then a decision. On to I-10 and through downtown Los Angeles, or the more risky Pearblossom Highway at night? Dark curves, no lights, and all those dips where cars disappear for several seconds then emerge with blinding high beams.

  I stop for gas and coffee in Barstow, smoke two cigarettes, pace around the huge parking area. A procession of resigned truckers in jeans and flannel shirts or parkas, baseball caps or cowboy hats, gas up, check their huge rigs, and run inside for steaming paper cups of coffee. I go over everything in my mind, but I’m still not clear on so many things. Finally, I give up and get back in the car. I know I’m stalling.

  On the road again, I decide the best course of action is to go, at least for now, on the assumption that whether the tapes are genuine or not, they had to be made somewhere. I’m guessing Hollywood.

  I can start with some recording studios that were in operation in the ’50s. I’ve heard all the stories about small studios that were around then, some legitimate, some not. They would grab a group from one of the many clubs, get them over to record after a gig when the musicians were tired, drunk, or both, and pay them a few bucks. Then the sessions were forgotten, the tapes lost and put away for years.

  Clifford Brown was in L.A. then, that much I know. Maybe that’s when the sessions were done—scheduled for release at some later date, or held back after the car crash? It was done by many record companies. A forgotten musician becomes a star, and old tapes are hauled out to capitalize on his newfound fame.

  It is a place to start, and I feel better with some plan in mind, so much so that when I get to Victorville, I turn off on 18 and take the Pearblossom plunge across the desert toward Palmdale and the Los Angeles interchange.

  I tune in to a talk show for distraction but find myself hardly listening, gripping the wheel tighter as I take the first series of dips and curves, keeping the speedometer needle on sixty. There are patches of snow littering the desert, and the air blows cold through the open window.

  At the Palmdale cutoff the road flattens out and widens to two lanes. I relax a little, knowing the freeway into the San Fernando Valley is not far off. But then, at a traffic signal, I notice a car behind me I think I’ve seen before, possibly when I gassed up in Barstow. A white Pontiac or Oldsmobile.

  I pull away from the light and stay in the right lane, giving the car an opportunity to pass. It doesn’t. At the interchange he allows some space between our cars but stays right with me all the way into the north end of the valley, no matter how often I change lanes or speeds.

  The Camaro’s windows are tinted dark, so it’s impossible to see the driver’s face. My eyes flick from the road to the rearview and side mirrors. Cross? Bernard Dalton? Or just my imagination working overtime? One way to find out.

  The traffic is more congested now as we reach the interchange with the Ventura Freeway. I watch for an opening to my right, and at the last minute I veer across to the Santa Monica exit, cutting off two cars, horns and squealing tires in my wake, but the white car continues on.

  I merge with the San Diego Freeway traffic and climb up out of the valley. At the top of the hill, I exit at Sunset and take surface streets home to Venice. No tails, no strange cars all the way.

  “What are you looking for?” Natalie asks from the bedroom doorway.

  “Something I’ve got to find.” I sit in the middle of the floor, surrounded by boxes, books, CDs, and tapes.

  “Well, I gathered that,” Natalie says, “but it’s almost midnight.”

  “It’s here someplace.” I’ve been through three boxes of tapes and books already, but my packing was without any system. I stop for a minute and look at Natalie, standing in the doorway watching me. Bare feet, a baggy UCLA sweatshirt that hangs down well over her waist, almost hiding the black panties. Her hair is brushed loose around her face. I called her as soon as I got in, and she came right over. “Aren’t you cold?”

  She looks down at her bare legs. “A little.” She raises her eyes slowly. “You could warm me up.”

  She comes in and sits on the bed. “What are you looking for?”

  “A cassette of the Bird movie.” I dig around in the boxes and finally find it near the bottom. “Here we go,” I say, holding it up. I take the tape out of its plastic box. “Do me a favor and put this on.”

  “Yes, master.” She stands and gives me a mock salute.

  I take the liner notes out also, follow her into the livi
ng room, and sit down to read while the music begins. I’m through half the notes, listening to Bird. I play “Now’s the Time,” then slap my knee. “That’s how they did it,” I say. “Yes.”

  Natalie doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “How they did what?”

  “The tapes, that’s how they made them.”

  Natalie sits down on the couch next to me. “Will you please tell me what you’re talking about? Have you got anything to eat here? I’m hungry.”

  “What? Yeah, sure, help yourself,” I say, continuing to read how the music was done for the film.

  “How about some bacon and eggs?” she calls from the kitchen.

  “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll make some coffee.” I come up behind her, put my arms around her waist. “I think I’ve got it.”

  “Not yet, you don’t.” She pushes me away, smiling. “I’ve had a long day of studying. I’ll cook, you tell me what this is all about.”

  I sit at the kitchen table while she gets things going. I’ve already told her about the cassette and most of what’s happened in Las Vegas, but I realize I’ve developed an automatic habit of editing what I say, depending on who I’m talking to. I have told her my doubts about Clifford Brown being the trumpet player on the tapes.

  “It was something Jack Montrose said that got me to thinking, but I couldn’t figure it out until now. There,” I say. “Hear that? That’s Charlie Parker.” The tape is now on a tune called “Cool Blues.”

  She pauses, a fork in her hand over the skillet, listens for a few moments. “So? That’s who it’s supposed to be, isn’t it?”

  “Exactly. That’s the real Charlie Parker, not someone imitating him.”

  Natalie still doesn’t get it, but is curious about my grin. “You are going to tell me, aren’t you?”

  “Okay, that’s Charlie Parker, but it’s not any of the guys who played with him—Al Haig, Curly Russell, or Stan Levy. That’s Monty Alexander on piano, Ray Brown on bass, John Guerin on drums.”

  “Didn’t we just see Brown and Alexander a few months ago at the Jazz Bakery?”

  “We sure did.”

  “So how—”

  “It’s all right here,” I say, holding up the liner notes. “Clint Eastwood had a choice. He could make a movie about Charlie Parker and use someone so good at imitating him—Charles MacPherson, for example—or somehow use recordings of the real Charlie Parker. He managed to track down some old Bird recordings, air check tapes, then—using filters and some process I don’t fully understand—eliminate everything but Bird’s sound. Then he brings in this rhythm section; they listen to Bird on headphones and record their parts. When it’s all enhanced, mixed, it sounds like Bird playing with a modern rhythm section.”

  Natalie stops, one hand on her hip, and turns the bacon. “Forgive me for asking, but could anyone tell whether that’s Charlie Parker or, what’s his name, Charles MacPherson?”

  “Probably not, unless you’re a musician or an audiophile. The rhythm section gives it away, but Eastwood could tell, and he wanted Charlie Parker, the real thing. It would have been much easier, saved a lot of time, to just use MacPherson. He is on some of these cuts, but most of it’s Bird.”

  “So if I’ve got this right, you’re saying that with the alleged Clifford Brown tape, whoever was responsible did it in reverse?”

  “Alleged Clifford Brown tape. I like that. You know, for an aspiring lawyer you’re pretty smart.”

  My head was swimming with the details, but it could work that way. With today’s recording capabilities it wouldn’t be too difficult to take a Clifford Brown solo from any of his recordings and mix it with a rhythm section sound isolated from whomever they had recorded with. It would sound like Clifford Brown because it was Clifford Brown, and it would sound like it had been done in the ’50s.

  Everybody—record companies, me, for example—could be convinced that these were previously unknown recordings of Clifford Brown.

  Natalie listens to me explain it all again while we wolf down the bacon and eggs and toast. Over the second cup of coffee, I play portions of the Bird tape again and point out the differences in sound. “Monty Alexander was ten years old when Bird died. Guerin is primarily a studio session drummer, but notice how clear the sound is.”

  The more I explain it to Natalie, the clearer it becomes to me. This is how it could be done, and I am starting to appreciate the thoroughness of the man who calls himself Cross, the man who I think shot Ken Perkins.

  Natalie listens quietly, watches me work it out. “I don’t want to burst your bubble, but isn’t it still possible that the cassette you have from the master is in fact Clifford Brown, and the whole thing was recorded before he died?”

  “Yes, of course it is, but this at least proves there is also a way to fake the tapes and proves to me I’m not crazy. I’ll know for sure when the tape Trask sent to the FBI for analysis comes back.”

  Natalie leans back in her chair and folds her arms in front of her. “I’ve got just one more question. Can we go to bed now?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Long after Natalie falls asleep, I lie awake, hearing the cassette in my mind, hoping the FBI report tells me that type of recording tape could be purchased today at any Tower Records store.

  Natalie is gone again when I wake up, and again it’s the phone that wakes me.

  “We need to talk, sport.”

  “Coop? It’s kind of early, isn’t it?”

  “Not for us civil servants who protect you from the ravages of crime. We’re usually up before noon.”

  “Noon?” I roll over and glance at the clock. “I’ve got things to do.”

  “Yes indeed,” Coop says. “The first of which is to meet me and buy me lunch while I advise you on the policies of reciprocal cooperation between the Santa Monica police and Las Vegas Metro. You with me, sport?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Get your butt down to Santa Monica Pier. I’ve got something to show you.”

  Coop hangs up before I can ask him what. It’s never straightforward with Coop. He always holds something back, but at least I know I’m not in any trouble with Las Vegas. Coop’s call would have been different if I was.

  Santa Monica Pier has always been one of my favorite places. I spent a lot of time there as a kid, and it’s been used as a backdrop for so many movies and TV programs that it’s one of the most recognizable landmarks in southern California. The carousel at the edge of the pier brings back a lot of memories—riding those wooden horses, the faces of my parents a blur as I go round and round, the promise of a hot dog and a snow cone when the ride is over—just as vivid to me today.

  I nose slowly down the steep incline and find a spot in the city parking lot. Coop is leaning on the rail, watching some of the fishermen that still haunt the pier, their lines in the dark water below, tackle boxes and plastic buckets at their feet. Some things never change.

  “I don’t see your fishing gear. This a new hobby for you?” Coop turns toward me, looking like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “That’s me, centerfold for Field & Stream.” He’s in jeans, a windbreaker, and running shoes.

  “Little out of uniform, aren’t we?”

  “Even us dedicated civil servants get a day off now and then. Let’s take a walk,” Coop says. “We’ll be dining alfresco.”

  We stroll down to the end of the pier. Not many people out today, and those that are have their collars turned up against the cold sea air. There’s the smell of fish, the ocean, and hamburgers frying on a grill at one of the small takeout places.

  I buy us a couple of hot dogs and Cokes, and we take a seat on one of the benches bolted to the asphalt at the end of the pier. Below us, the dark green water laps against the pilings. It looks cold. We’ve both been here, done this many times before. Coop inhales his hot dog and drinks off his soda before I’m half finished with mine. Afterward I light a cigarette and wait for Coop to reveal his secrets.

&n
bsp; “Tell me about this jazz consulting you did that turned ugly. You didn’t give the tape a bad review, I hope?”

  Coop’s wit is lost on most people. He has a reputation for being abrasive at times, but there’s no one I’d want in my corner more. It’s been like that since we were in high school together.

  I go through the whole story for him, not minding at all, since each telling clarifies things for me. Like the good cop that he is, Coop saves his questions and insights for later. Sometimes he cuts right to the core of things.

  “Have you considered that Trask is taking advantage of your obsession—all right, eagerness—to determine if this musician on the tape is genuine by using you?”

  “The thought crossed my mind. I wouldn’t exactly call it an obsession either.”

  Coop gives me a look and frowns at my cigarette. “What are those filthy things you’re smoking?”

  I take one last drag and crush it out. “A new brand, thought they might make me quit.”

  “Well, if you’re smoking those, I’m sure you won’t mind one of my cigars.” He lights up a long, thin cigarillo and turns toward me on the bench. “I don’t exactly agree with Trask’s methods, but he’s a solid cop, and where we all are sometime or other: a murder with no leads. Otherwise you’d be entirely out of the loop, sport. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know that. I’m not trying to catch a murderer, just verify a recording, but Coop, you know they’re connected.”

  “You have a theory, I trust, and you’re going to share it, try it out on a brilliant criminologist.”

  “Well, now that you mention it.” I sit forward on the bench and stare out to sea. Somewhere on the horizon the sun is peeking through the dark sky, the wind whipping up whitecaps, blowing across the pier.

  “I think this guy Cross somehow came into these tapes and planned to run a scam on a record company. The money would be good, but I don’t think he was going to do it for money. These guys are really obsessive. The whole thing is to have something no one else has.”