Cold War Copa

by Phil Swann

  Cold War Copa

  Phil Swann

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  Published by Cygnus Road

  Cold War Copa

  Copyright © 2017 by Phil Swann

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For my mother, Nancy Swann.

  Contents

  Cold War Copa by Phil Swann

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  About the Author

  Cold War Copa by Phil Swann

  A blonde bombshell floats face down in a swimming pool. Is it a love affair gone wrong? Or is something far more sinister afoot? Cold War Copa is the first book in The Sideman Mysteries, a pulp fiction tale of Sin City during its Golden Age from author, playwright, and composer Phil Swann.

  Las Vegas in 1965. Gangsters, showgirls, the Rat Pack, cool is king, and everything swings. Especially Trip Callaway, a young, wise-cracking trumpet player working the Sands. But when people around him start getting knocked off, Trip is thrust into a dangerous maze of secrets, lies, murder, and Cold War intrigue, where nothing is how it seems and no one is who they say they are.

  Was it the mob? The boyfriend? The stripper? Or could the truth lie at a mysterious top secret location hidden deep in the Nevada desert nobody wants to talk about? All Trip knows for sure is, if he doesn’t figure it all out fast, he could be next on the killer’s hit parade.

  Chapter 1

  Vegas, 1965

  The no-necked gorilla had fists the size of oil cans, and his combos were like wrecking balls pulverizing my gut. Just to make the humiliation complete, the bad-breathed behemoth holding me up from behind chuckled every time his Neanderthal pal unleashed another bomb.

  “What’s so funny, Vinnie? Other than your face.”

  In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have said that. Vinnie nodded to Knuckles, and we were off again. I knew if I put up a fight, it would only make matters worse, so I tried to relax and just go with it. I recalled Pop telling me once that’s what our boys did during the war. To survive the hell the Japs were putting them through, they trained their minds to detach and look inward. So, that’s what I did. I detached, went still, and tried to go to a happy place. It wasn’t working. I was getting the bejeezus beaten out of me, and it hurt like the dickens. Finally, Vinnie let go, and I fell to the ground like a slice of boloney.

  “Fat Tony says you got three days to pay up, Callaway. Or next time Sal here starts breaking things. Got it?”

  I didn’t answer, not that a response was really being asked for. I rolled over on my side and tried not to do, or say, anything that would warrant another go around—an exercise in self-restraint that doesn’t come naturally to yours truly. Admittedly, I wasn’t completely coherent, but as the two apes walked away, I could’ve sworn I heard one say to the other, “I’m hungry, I’m thinking pasta.”

  It took a minute, but eventually I got to my feet. My legs were rubber, and every breath felt like I was swallowing broken glass. But at least Sal hadn’t hit me in the face, something I knew was neither an oversight nor out of the kindness of his black heart. No, he’d spared my kisser because Fat Tony had ordered him to. Fat T might not have been the sharpest tool in the shed, but he did understand if he ever wanted to see his money, he couldn’t take away this chump’s only means of earning it. Not that my face is so great. It’s just your average, mid-western face of Scotch-Irish descent, but everything’s in its right place, and on occasion has even been described as being quite pleasant looking. Meaning, I’m no Rock Hudson, but I’m no Quasimodo, either. My mouth, however, is a different story. Specifically, my lips. They’re my moneymaker. If they go, or are beaten to a pulp by a couple of slabs of beef, I got a problem. Then, Fat Tony’s got a problem.

  I retrieved my one hundred percent wool, Italian-designed tuxedo jacket with a midnight blue satin lapel from over the garbage bin where I had flung it. I put it back on, and a flash of fear shot through me when I didn’t immediately see my axe. I eventually located it behind the aforementioned garbage bin. I must have had the wherewithal to stash it there when I saw Heckle and Jeckle coming my way—I’m amazed at how my brain works sometimes. At any rate, feeling like I was sufficiently put back together, I picked up the case, plodded out of the dark alley, and back into the civilized world. That is if you call the Las Vegas Strip the civilized world. It’s certainly debatable.

  It was a typical Saturday night on The Strip. I know you know what that means, so I won’t waste a lot of time describing it to you. Suffice to say, it was one gigantic, shameless, unsophisticated, yet highly affective assault on the senses. A barrage of light, sounds, and smells, all promising untold riches and something deliciously sinister around the next corner. Vegas runs green on the decadent desire of Ma and Pa Kettle, Joe Businessman, and of course, the wannabe Sky Mastersons, those delusional dandies who truly keep the town in the chips. They say a sucker is born every minute. If that’s true, then these saps come in litters, usually arriving by plane and leaving by bus. I know what you’re thinking, like I’m one to talk. But at least for me, Lady Luck is a mere hobby—a painful one for sure, but a hobby nonetheless. I’ve never actually believed she was my ticket to Easy Street. That’s because I got talent. And it’s talent, not a timely roll of a seven, I’m betting on to keep me in Cheerios and Chesterfields for years to come. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to explain this noble philosophy of mine to Fat Tony. He’s never much cared.

  It’s important to me you understand that even though I was walking, I did own a car. A brand spankin’ new ’65 Falcon convertible—Phoenician yellow to be exact. I was only hoofing it because I lived less than a mile off The Strip, and walking to work was faster than driving. It’s important to me you know that because—and not to brag here—when I arrived in this oasis four years ago, I had nothing but thirty-two dollars in my pocket, my horn, and a phone number. So, I’m no slacker. I’ve worked my tail off for everything I’ve got and am not too proud to say it. Also, you might think walking to work was ill advised given my encounter with Fat Tony’s boys, but I’d beg to differ. Them choosing to have their little chat with me when and where they did was a stroke of good fortune. Call me old-fashioned, but I think it’s bad form to get the tar kicked out of you in front of your place of business. I’m not sure if Mr. Morelli would’ve fired me for the indiscretion or not, but I had no interest in finding out. Cool gigs on The Strip are hard to come by, and I had the coolest. It had taken me exactly three years and nine months to land the tuna, and I wasn’t about to let Fat Tony’s bad attit
ude blow it for me.

  With that in mind, I checked my Timex and saw I was already two minutes late. This wasn’t good. As well as being exceedingly proper, Mr. Morelli was a stickler for punctuality. I bolted across Las Vegas Boulevard and through the parking lot of the Sands. As not to advertise my tardiness, I ducked in via a side service entrance. The security guy must have recognized me because he didn’t utter a word as I whizzed past him. I dashed through the kitchen, dodging an armada of waiters, cooks, and busboys, and hurried down a concrete corridor. Two turns later a restricted fire door deposited me in the backstage area of the Copa Room. I paused to compose myself and make sure no one had caught me slipping in. They hadn’t. The curtain was closed, and some of the boys had already taken their seats, so I casually walked onto the stage, set my horn case by my chair, and proceeded to the opposite wing. I was heartened to see I wasn’t the only one late. Larry, the second chair clarinet player, was at the bulletin board as I stepped up.

  “Evening, Lare,” I said, signing the call sheet.

  “Hi, Trip,” Larry replied, looking as frazzled on the outside as I felt on the inside.

  “Has the old man been down yet?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied.

  I silently gave thanks to whatever God looks out for drunks, fools, and jazz musicians. “So what’s your excuse?” I asked.

  “Colicky kid, wife has the flu, traffic on The Strip, take your pick. You?”

  “Unavoidably detained,” I answered.

  Larry responded with a nod and hurried away. I retrieved my tie from inside my jacket and was putting it on when I heard an overly feminine voice calling my name.

  “Trip Callaway, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  I turned just as a bona fide bombshell, wearing nothing but three-inch stilettos, too much makeup, and a pink satin robe, appeared from around the teaser. I swear to God that’s what the curtain’s called.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, kissing me innocently on the cheek.

  Lydia Starr, appropriately with two r’s, was a five-foot-seven tornado of temptation. That’s in heels, of course, but I’d never seen her in anything else. Lydia was the very definition of every man’s dream and every wife’s nightmare. Originally from Nowheresville, Alabama, Lydia was another high school heartbreaker who headed out west to find fame and fortune in the Hollywood pictures, only to get as far as Vegas, run out of lettuce, but then realize her God-given attributes could bankroll her until she could earn enough dough to continue down Highway 15 to La La Land. That was three years ago. I didn’t feel too bad for ol’ Lydia though, and wasn’t fooled by the platinum blonde hair and pouty lips. Lydia Starr was smart with a capital S, and savvy with as many Vs as you can fit into the word. It’s also important to note that being a Copa Girl in this town was nothing to sneeze at. It came with nearly as many perks as being a movie starlet. I would wager even Lydia couldn’t remember the last time she paid for a meal.

  “What’s up, Lyds?”

  “I need to talk to you about your friend Kenny.”

  “What about Kenny? He bothering you?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. I just wanted to—”

  “Fifteen minutes everyone. Fifteen minutes ’til places,” the voice announced over the small speaker hanging above the bulletin board.

  Lydia sighed. “I have to slip into my costume. Can we talk after the first show?”

  “Sure,” my mouth said while my mind fixated on her use of the word slip.

  I turned toward the stage.

  “Hang on.” She wet her finger and rubbed it on my cheek. “You got smooch on your face. You been playing in a sandbox or something, Trip?”

  I didn’t answer.

  She tousled my hair and then asked, “Got a comb?”

  I pulled a comb from my back pocket and ran it through my mop. “How’s that?”

  “Handsome as ever. Have a good show.”

  She kissed me on the cheek—again without a smidgeon of vulgarity—and I leered in admiration as she wiggled away.

  The Kenny Lydia was referring to was Ken Baldwin, an old chum from my days at Indiana University—well, more like an acquaintance than an old chum. Back then, Ken and I ran in completely different circles. I was a music major, and Ken was a math or engineering or some other kind of egghead major. But despite coming from radically different buildings on campus, we bonded one drunken night over our mutual love for Satchmo. When Ken learned I could blow a decent version of “Basin Street Blues,” I became the hippest cat he’d ever met. Ken was a senior and I was a freshman so by definition that made him the hippest cat I’d ever met. After Ken graduated, he accepted a job out west, but we stayed in touch. Then, when I dropped out of IU in the middle of my junior year—okay, I was asked to leave, who knew they took that code of conduct stuff seriously—I wrote to Ken and asked if he knew of somewhere in Vegas a decent trumpet player might ply his trade. Turned out he knew a guy who knew a guy. Thus, the phone number in my pocket when I arrived. I owed Ken and promised to repay him someday. So, about six weeks ago, I set him up on a date with Copa Girl extraordinaire, Lydia Starr. Slam-bang. Debt paid in full. Alas, if only all my debts could be settled as easily.

  I returned to the stage and took my place as third chair trumpet player. I could hear the audience murmuring on the other side of the curtain now. I opened the case and removed my horn. Bud and Fred, first and second chair respectively, glanced over and offered a short but friendly good evening and then continued warming up. Bud and Fred were easily twenty years older than me, not that it mattered. In fact, except for possibly Ritchie, the new colored kid on percussion, I was probably the youngest person in the orchestra. But no one treated me differently because of it. They, like most pros, couldn’t have cared less if I was twenty-five or a hundred and twenty-five. All that mattered was could you swing. And in all modesty, I could swing like Tarzan.

  I was feeling fit as a fiddle and decided I’d shaken off the thumping Fat Tony’s boys put on me, so I wasn’t even thinking when I brought the horn to my lips, opened the spit valve, and blew. Big mistake. A butcher’s knife jabbed into my lower back, up into my lungs, and through my rib cage. I don’t believe I actually screamed, but I can’t swear to it. I looked over at Bud and Fred, and neither acted like anything was wrong. I must have unconsciously stifled the audible reflex reaction out of some innate sense of decorum. Like I said, I’m amazed at how my brain works sometimes.

  I instantly went on the offensive and began running the set list in my head. It was just a ninety-minute show, including encore and showgirls, but it might as well have been a ninety-day show. If I didn’t come up with a plan fast, I wasn’t going to make it. And remember, this was only the first of two shows. I had to do it all over again at one.

  I quickly realized the opening fifteen minutes were a bust. I’d just have to hunker down and get through those first few audience-grabbing numbers without passing out, but if I could, next came a long stretch where I played in unison with Bud and Fred. I could lay back and fake it and no one would notice, not even Mr. Morelli. I wouldn’t have to worry again until halfway through the set on “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” On that song, the trumpets played in three-part harmony and were muted, making blowing air through the instrument like sucking a bowling ball through a straw. My ribs hurt just thinking about it. It was smooth sailing again until “Fly Me to the Moon,” which only got ridiculous at the end. There was another easy stretch before the run-out. That would be the killer. The run-out was a ten-minute Jimmy Van Heusen medley where the trumpets spent most of the time playing in a register only dogs can hear. It was Mr. Morelli’s favorite number, probably because it was his arrangement, and that meant he’d be hanging on every note. And that meant no faking it. And that settled it. If I did nothing else, I had to pace myself and be ready for the run-out. It was going to be a long night.

  I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, but you’ve probably guessed anyway, this wasn’t the firs
t time I’ve had to navigate similar waters, albeit not on a gig as important as the Sands. For though I consider myself to be an easygoing and likable sort, my knack for irritating the wrong people at precisely the wrong time has always been a problem. I swear it’s not intentional, it just happens. Heretofore, I’ve been unsuccessful in remedying this inconvenient character flaw, and that’s unfortunate because I really do take my work seriously. Which might surprise you because, as you can no doubt tell, I don’t take many things in life too seriously. I don’t even take not taking things seriously, seriously, if you catch my drift. It’s like this: I’ve lived through WWII, whatever that thing was in Korea, missiles in Cuba, and the assassination of an American president. And now I hear there’s another skirmish in some little Oriental country no one’s ever heard of, so, I’m sorry, but I’ve already lived through too much in my twenty-five young years to get all that worked up about much of anything. Truth is, I find most stuff in life to be little more than a tired vaudeville act full of pratfalls and cream pies to the face. Most things. Not my music. My music I take very seriously.

  You see, being a sideman at the Sands is primo, but it’s far from being the end of the rainbow. It’s just a layover en route to the eventual pot of gold. Remember, I got talent. Mark my words, Trip Callaway will be the next Dizzy Gillespie someday. Which is why I started keeping a written account of my epic climb to musical legendry soon after arriving in this town, and why I can relate these events to you now in such detail. In fifty years or so, when they make the movie of my life, I want to make sure they get the facts right. Well, most of them anyway. Even legends deserve some secrets.