by Phil Swann
“Good afternoon,” I said, getting out of the car, trumpet case in hand.
“Mr. Callaway, I presume?” he replied without a trace of an accent.
“That’s me,” I crooned back, preparing myself for the head-to-toe pat down Clegg had all but assured me would come. To my surprise, it didn’t.
“My name is James. If you will follow me, sir.”
I started toward the front door, but James politely redirected me off to the left toward an entrance stealthily concealed in the black wall. He lifted the lid on a small metal box and input some numbers on a keypad causing a door to pop open. He extended his arm, inviting me to enter first.
In an instant, I was no longer in Las Vegas. In truth, if I’d been told I had been transported into a painting, I don’t believe I would have argued the point. A cobblestone walkway zigzagged through a forest of blooming flowers of every size, shape, and hue. Small trees, sculpted so perfectly they would have made Michelangelo envious, encircled a crystal-clear pond boasting a quaint wooden bridge and stocked with schools of ridiculously colored fish. I saw several lattice archways spaced along the path, one more intricate than the other, and wood carvings of small animals scattered around on the ground. And then there was the air itself. Clean, cool, and laced with an aroma so deliciously sweet I was sure I was putting on ten pounds just breathing it in. The entire scene was both the picture of serenity and a tidal wave on the senses.
“This is amazing,” I said, ambling along the walkway.
The young man smiled. “Have you never been in a Chinese garden before, Mr. Callaway?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“A Chinese garden is like a scroll. Everywhere the eye looks, one should see another beautifully composed scene. A new vista reflecting nature’s harmony and beauty. That is its mission.”
“Mission accomplished,” I replied. “These animal sculptures are something else. They look almost real.”
“All of them are carved from either bamboo, pine, or plum trees, ancient Chinese symbols of fortitude, integrity, and resilience.”
“That’s cool. I mean…that they have a meaning.”
“Everything has meaning, Mr. Callaway. In a Chinese garden, a flower is never just a flower. Every plant, every tree, even the koi in the pond, represent a moral truth. Take the water, for instance, it symbolizes the ever-changing, while the rocks symbolize the eternal. Together, they represent the harmonious balance of nature’s yin and yang.”
“Okay,” I responded as any buffoon would.
It was then I noticed a man on his hands and knees beside the pond. He was dressed in white coveralls and wore a wide-brimmed straw hat tilted back on his head. He also looked to be just this side of 900-years-old. He was armed with a pair of clippers, and the attention he was giving to one particular plant was not unlike that of a surgeon cutting into a patient. He was completely focused on his task and never so much as looked up to acknowledge us. I was about to comment on the gentleman when my escort and I arrived at a glass door. James opened it, and again, I entered first.
I was anticipating the inside décor to be like the garden, utterly Chinese. It wasn’t. The large study looked more like an old London gentleman’s club than a room in the home of a Chinese mobster. High back leather chairs and an immense leather sofa adorned a thick braided rug, surrounded by an oak bookcase and timeworn oil paintings of foxes and hounds, and lords and ladies, and such. There was even a globe from another century stationed next to a fireplace that was nearly the size of my car. The room wasn’t just not Chinese—it was so perfectly English, I half expected Phileus Fogg to pop in at any moment declaring to make it around the world in eighty days.
I had no sooner spotted the piano across the room when James said, “Father will be in momentarily to meet you before you begin your lesson with Jean-Claude.”
“You’re Mr. Wu’s son?”
“His youngest. Not counting, of course, Jean-Claude, who is Father’s wife’s son.”
“I see,” I replied, wondering if it was my imagination or if I had detected a hint of contempt in his voice.
“May I offer you a beverage? Tea perhaps?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Make yourself comfortable. My father will be with you shortly.” The young man turned and exited through a door on the other side of the room.
The instant he was gone, I sat the horn case on the floor, opened it, and took out Clegg’s magic trumpet. I didn’t know how long I’d have before Uncle Charlie came in, but I reasoned there was no time like the present. I unscrewed the valve, took out the piston, and let the tiny listening device drop into my hand. I put the valve back and returned the trumpet to its case. Now came the quandary of where to put the darn thing? Behind a painting was a big fat no, given it would be the first place anyone who had ever seen a James Bond movie would look. Same was true for lampshades, under tables, or doorframes. I decided on inside the piano, reasoning most people considered the inside of a piano to be a mechanical mystery too complex to even approach, much less inspect. I pulled the tape off the back of the device and was about to stick it in when…
“It’s from La Scala.”
My heart skipped at least two beats.
I dropped the bug into my shirt pocket and spun around with as toothy and as innocent a smile as my mouth could rally. “It’s…beautiful. I was just admiring its workmanship.”
He was not as small as he appeared in the picture, nor was he as ominous. His black hair was streaked with wisps of gray, and his face was the type of face that wore a smile easily. He donned a white guayabera shirt over gray slacks, and appeared to be in fairly good shape for a man his age—late fifties, I guessed.
He said, “I purchased it a few years ago and had it flown over from Milan. I’m told it’s accompanied the greatest singers in the world.”
“No doubt,” I replied, doing my best to relax any tension in my voice.
“Charlie Wu,” he said, extending his hand. “Thank you for agreeing to teach Jean-Claude.”
Unlike son, father did have a Chinese accent, but his English was perfect, and there was no issue in understanding him at all. I extended my hand, and we shook. “Trip Callaway. My honor, sir. I hear he’s quite the talent.”
“Yes, he is. But you must be quite the gifted young man yourself.”
“Oh, capable, I suppose,” I said with unusual—and unnatural—humility.
“Someday when we have more time, we will sit, and you’ll tell me stories about the Rat Pack. I’m sure you have them.”
“I guess I do,” I chuckled. “Not sure I should be repeating them, though.”
“But you will, of course,” Wu replied in a way that settled the matter.
My chuckle stopped. “Of course, I’d be delighted to.”
Wu walked to the glass doors and glanced out into the garden. “Where are you from, Mr. Callaway? Not Las Vegas, I presume.”
“No, Indiana.”
“Indianapolis? I went to the races there a few years ago.”
“Actually, closer to Bloomington. A small farming community.”
“Are your people farmers?”
“Pop was. He passed a few years ago.”
“And your mother?”
“Died when I was very young.”
Wu bowed his head. “My sympathies, young man.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
“My father was a farmer, as well. In the Anhui province near the Yangtze. He worked all his eighty-three years growing sweet potatoes and rice. Sweet potatoes and rice, that’s all he ever knew. It was a hard life, but a good life. It was the life of his father, and his father’s father before him.”
“But not for you.”
He looked toward the garden. “No. China is not the same country my father knew, thanks to the communists.” He looked back at me and smiled. “Nor was the simple, farming life for you, it seems.”
“No, it wasn’t, sir,” I replied.
�
�But that doesn’t mean the seed and soil are not in our blood, does it, Mr. Callaway? We are sons of farmers, and only sons of such men can truly understand what that means.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but I nodded like did. “Yes, sir.”
For a prolonged moment, Wu said nothing and only stared at me as if he was conducting some sort of ancient Chinese telepathic interrogation. After a few seconds, I looked away. “Your home is beautiful,” I said, certain my voice had risen two octaves.
Wu walked to the piano. “You are most kind to say so.”
“I look forward to seeing the rest of it sometime…if I could, I mean, if that would be appropriate.”
Wu didn’t respond. He stood motionless and stared inside the piano.
He knew. I didn’t know how he knew, but I was convinced he knew the real reason I was in his house, as well as who sent me. I was sure that any second armed thugs were going to storm in and lead me away to a dark and secluded dungeon located somewhere deep below the Chinese garden. I could only imagine the unspeakable horrors that awaited me there. My mind raced through a dozen lies I could tell him. How the government threatened my life if I didn’t do what they asked. How I was just as much a victim as he was. I even considered saying I was secretly sent to investigate him by Frank, for the sake of making him an honorary member of the Rat Pack representing the Far East delegation—yes, I actually considered saying that. I was about to just start babbling when the door opened and another young Chinese man, also in a black suit, entered. Behind him was a slight, fair-faced boy with curly blond hair and piercing blue eyes.
“There he is,” Wu sang out. “Come, Jean-Claude, meet your new music teacher. This is Mr. Callaway. Mr. Callaway, my son, Jean-Claude.”
The boy came around his escort. He wore tan pants, white shirt, red necktie, and a blue blazer replete with a crest. He looked like a child in man’s clothes, which I supposed was exactly what the private school uniform intended to project. His face remained expressionless, and he stood rigidly in place as if waiting for someone to issue him an at ease.
“Pleasure to meet you, Jean-Claude,” I said, extending my hand.
“Pleasure to meet you too, sir,” the boy replied, shaking it.
“And this is Johnny. My eldest son.”
“Johnny,” I said, offering my hand to him as well.
It was then I noticed Johnny was toting a trumpet case. He set the case on the floor, nodded, and then shook my hand without saying anything.
“Well then, we should let you two get to it,” Wu declared.
As if on command, Johnny marched across the room and retrieved two wooden music stands. He returned and set them next to the piano.
Wu continued, “Should you require anything, Johnny, or my other son, James, will be at your disposal.”
I looked at Johnny and smiled. “Thank you.”
Johnny offered no smile in return.
Wu said, “Will you be keeping the same schedule as Dr. Colby?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered. “I’d like to come by tomorrow if that’s okay. I think of today as a get-acquainted day, and a chance for me to evaluate Jean-Claude’s current abilities, but of course, the decision is yours, sir.”
“Of course, of course, tomorrow will be fine. Come as often as you wish. I’m a firm believer in rigorous and frequent study. That is how greatness is achieved.” Wu nodded to Johnny, who picked up Jean-Claude’s trumpet case and set it on the sofa. Wu then looked down at Jean-Claude and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Pay close attention to what Mr. Callaway says, Jean-Claude. He’s a talented and most respected musician in this city.”
Okay, so Charlie Wu might have been a ruthless, murdering, drug dealing, low-life, crime boss, but he got points from me for that one.
Wu nodded to Number One son, Johnny, and they departed without further comment—Number One son following three steps behind father. My blood pressure went down considerably the instant they were out the room.
For a couple of awkward seconds, the boy and I just stood there, neither of us saying a word, and both doing our best to avoid eye contact. We just stood there like two strangers stranded alone in a room together. Which I suppose we were.
It should be noted that I’ve never been comfortable around kids. It’s not that I don’t like them, it’s just they’re not my favorite type of humans to associate with. Even when I was one, I preferred the company of grown-ups. I remember thinking how unfair it was that some of us weren’t allowed to skip all the nonsense and come into this world already able to add, subtract, and order a scotch and soda, as we so desired. Perhaps that was because I was an only child, who knows? My point is this: even though Jean-Claude was dressed like Jay Gatsby, he was still a kid, and as such, all my legendary Callaway charm was going to be rendered totally useless.
The moment was becoming increasingly awkward, so I finally broke the silence. “Why don’t you grab your horn, Jean-Claude, and we’ll get started?”
The boy went to the sofa, opened the horn case, and took out what looked to be a new Bach Strad.
“By the way, is it okay if I call you Jean-Claude?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because I can call you…Mr. Wu, if you’d prefer.”
“My last name’s not Wu,” he shot back. “It’s Chevrolet.”
“Chevrolet? Like the car?”
“Yes, sir. But you can call me Jean-Claude.”
“Okay, and you can call me Trip.”
For the first time, his face changed expression. “Trip?”
“It’s a nickname,” I replied. “Don’t ask me my real name. I won’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like it. My name is Trip.”
“Okay, sir.”
I gave him a look.
“Sorry. Trip.”
I smiled. “So, how long have you been playing the trumpet, Jean-Claude?”
“Four years,” he answered, putting the mouthpiece into his horn. “But I started playing piano when I was three, maybe younger. I don’t remember.”
I’m positive his accent started out as being French, but now it could only be described as mutt—a little French, a little English—as in British—and I think I even caught a bit of Chinese slipping through.
“That’s good. So, you’re up on your music theory.”
“Yes, sir…I mean, Trip. I mean…I believe so, sir. Trip.”
I opened my horn case and took out Clegg’s trumpet again. I also took out my two old method books, the Arban, and the Clark. I placed them on the piano, and before I could ask the question, Jean-Claude went back to his case, took out the same two books, and set them on the music stand. I nodded my approval. “Well, I guess you should show me how far along you got with Dr. Colby. Why don’t you play something for me?”
“What would you like me to play?”
“How about the last piece you worked through in the Arban?”
Jean-Claude opened the book about three-quarters in, brought the horn to his lips, opened the spit valve, and blew some air through the horn. Then, he began to play.
The boy was good. Not as good as me, of course, but perhaps nearly as good as me when I was his age. His technique was perfect, and his tone was excellent. Also, the piece he was playing was not an easy one, requiring embouchure and breath control well beyond his years.
When he finished, I smiled. “Good. Very good, actually. Play me something else.”
He methodically, if not robotically, set the Arban book aside, and replaced it with the Clark. He raised his horn and began playing through one of the more challenging exercises. I stopped him four bars in. “No, I’m sorry. I mean, why don’t you play me a song?”
“Which song?”
“Any song. What’s your favorite?”
Without answering, he brought the horn back up to his lips and began playing from memory a piece by—and I could be mistaken here—the classical composer Johann Hummel. After he finished, he lo
wered the horn and just looked at me. I’d seen mannequins with more expressive mugs.
“Okay, that was good too. Is that your favorite song?’
“It’s a very good song, sir…sorry, Trip.”
“Yes, it is.” There was another awkward silence. “Tell me, Jean-Claude, what kind of music do you listen to?”
“What kind?”
“Yes, you know, just for the fun of listening to music. What kind do you listen to?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? That doesn’t sound right.”
He squirmed a bit, which gave me a hunch. I took a shot in the dark. “Jean-Claude, do you know where I work?”
“At the university?”
“No, I work at the Sands. Do you know the Sands?”
“It’s the casino.”
“Right. I play in the orchestra in the Copa Room. I also jam around town in places like The Jam Jar. I’m pretty well known, actually.”
“You play at The Jam Jar?”
“Uh-huh. I not only play there, I live there, too—long story.”
“So, you play—”
“Jazz mostly. Some swing, but my favorite is bebop.”
At last, his face relaxed a little. “Like Dizzy.”
I smiled. “Yeah, like Dizzy. You a fan of Dizzy?”
The boy didn’t respond immediately, but eventually, he cracked the thinnest of grins. “I like him very much.”
“Cool. Who else do you like?”
“Well…,” and he was off, “Miles is amazing. Have you heard his newest record? It’s far-out. I like Lee Morgan too. And Harry James, though he’s a little old fashion for me, but he’s still really great. Have you heard of Maynard Ferguson? A lot of people haven’t, but he’s unbelievable. And, of course, Louis Armstrong, but I guess everybody likes him. I dig Chet Baker, Al Hirt, and—”
“Okay, okay, I get the picture. Just one problem.”
His smile vanished. “What?”
“You left out a name.”
“Whose?”
“Trip Callaway.”
It took him a moment, but after a raised eyebrow from me, he let loose an honest to goodness laugh.