by Bill Moody
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Here is a preview of the third Evan Horne mystery, The Sound of the Trumpet by Bill Moody…
INTRO
With my dead hand, I put the tone arm on the record and listen to my live hand.
The title of the album is Arrival—Evan Horne, recorded, unfortunately, just before CDs became commonplace. There were fewer than two thousand copies printed. In my euphoria at accomplishing a lifelong dream, I gave away all mine, except this one, to friends and relatives.
I could try, but tracking down another copy would be difficult if not impossible. It’s unlikely that collectors would have one, and according to the record company, a small label that was gobbled up by a bigger one, there are none in stock. To have some copies made from the master tape in the small numbers I want would be very expensive, even if the master could be found. Tapes get lost, misfiled, or just disappear.
It’s been years since I listened to it. There are things I would do differently, tunes I would eliminate or add, arrangements I would change, but generally it stands up well. It got a flurry of airplay on some jazz radio stations, a couple of good reviews—of the promising-new-talent variety—but disappeared into obscurity in relatively quick fashion. Still, I have this copy, proof that I once recorded with my own trio.
I listen to a couple of other tunes, then carefully return the record to its sleeve. I glance at the photo of myself on the cover, seated at a grand piano, the bassist and drummer standing behind me. My smile reflects the hope and pride I felt at that moment. I wonder what the next one would have been, if there had been a next one.
I don’t usually yearn for the good old days, but on this January night in Venice, California, with cold air and fog nudging my windows, I’m in the mood for the past. I pull out some CD reissues of Miles Davis, Dexter Gordon, Bud Powell, and Bud’s brother Richie playing with the Max Roach-Clifford Brown Quintet.
Brownie’s tone is as pure and clean and cool as a mountain stream. I wonder—as do all jazz musicians, especially trumpet players—what he would have done but for that rainy night on the Pennsylvania Turnpike when his car went off the road and a great talent was lost forever at age twenty-five.
Had Miles Davis died at the same age, there would be no recordings beyond Birth of the Cool. No Kind of Blue, no collaborations with Gil Evans, no quintet with Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock, Tony Williams, and Ron Carter.
I’ve never met a trumpet player who doesn’t speak in reverent tones about Clifford Brown. His recorded legacy is small, to be sure, but studied and emulated by anyone who’s put a trumpet to his lips. Lee Morgan and Woody Shaw are gone, but some of Brownie’s disciples are still with us. Freddie Hubbard and Wynton Marsalis owe a lot of notes to Brownie.
I pour myself another Dewar’s on the rocks and listen to the final strains of “Joy Spring,” imagining what it must have been like to be Richie Powell feeding chords to Brownie with Max Roach’s cymbal beating down on us relentlessly, Harold Land standing in the wings making people forget-at least for the moment—Teddy Edwards, the original tenor player in this band. Sonny Rollins was soon to follow.
One thing I’m sure of I wouldn’t have wanted to be Richie Powell in that car with Brownie. I had my own automobile accident. I survived, but my hand didn’t, and maybe that’s made me who I am today.
Someday, I hope I’ll know for sure.
CHAPTER ONE
I wake up Sunday morning, just before the phone rings, feeling the effects of too much Scotch and not enough sleep. I mumble what I know must be an incoherent hello into the phone.
“Evan? I wake you up?”
“Ace? No, I just haven’t had my coffee yet.”
“Sorry. Listen, get a shower and some coffee, and I’ll call you back in about a half hour.”
“What’s up?”
“We’ll talk then. I’ve got a job for you.”
I pause and gaze out the window that affords me a sliver of a view of the Venice boardwalk, already filling up with early-morning joggers and walkers even though the sky is slate gray, the air cool.
“Ace, I’m still not playing, you know.”
“It’s not a gig, but it’s something you’ll be interested in. Thirty minutes.” The phone goes dead before I can protest further.
I hang up the phone and drag myself to the bathroom and stand under the shower for ten minutes wondering what Ace has in store for me.
Dr. Charles “Ace” Buffington is my good friend at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. The last time he called, it was for a gig. Cocktail piano at a shopping mall and research into the death of saxophonist Wardell Gray. It turned out to be much more than research in a lot of ways, but it had its upside. I also met Natalie Beamer, a policewoman who was now pursuing the law instead of criminals.
I wrap myself in a heavy terry cloth robe and get some coffee going while I scan the Los Angeles Times and survey the chao
s of my apartment. I’m about half packed up and know I’m going to miss living in Venice. Progress has made its way to this corner of L.A., and developers have bought up the remaining houses on my block for a new set of condos. The demolition ball is swinging toward me. Time to move on.
I’m on my second cup of coffee when Ace calls back. “Evan? Better now?”
“Much. What’s up? How’s the book going?” My help with the Wardell Gray project had turned into a book for Ace, one that even his own department could not ignore.
“Great. You are now talking to a full professor.”
“Congratulations, Ace. Stick it to them.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I plan to. How are things with you?”
“Let’s cut to it, Ace. You don’t call me on Sunday morning without something in mind. If it has anything to do with playing piano, forget it. If it has anything to do with investigating, really forget it.”
Ace laughs now, but my run-ins with Anthony Gallio were not funny then for either of us. I managed to uncover a lot about Wardell Gray’s death, and a lot more about Las Vegas mob types.
“No, nothing like that. This one is easy. What do you know about Clifford Brown?”
“One of the all-time great trumpet players in jazz. He was killed in a car crash in the fifties. Great loss to jazz, trumpet players still talk about him. End of story.”
“Not quite. What would you say if some previously unknown recordings of Mr. Brown had been discovered?”
“I’d say they would be very valuable to certain people. Record companies, for one. They’d probably be released on CD to the great joy of all concerned, especially a number of trumpet players.”
“Exactly,” Ace says.
I take a couple of sips of coffee and light a cigarette, a foul-tasting menthol that I hope will encourage me to quit. Ace is a record collector and on the fringe of the wild-eyed serious fiends who, according to Ace, will do anything to secure a rare find. But as far as I know, there are no undiscovered recordings of Clifford Brown. That would be a big story.
“You’ve found something?”
“Maybe,” Ace says. “At least, I know someone who thinks they have, and that’s the job. Piece of cake for you.”
“That’s what you said about researching Wardell Gray.”
“This is different. Tragic, yes, but there was nothing suspicious about Brownie’s car accident. I’ve got a collector friend, really serious one, who thinks he may have come into some Clifford Brown. These guys are really secretive though, spooky really. Anyway, he wants some preliminary confirmation that this tape might actually be Clifford Brown.”
“And?”
“As I said, he’s really secretive. He doesn’t trust hardly anyone when it comes to rare recordings, but he trusts me enough to contact you.”
“To do what?”
“Come to Las Vegas, listen to the tape, and tell him if you think it’s really Clifford Brown. All expenses paid, and a nice fee for your trouble. You can stay with me for a few days. I’m between semesters, so we can hang out a little.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to have a trumpet player listen to the tape? I play, or did play, piano.”
“Maybe, but I don’t know any trumpet players I can tell this guy I trust. You can at least tell enough to satisfy him he may be on to something.”
I should know better, but I’m intrigued. Hadn’t someone found some old John Coltrane tapes in a closet at Atlantic Records? A visit with Ace would be nice. Listen to a tape and get paid for it. Why not? “When is this supposed to happen?”
“If you’re free, the sooner the better. This guy wants to move on this right away. Can I tell him yes?”
“Oh, I’m free.” Natalie has been putting in ten-hour days at Loyola Law School, wrestling with contracts, torts, and real property. Except for weekends, I hardly see her.
“Great,” Ace says. “I’ll FedEx a ticket.”
“Hang on, I might drive up. I’ve got a new car I’d like to try out on the road.”
“Suit yourself. We’ll reimburse you when you get here and settle on a fee. He’ll go for at least five-hundred dollars.”
“We?”
“Yeah, this guy and I are kind of—partners.”
“Ace?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you telling me everything?”
I spend the rest of the morning packing up more boxes, discarding some things, mulling over whether to keep this or that, realizing finally with some surprise that my life can be contained in a few boxes and a couple of suitcases. I have two more weeks to go on the lease before the bulldozers move in, and I’ve been looking around for a new place. Nothing so far has appealed. After Friday’s doctor visit, I’m not even sure I want to stay in Los Angeles.
Around noon I change into some presentable clothes—jeans, sweater, and my favorite cord jacket—and head for my lunch date with Carol Mann, my erstwhile therapist. The accident that maimed my hand led to psychological counseling with Carol’s group of similarly damaged musicians. We officially stopped the sessions long ago, but Carol and I had become friends and stayed in touch. Occasionally, like today, we manage lunch or dinner.
My new car isn’t really new except to me. When my Mazda was stolen and gutted—the cops think by a chop-shop operation—I endured some sticker shock looking for a new one. When one of Cindy Fuller’s stewardess friends got married and moved to Boston, I was offered her babied and well-cared-for 1989 Chevy Camaro. It was too good to pass up, saving me the hassle of shopping and haggling with a dealer. I wouldn’t have chosen a Camaro, but now that I’m used to it, it fits me well, and it’s fun to drive.
I nose it out of the carport behind the apartments and head up Venice Boulevard for the 405 Freeway. Traffic is light, and the throaty rumble of the Camaro’s engine is comforting as I roll north to Brentwood, taking the Sunset exit. Carol has chosen a nouveau, ’50s-style diner for our nontherapy-therapy lunch. I surrender my car to the valet parking attendant, a blond kid in white shirt and red bow tie with admiring eyes for the Camaro.
“Don’t get too excited,” I say, getting out of the car.
“No, sir.”
Inside, I find Carol already there. She waves from her table, and I see she’s purposely avoided the patio smoking section even though there is one, a rare thing these days in southern California. Everyone wants me to quit.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, taking a chair opposite her and glancing around the room. “Very L.A.”
“You’re not. I’m early,” Carol says. “And be nice, I’m buying.” She’s dressed nearly as casually as I am in jeans, turtleneck sweater, and a denim shirt open at the collar. We hardly glance at the menu before a waiter slides into my line of vision. He’s tall, thin, probably a UCLA student
“Hi, I’m Steve, and I’ll be your server today. Can I get you one of our appetizers, some sautéed mushrooms perhaps, a mini pizza?” He smiles at us both expectantly.
“Well, Steve, I’m Evan your customer, and I don’t know what I want yet, since I haven’t looked at the menu. A Bloody Mary would be nice if you can manage that. Carol?”
“Yeah, that would be fine,” Carol says, blushing slightly. Steve gives me a glance and withdraws.
“My, aren’t we cranky today.”
I shrug. “I just get a little tired of the hustle these days. Waiters don’t know you, but they want to establish a relationship before you sit down.”
“I take it your visit with Dr. Martin didn’t go as well as you hoped.”
I reach for cigarettes on reflex, then remember we’re in nonsmoking. “I can’t seem to win, Carol. Physically, Martin says I check out fine. The tendons and nerves have healed and responded well to the therapy—too well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Focal dystonia.”
“Come again?”
“Martin says it’s called repetitive motion stress disorder. This is all new stuff apparently, still a lot of research being done, but I guess I
qualify as a textbook case. It seems I overcompensated, practiced too much, and I’ve tired the muscles. A common mistake is to play through the pain. That’s what I did, tried to come back too soon, and I sure felt the pain on that Las Vegas gig.”
“So what’s his advice?”
If it’s possible to smile ironically, I try. “A period of relative rest, which for me means staying off the piano. Once the pain subsides, I can start practicing again gradually.”
Carol nods and sighs for me. “Now that you mention it, there’s a doctor in Monterey doing research on this. I think I remember reading something about it.” She reaches across the table and touches my wrist. “I’m sorry, Evan, I really am.”
I try a smile again. “Don’t be, I guess—”
“All right, here we are.” Steve, our friendly waiter, is back, balancing two Bloody Marys on a silver tray. He sets them on the table, rearranges the vase of fake flowers and the salt and pepper shaker, and begins a well-rehearsed routine about the day’s specials. “We have a very nice poached salmon and—”
“Tell you what, Steve, how about a club sandwich with fries, and we’ll skip the specials, okay?”
“But the lady—”
“That’s fine,” Carol says, arching her eyebrows at me. “I’ll have the shrimp salad.”
“Excellent choice,” Steve says.
“And how is that, Steve?”
“I just mean—”
“I’m just kidding, Steve.”
“No, you’re not.” Steve departs in a huff.
“Wow,” Carol says. “What is that all about?”
I ignore Carol’s question and take up where I left off. “As I was saying, I guess maybe I’m not supposed to play piano for a while, maybe not in this lifetime.”
“So what are you doing?”
I take a long pull of the Bloody Mary. “Moving, for one thing, and it looks like I’m going up to Las Vegas for a few days to listen to some tapes.”