Bird Lives!

by Bill Moody

  I glance at Nicky. He shrugs. “Hey, there was a technical problem.”

  It’s mostly Nicky’s alto over drums, bass, guitar, and a couple of keyboards. Heavy backbeat, some wah-wah guitar chording, a few short solos from the piano player. He lets the tape play through three tracks before I stop him.

  “Are they all like that? Is that your organic sound?”

  Nicky grins. “Like that, huh? Make a good title, don’t you think? Organic Drew? Organic Drew’s Blues?”

  “Killer. Just tell me the keys, and we’ll be fine.”

  He pulls a half-dozen CDs from one of the racks and hands them to me. “You maybe want to check these out too.”

  I look at the top one. The Essential Nicky Drew is the title.

  We go back upstairs to the living room. Outside, down on the beach, I see Andie talking with Karen. Nicky follows my gaze.

  “So what’s it like balling an FBI agent?”

  I turn and glare at Nicky. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Okay, man, chill out. If you haven’t been there yet, that’s cool, but she’s hot for you, man. Anybody can see that. I know something is happening.”

  I let that one go. “I’ll be flying up with you, I guess, Saturday morning, just so it looks good.”

  “Sure. LAX at nine. Tell your special agent she can put a couple of her people with the sound guys. Nobody will notice that. They never get the fucking sound right anyway.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “When you go home tonight, to your little apartment or wherever it is you live, think about where I live, what I’ve got. You might change your mind about my offer.”

  “I already thought about it, Nicky. The minute I walked in here.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  At home I find a message from Paul Westbrook. It’s one I almost don’t want to return. “Evan,” Westbrook says. “I’ve got studio time booked for next Tuesday and Wednesday. You guys ready? You can put it off if you want, but it’ll be months then.”

  I mentally breathe a sigh of relief. “No, I’m ready, we’re ready. We’re going to have one more rehearsal.”

  “All right,” Westbrook says. “I’m looking forward to it.” There’s a couple of moments of silence. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, nothing to worry about. Everything is fine.”

  “Okay then, see you Tuesday.”

  I call Jeff Lasorda and arrange for the rehearsal. “Tomorrow or the next day,” I tell Jeff. “I’ll be out of town over the weekend.”

  “No problem,” Jeff says. “All that other stuff cleared up?”

  “What stuff?”

  Jeff waits a moment for me to elaborate. “Okay, I won’t go there.” Jeff, always the diplomat.

  “It’s okay, Jeff. All I want you to worry about is the music.”

  “I know, man, this could really be a good one. Tomorrow afternoon should be cool. I’ll call you back.”

  “Thanks, Jeff:” I hang up and wish the music was all I had to worry about, but two pieces of mail remind me there’s more.

  The postcard is unsigned, but it’s from Gillian. On the front is a photo of Charlie Parker, one of the hundreds of him taken over the years. On the back is another of her poems.

  Fables of Faubus

  Better Git It in Your Soul

  Good-bye Porkpie Hat

  I don’t need Ace to tell me about the porkpie hat. It was Lester Young’s trademark as much as the way he held the tenor sideways. The three lines of the haiku are Mingus song titles, all from the album Mingus Ah Um. But Lester Young, the Prez, played tenor; Mingus was a bassist. What’s the connection? Maybe Moontrane and Nicky Drew are not Gillian’s target.

  I go through my collection, dig out the album, and scan the titles. One of Mingus’s tributes to Parker, “Bird Calls,” opens the second side, but that doesn’t seem enough. What then, something in the song titles? “Git It in Your Soul” is almost a gospel piece. “Porkpie Hat,” for Prez, is a haunting ballad. “Fables of Faubus” is as complex as the civil rights movement for which it was written. I put on the album and listen to both sides, but nothing occurs to me, just renewed respect for Mingus as a composer and for the level of the players.

  Maybe I’m trying too hard. Something else nags at me, something I’ve seen in the last couple of days, but I can’t nail it down.

  I go out and walk down to the beachfront, perhaps now for one of the last times: The other letter is an eviction notice. The developers that have been after my neighborhood have finally won. I’ve been given a thirty-day notice on my apartment. It’s all very polite and businesslike, but the upshot is, I have to move. Somehow, it doesn’t have the impact I thought it would.

  I head north, trying to work it out, knowing every communication from Gillian drives me closer to Andie Lawrence. Is that the only thing pushing me toward her? I feel like I don’t know anything anymore except how much I want this to be over.

  I turn back after a mile or so, deciding I want to talk to Cal Hughes about the record. He’s home and greets me with little surprise. For once he’s not reading. He’s got an old movie on, Hitchcock’s Rear Window.

  “Don’t let me interrupt you,” I say as we watch Jimmy Stewart point his camera into the windows across from him.

  “You’re not. I know the ending,” Cal says. “That’s how the FBI does it, gets into people’s lives without them knowing it until it’s too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How are you getting along with the government?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve seen that agent, what’s her name? Lawrence? Are you two an item now?”

  “We’re not, but we could be.”

  Cal stops the tape as Jimmy Stewart zooms in on Raymond Burr. “Just watch yourself. They know a lot about you now.”

  “Andie Lawrence has been straight with me.”

  “Has she? You’re forgetting that long before they brought you in, they combed through your life and the life of everybody you’re connected with. They’re thorough if nothing else.”

  I look at Cal and suddenly know what he’s talking about. “They contacted you?”

  Cal shrugs. “Didn’t have to, except to update my file. I go way back with them. Oh, don’t worry, it wasn’t anything subversive, unless you call offering piano lessons in Watts un-American.”

  Cal lights a cigarette. “I got some heat about it; they thought it was recruitment for the Black Panthers, white guy working with black kids in Watts. Some of my dates dropped off, and I couldn’t figure it out at first. Then a few friends called me, said they’d been questioned, wanted to know about my motives. Hell, I thought I was doing good. Anyway, it’s history now, long before your time.” Cal studies me for a moment. “You didn’t know, I guess.”

  “No, I didn’t. How do you know they checked on you again?”

  “Same friend called me, told me, ‘They’re lookin’ at you again, Cal.’”

  “I’m sorry, Cal. I can speak to her if it’s a problem for you.”

  “Don’t worry, there’s nothing they can do to me now. Don’t cut any deals with them over me.” Cal gets up and goes to the kitchen.

  Andie has some explaining to do. I want to know how much an act it was for her to go after me. Cal comes back with a drink for both of us.

  “How close are they to catching this weirdo?”

  “Very. Maybe this weekend. I’m going to Las Vegas, playing with a group called Moontrane. They think she may try something there.”

  “Never heard of them—of course, I’m a little out of step with mainstream America.”

  “Cal, there’s a favor I want to ask you.”

  “Ask.”

  “The record date is still on. I want you to be there when we record.”

  He reaches down and rubs Milton’s head. “I don’t leave the house much these days.”

  “I’d feel better if you were there, help me pick the takes, that kind of thing. You know my pl
aying better than anyone.”

  “You don’t need me, Evan. Just go with your gut.”

  “I know, but I’d like it just the same.”

  Cal lights another cigarette and sets his drink down. “Let me think about it.”

  “Please.”

  “This is really twisting you up, isn’t it?”

  “I guess it is.”

  “Get your mind clear before you go into that studio.”

  I nod. “I know, I have to do that.”

  I stop at Andie’s on the way home. She opens the door, smiles, and doesn’t seem surprised. “Come in,” she says. “I’m just doing some paperwork.”

  I follow her inside, hand her Gillian’s postcard. “Just came today.”

  She takes it from me, looks at the photo of Bird, then turns it back over to read the poem. “She’s back on track with the form—five, seven, and five syllables.”

  “Those are Mingus song titles. I went over the album, but I can’t come up with anything that connects with Nicky Drew.”

  Andie keeps her eyes on the postcard. “There’s beer in the fridge if you want one.”

  “Actually, I’d rather have some coffee.”

  “Sure, I’ll make some.”

  She goes to the kitchen and fills up the Mr. Coffee. “Maybe we’re going too far,” she says. “Maybe it’s not the message but the haiku, the syllables.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “The number seventeen, or seven plus one—eight. A birthday, something like that. An area code, a zip code?”

  “No, I think that’s a stretch. It’s something in those song titles. Anyway, we’ll know Saturday.”

  Andie pours two mugs of coffee and brings them to the table. I watch her sip hers and study the card some more.

  “Tell me about Cal Hughes, Andie.”

  “Cal Hughes?” She looks up, but not quick enough for me to see the change in her expression.

  “Yeah, old friend of mine, a piano player, one of the best in his day.”

  She sets the cup down and looks at me. “Evan…okay, I’ve read the file. It was put together a long time ago.”

  “But you had to check again, didn’t you?”

  “Evan, it’s not what you think.”

  “Isn’t it? What about my file, Andie? Isn’t there one on me too?”

  “You know there is. The first time you came to the Federal Building, Wendell told you things, things about you and Natalie. You must have guessed.”

  “And think back to the first time we had dinner at the beach. You asked me all about myself, like we were just getting acquainted on a first date, but you already knew the answers. You asked about my family, and when I didn’t respond, you said, ‘Okay, I won’t go there.’ Remember that?”

  She looks down. “Yes, of course I remember. But I didn’t know then that we’d…what happened between us would happen.”

  “I’d like to believe that, Andie, I really would.”

  “Believe it, Evan. When you walked in that office, I didn’t know what to expect, certainly not that I was going to—”

  I get up and go out on the patio to have a cigarette. Andie follows me out. “We were asking you to help us. I had to know as much as I could about you. That’s Bureau policy. I won’t apologize for that.”

  “No, I guess you shouldn’t have to.”

  “We had to have your trust too,” she continues.

  “And Ted Rollins didn’t quite fit the bill, did he?”

  “No.” She laughs. “I’m sorry.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just trying to imagine you and Rollins having dinner together.”

  “Well, that is hard to imagine.”

  “So, are you rethinking us?”

  “I’m rethinking a lot of things, Andie.”

  “Will you tell me when you’ve got it sorted out?”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  At LAX, the most welcome sight is the bass player sprawled in one of the seats at the United gate. A bag of tortilla chips, a Coke, and his electric bass are all within arm’s reach. Still long and tall, Buster Browne hasn’t gained a pound despite his junk food diet. He has headphones in his ears, and his head, nods slightly to the music from the portable CD player as he focuses on a book in front of him.

  I tap him on the shoulder. He looks up, grins, and takes off the headphones. “Hey, man, just heard you were on this gig,” Buster says. “I don’t know why, though. Heard you were smokin’ at the Bakery.”

  “Hi, Buster.” I look at the book, a novel by Thomas Pynchon. “Heavy stuff, Buster.”

  “Yeah, reading Pynchon is like listening to Ornette Coleman. So what are you really doing here?”

  “It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in on the flight.” I set my bag down and drop into a seat next to him.

  “Cool,” Buster says, but his grin dissolves. “Nothing hinky going down on this gig, is there? I want to know when to fade.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll let you know. You been with Nicky long?”

  “Couple of months. Heavy bread, but heavy dues too. You’ll see. We vamp for twenty minutes sometimes while he dances around. He’s like Kenny G on speed. The drummer will kill you, man. He plays a backbeat like somebody driving spikes into train tracks. Hope you got some ear plugs.”

  “I can’t wait,”

  “See the blond guy over there?” Buster points to a tall, thin man with straw-colored curly hair. “Guess what his name is.”

  “Golden?”

  “You got it. He calls himself our blues coordinator.” Buster glances over my shoulder. “Cool it,” he says. “Here comes the man.”

  Nicky Drew walks up, dressed for the road in all black. A Rolex watch peeks from beneath his cuffs, but for a moment it’s his hat that gets my attention. Now I know the connection.

  “See you two know each other,” he says. “Everything okay, Evan?” He notices my look. “Like the hat, huh?”

  “Everything’s fine. Yeah, very stylish.” I glance at Buster. “You’re lucky to have Buster here on bass.”

  “Really. Thought it was the other way around. Where’s your special agent folks?”

  “Don’t worry, they’ll be here.”

  “Soon as we check in the hotel, we go out to the park for a sound check.” Nicky tips the hat back on his head and wanders off to talk with Karen, the focus of all male eyes in the area. Black leather miniskirt and a bright gold blouse with the top buttons undone is her outfit for the day.

  “What a guy, huh? Least it’s not John Tesh,” Buster says. “What does he mean, special agent folks? Are we talking FBI?”

  “Just some extra security for the concert. You been reading the papers?”

  “You mean Cochise and Ty Rodman? Sure.” Buster studies me for a moment. “That’s why you’re really here, isn’t it.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Buster.”

  “Yeah, I bet that’s what they told the bass player on the Titanic.” He looks at me again. “Well, I think that’s all I want to know.” He puts his headphones back on and reaches for the chips and his book.

  I spot Andie emerging from the crowd, but she’s alone. I walk over and intercept her. “Where is everyone?” She’s looking cool and official in a dark pants suit.

  “They took an earlier flight,” she says, “and Coop talked them into taking him too. Says he knows the local guy there and will run interference. Lieutenant John Trask. You know him?”

  “Great. He’ll be glad to see me. We crossed paths before—last year—over the record collector’s murder.”

  Andie smiles. “You do get around, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, that’s me, the traveling detective.”

  “I need to talk to Drew. Want to join me?”

  “I don’t think so. The more room I give him, the better. But check out his hat.”

  “His hat?” She looks across the lounge and finds Drew. “Oh, God,” she says. “Porkpie hat.”

  “I remem
ber seeing some photos at his house the other day. Didn’t think anything about it at the time.”

  I leave Andie to Nicky Drew and present my driver’s license for check-in.

  “Have a nice trip, Mr. Horne,” the attendant says as she hands me a first-class boarding card. I should have known. We board a few minutes later, with only a slight delay while Nicky signs a few autographs for the flight attendants. He and Karen take the first two seats; I sit with Andie. Buster and the rest of the band are in coach. Buster was right. What a guy.

  I buckle up and close my eyes during takeoff, losing myself in the whine of the engines, glad for the escape, if only for an hour. Since Tuesday I’d managed one more rehearsal with Jeff and Gene and finalized the recording date with Paul Westbrook. We had decided on a list of tunes, and the trio is as ready as it’s ever going to be. If I can survive this concert, if Gillian shows, if Gillian is captured. If, if, if.

  When I open my eyes and turn to look at Andie, she’s watching me. “Thought you were asleep,” she says.

  “No, just thinking.”

  “It’s almost over, Evan.” She reaches across and squeezes my hand.

  “You really think Gillian is going to show?”

  Andie nods. “If she does, we’ll be ready for her.”

  “Are you going to tell Drew about the hat?”

  “No. Would it do any good?”

  “Probably not.”

  We get coffee, and almost before we level off, I feel the first gradual descent into Las Vegas. My only time in first class, and it’s too short.

  Coop is waiting with Wendell Cook at the gate, along with John Trask, who gives me a quick look and then ignores me completely. Maybe he thinks I’m just with the band.

  The only sign that Coop has been injured is the thick bandage on his arm, which won’t fit into the sleeve of his jacket. He holds it up with his other hand and waves it at me.

  “Hey, sport. Traveling in the big time now, huh?”