Shades of Blue (18 page)
“How’s that working out?”
“Far as I know, okay. Some developer is trying to force me to sell it though, but I think Dana can handle him.”
Brody nods and heads for the bedroom.
I sit for awhile after Brody goes to bed, just thinking about everything, trying to sort through all the things that have happened in a few short days. I glance down at Brody’s legal pad. He’s written some names and addresses down and also some doodles, probably while he talked on the phone. Near the bottom he’s printed several words in big letters.
Simplicity, complicity, multiplicity, duplicity—Boplicity!!!
***
I grab some dinner at a small cafe with outside tables and watch the Village throng of strollers, eating, sipping some red wine. One of the biggest cities in the world and I’ve never felt more alone. I wonder how Mavis will make it through the night. I order some coffee and call Dana.
“Evan, how are you?”
“Doing okay, how about you?”
“Still struggling with this thesis. Are you almost finished in New York?”
“Yeah, but little change in plans. I have some business in L.A. so I’ll be stopping over there for a couple of days.”
“Great, I’ll get to see you then.”
“Yes. How’s everything going with the house? No more hassles from Brent Sergent I hope.” She pauses a minute.
“No. He called once but I told him what you said.” There’s a brief pause, then, “Evan, are you sure you don’t want to consider his offer. I mean it is a lot of money. I hope you’re not worried about me. I can always get another place.”
“No, it isn’t that, Dana. I just don’t like his approach and I still haven’t decided what to do about the house. But don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of notice if I change my mind.”
“Okay,” she says, but doesn’t sound very convincing. “What about the search for Cal? Anything new?”
“Well a lot has been happening, but I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”
“Oh, you’re a terrible tease, Evan Horne. I can’t wait to hear.”
“You will, don’t worry. I’ll call you when I get in.”
“Yes, please. I want to know when you’re coming so I can have the house all neat and tidy.”
“I’m sure you will. Talk to you soon.”
“Bye.”
Andie is home too. “Hi, babe, how goes it?” I say.
“Very lonely without you here. How’s it going?”
“I caught up with Al Beckwood but he died this afternoon. He was in last stages of cancer.”
“Oh, Evan, I’m sorry. Did you get to talk to him?”
“Yes, quite a bit actually and he put me on to someone else. An old girlfriend of Cal’s who lives in Los Angeles. I’m going to see her in the next day or two if I can get a flight out of here. I’m about done with New York.”
She sighs audibly. “Well at least you’ll be that much closer. Then home I hope.”
“Yes, then home.”
“Thank God. I’m sick of sitting here alone. I’m itching to get back to work now. Just waiting for the doctor’s clearance. Imagine that, a clearance to sit at a fucking desk. Not field work but at least I’ll be in the loop again.”
I hesitate a moment. “Anything on that file?”
I hear Andie’s breathing for a moment, then, “I thought we were through with that.”
“We are, I just…oh, forget it.”
“I’m trying to.”
“Well just take it easy, girl. It’ll be soon enough.”
“What are you doing right now?”
“Sitting outside at a restaurant in the village, watching people walk by.”
“Plenty of girls to check out I imagine.”
“Hordes of them but they’re all with guys.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I get a flight.”
“I can’t wait.”
***
“Wow, haven’t seen one of these in a long time. Where did you get them?” Buzz Harris, the engineer asks me as he opens the box and looks at the tapes Mavis Beckwood gave me.
I’d arrived early for the mixing session for just this reason. “I just came into them recently. You know what kind of machine I’d need to play them.”
“Yeah, a reel to reel. Friend of mine has one. An old Akai but a mother to haul around. Long way from these iPods and MP3 players.” He rubs his finger over the end of the tape. “How old are these?”
“Late 1949, early 1950. Can they be transferred to CD?”
“Sure can. Remember those tapes of Bird that guy Dean Benedetti made on one of those old wire recorders? They’re all on CD now.” He looks around as Roy Haynes walks in, dapper as usual in a cashmere sweater, slacks, and loafers.
“Transfer what?” Haynes asks, looking at the tapes.
“Yeah,” Buzz says. “What’s on them?”
I feel their eyes on me. “Miles.
Birth of the Cool
band. Somebody made these during rehearsals.”
“Are you serious?” Haynes picks up one of the tapes.
“Well that’s what’s supposed to be on them.”
“You know these could be worth some money,” Haynes and Buzz say almost simultaneously.
I shrug. “I suppose so.”
Larry Klein walks in the booth then. “Hey, what’s going on? Did somebody say money?”
“Evan found some tapes of Miles band rehearsing
Birth of the Cool
,” Haynes says.
“What?” Klein’s mouth drops open.
They all gather around the box, looking at the large plastic reels.
“Dude, we have to hear these,” Buzz says. “I’ll call my friend, see if he’ll come over and bring his recorder.”
“Okay,” Haynes says. “Call him, but we got business to take care of.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and takes me out in the studio. “How’d you get these?”
I tell him about Al Beckwood, the rehearsals, and Calvin. “I just recently found out he was my father. He made a few of the rehearsals, but he wasn’t on record.”
Haynes nods. “And you wish he was, don’t you. He play piano too?”
“Yes. Calvin Hughes.”
Haynes looks away, shaking his head. “Don’t recognize the name, but hell, that don’t mean anything. I was around then too, but Max Roach had that gig.” He looks back at me. “Is your father still alive?”
“No, he died a couple of weeks ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s why you sounded down on the phone.”
“Yeah, I guess. Thanks. I only found out a couple of days ago from my mother. I’ve been trying to track down some of his friends. Al Beckwood was one and he had these tapes. But when I went through Cal’s things, I found some lead sheets of ‘Boplicity’ and a couple of others.”
“Roy, we’re ready.” Buzz’s voice comes over the studio speaker.
“Come on, we’ll talk more later.”
We go back in the booth as Buzz cues up the first tune. Larry Klein sits in a chair near the front of the control board, watching Buzz’s hands on the slide controls as the first notes of “I Hear a Rhapsody” come through the monitor speakers. On a screen in front of Buzz, an LCD screen flashes squiggly lines. It looks almost like a heart monitor.
“Jesus,” Larry Klein says, swiveling in his chair and looking from me to Roy. “That’s a hot track.”
Haynes, smiling, nodding his head. “Buzz, you’re a magician.”
We listen to the whole track. Haynes’ stick on the cymbal is so clear and definite, the cymbal beat so varied, and Ron Carter’s buzz tone bass underlying it all. The track ends and Buzz leans back and looks at Haynes.
“Don’t do anything,” Haynes says. He looks at me, raising his eyebrows.
I’m just awed at the sound. “Is that me?” I can’t think when I sounded better, but with Ron Carter and Roy Haynes behind me how could I not.
“Okay, save that one, Buzz. Let’s hear the ballad.”
Larry Klein shakes his head. “You fooled me. I really thought it was going to be ‘All Blues.’”
Buzz cues up the ballad, “Goodbye Porkpie Hat,” and except for a couple of places where he nudges up Carter’s bass, we all agree it’s a good take. Haynes brushes are silky smooth on the snare drum.
“That’s it,” Haynes says.
Buzz nods and fills in a form with the titles and personnel and the time of each track, and it’s all saved on the hard drive.
Haynes gives me a hug. “You sound great, man. I have to call Fletcher Paige and thank him for turning me on to you.”
“Say hi for me.”
“You got it.” He glances at his watch. “I got a meeting pretty soon, but I’ll call you and we’ll talk some more, okay?” He glances again at the box of tapes. “Let me know how those are. Maybe we can do something with them.” He looks at Larry. “Are we cool with Evan’s bread?”
Klein reaches in his coat pocket and takes out a check and a release form for me to sign.
“Thanks. Any chance I could rearrange my ticket? I need to stop in L.A. before I go home.”
Klein shrugs and looks a Haynes. “Might be a cancellation fee.”
“Give him what he wants,” he says to Klein.
“I’ll pay the difference,” I say.
“No problem. When do you want to leave?”
“Well tonight if possible.”
Klein nods and takes out his cell phone. “Let me see what I can do.”
“Later,” Haynes says and follows Klein into the studio and heads for the exit.
Buzz leans back. “You want to grab some coffee or something? My friend said he’d be over soon.”
“Okay. I’ll be downstairs.”
I go out back down to the street and light a cigarette, my heart still not slowing. Two tracks on a Roy Haynes CD and Beckwood’s tapes about to be revealed. I can’t decide which feels better, and I can hardly wait to meet Maybeline Jones.
I walk around the block looking for coffee, finally getting a Styrofoam cup from a hole in the wall place next to an electronics store.
“It ain’t Starbucks, but it’s fresh,” the guy behind the counter says.
I add cream and sugar, press a lid on top and take a sip. “It’s good too.”
When I go back upstairs, Buzz and his friend have a reel to reel recorder set up and plugged in.
“Hey,” Buzz says. “We got it happening in a minute. This is Joey, sound guy for Madison Square Garden.”
“Hi,” I say. Joey is a tall slim guy in jeans and a Eric Clapton tee shirt. He nods and continues threading the tape through the heads of the recorder, finally looping one end over the right reel.
“Okay, you ready?” He switches on the recorder and I hold my breath.
There’s a lot of background noise, papers being rattled, muted conversations we only get snatches of and some bumping sounds.
“Setting the microphone up,” Joey says.
Then the piano, some chords, runs, like somebody warming up. Somebody laughs and we hear a few notes from a couple of the horns. Who was there that day? Gil Evans, Gerry Mulligan, Max Roach? My mind reels through the personnel. If that’s Cal at the piano, then John Lewis is doing something else.
Finally a raspy voice says, “Let’s play it down.”
“Wow, is that Miles?” Buzz says.
“Don’t sound like him,” Joey says.
“Maybe it’s Gil Evans.”
“No, man, Miles was the leader.”
There’s a shaky start and stop sequence as Miles says something else that’s hard to hear, then an almost complete play through of “Boplicity.” Miles stops things and we hear him say, “Cal, hold that chord there, at the end, longer.”
Cal’s voice then, sounding younger but no doubt it’s Cal. “Sorry, I got it now.”
“Don’t be sorry, motherfucker, just play it.” Then Miles and some others laughing.
They start again and go through the whole tune. I strain, listening. The quality is not balanced or clean but we can hear the whole band. The rest of the tape is similar. Lots of noise, short conversations, remarks, clearly the sound of a bottle opening as the rehearsal continues. We listen to the whole tape. It stops in the middle of one tune and the tape runs through the recorder then flapping as it spins off the empty reel.
I watch Joey and Buzz look at each other. “I could clean this up a bit,” Buzz says.
“Yeah, it’s recorded at fifteen so we can fix it a little.” They continue talking as if I’m not there. Two recording guys immersed in technical jargon about tape speeds, static noise, blank spots. Finally, they look at me.
“Can you transfer those to a CD?”
Joey nods. “Sure, not a problem. I’m on a deadline for another project though. Can you leave them with me?”
I feel only the slightest hesitation to let the tapes out of my sight. “I’m going back to California tonight. Let me pay you for your time.”
Joey glances at Buzz. “Two bills okay?”
“I’ll have to get some cash. I’ll leave it with Buzz and enough extra for shipping. Can you Fed-Ex it to me?”
“Sure. I’ll do it here. Save me lugging this big thing around.”
Buzz says, “It’s cool, man. I’ll lock up the tapes here.”
“Great.” I write down my Monte Rio address and cell phone number and give it to Joey. “I really appreciate this, guys.”
“How do you want me to label the CD?” Buzz says.
“Miles and Cal—Boplicity.”
I get to the airport two hours before my flight, hoping it’s not crowded and I can have a couple of seats to myself. It’s not a red eye but my own are gritty at six in the morning. I’m ready to nap at 37,000 feet.
Larry Klein had arranged for a stopover in Los Angeles and had even waived the rebooking charge. It wasn’t much anyway, but it’s a nice gesture and makes me think even more highly of Roy Haynes.
“The way you played, Roy said anything you want,” Klein said when he’d called me with the flight information.
Now that I’m here, I’m almost sorry to be leaving New York, but at the same time I’m excited about meeting Maybeline Jones, and finally getting some real first hand information about Cal’s earlier life. The tapes are very much on my mind too. I want to sit down with headphones and listen to them over and over. The little bit I’d heard made me long for everything, and, in a couple of days, I’ll have them in CD form.
I have a last cigarette outside the terminal, watching people being dropped off for flights, saying their goodbyes, and head inside to run the security gamut, but again it’s fairly painless. Maybe it’s the time of morning, but I’m through and walking toward my gate in fifteen minutes.
I grab coffee at the nearest snack bar, then spend a few minutes browsing around a gift shop, skimming magazines, thumbing through the latest best-selling books. I finally take a seat in the boarding area, anxious to get on the plane. From the size of the crowd, it’s not going to be too bad and I’ve got a window seat. I’m already yawning when they finally make the boarding call.
I find my seat, stow my bag in the overhead compartment, and wait to see the draw on any companions. There are several close calls as people check their seat numbers and glance at me, but in the end I have a row to myself. I buckle up, put my head back and wait for the plane to taxi out and prepare for takeoff.
There’s an hour spent serving a light snack and drinks, then the cabin lights dim and a movie comes up. I lean back, close my eyes, and I’m asleep in minutes.
The descent of the plane is all that awakens me. I sit up and look at Los Angeles spread out below. I just have time to get to the restroom, splash some cold water on my face, and get back to my seat as the pilot makes the landing announcement. I feel groggy and stiff walking through the terminal and almost nod off standing in line at the car rental desk.
I turn on my cell and call Danny Cooper. He answers curtly. “This is Cooper.”
“This is Horne. Roger that.”
He laughs. “Hey where are you?”
“Waiting in line at Hertz at LAX.”
“Save some money. I’m on lunch down on Lincoln. Want me to pick you up?”
“No, stay there. I need a car for a couple of days. Have another doughnut. I’ll be there in half an hour. Norm’s?”
“How did you know?” He laughs again.
“Where else? See ya.”
I finally get a car and snake through the airport traffic, heading for Lincoln Boulevard, down past Marina del Rey, Venice, and finally, a right on Pico to Norm’s coffee shop. I pull in and find Coop staring out the window at me.
I barely get to this booth when his cell phone rings. “This is Cooper,” he says into the phone, holding up a finger. “Got it. Be right there.” He looks at me and shrugs. “Sorry. I have a situation as we say. I gotta go.”
“No problem. How about dinner. I have lots to tell you.”
He gets up, adjusts his coat, his gun flashing briefly. “Sounds good. I’m off at six.”
“Okay. Call me when you’re free and we’ll figure out a place.”
I wave off the waitress, saying I’ve changed my mind and get back in my car and head for Hollywood, deciding to go straight to the house, but I can’t resist a coffee place on Franklin. I pull in quickly and go inside, then stop suddenly.
Tucked away at a corner table, a couple catches my eye. Dana is sitting, her back to me. The guy facing her is Brent Sergent. He has his hand on hers across the table, his eyes traveling around the room as he talks, and eventually, lock on mine. He jerks his hand away from Dana and sits back in his chair, shaking his head.
I watch Dana look at him, then turn. Her eyes meet mine, then she drops her head again. I walk over and stand by their table.
“Well, well,” I say, looking from one to the other. I glare at Sergent. “Don’t you have someplace you have to be?”
He gets up, grabs his briefcase, glances at Dana. “I’ll call you,” he says to her. He carefully avoids me, skirting around another table and makes for the exit.
“Yeah, do that,” I say, watching him go. I turn back to l look at Dana. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“I…I didn’t know when you were coming,” she says, her voice almost a whisper.
“I can see that.”
“Evan, it’s not what it looks like.”
“Oh, what does it look like?”
“Please let me explain.”
“Yeah, sure. No, you know what? Don’t bother.” I shove a chair aside and walk quickly away. Pushing through the door I get outside but Dana follows me.
“Evan, please.”
I stop and turn around. “For what, Dana? I get the picture.”
“Just give me five minutes. Please.”
“This should be good. Okay five minutes.”
“I’ll be right back,” she says. “I left my purse inside.”
I find a vacant table, light a cigarette and wait. She comes back in less than two, carrying a coffee for me and sits down. I sit down, get a cigarette going and look at her. “How long have you known Sergent?”
She sighs. “Since college. We were in a couple of classes together, but that time he came to the house, it was the first time I’d seen him since.”
“So you’re just renewing your old acquaintance?” I make no attempt to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, and I see it pains Dana to hear it.
She leans forward. “I know this looks bad, Evan, but please, I can explain everything.”
I look away, take a deep drag on my cigarette and sip some coffee. “Yeah, sure. Everybody can always explain everything. Dana, I trusted you. At least I thought I could. Is Sergent paying you to hustle me? You have some kind of commission deal going.”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s not like that.”
“What is it like then?” I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe my instinct about her had been right when I’d heard her talk about Cal, rented her the house, but seeing her with Sergent now changes everything.
She runs her hands through her hair, winding up, considering what she’s going to say. “Brent saw me once, with Cal. He was up there scouting properties in the neighborhood, said he was working for this big developer, and anything I could tell him would be helpful. I didn’t see any harm in that. When I asked Cal about it, he just laughed. ‘They’ve been sniffing around here for years, but where would I go if I did sell, he said.’”
“Brent called a couple of weeks later but by that time, Cal was gone and I’d met you. That’s when he came to the house and talked to you. He said there would be a finder’s fee if I could talk you into selling, but by then, I was…”
Her voice trails off and she looks at me. “I know it’s crazy and I have no right, but that little time we spent together, well, you know what I’m talking about. I was uncomfortable talking with Brent after that. He called several times, pushing me to persuade you to sell. I met him today to tell him I don’t want anymore to do with it. He even threatened to tell you I worked for him. He thinks you and I had something going on. That’s all that happened, Evan. Really.”
I’m quiet for a few moments, thinking, turning things over in my mind. I drink off half the coffee, feeling Dana’s eyes on me. When I turn to look at her again, I see her eyes pooling.
“I don’t know, Dana. I guess I’m feeling pretty sensitive about trust after what I’ve learned in the past few days.”
“Please believe me, Evan. If you want I’ll move out today, and you can find another tenant. I don’t want you to think I’m involved in any conspiracy with Brent. He gives me the creeps now.”
What choice do I have? I don’t have time to make new arrangements, decide what to do with Milton. There’s no place in my life now for a dog, and so far no harm done. I still own the house and after all, Brent Sergent can’t force me to sell.
“I want to believe you, Dana, and I don’t want you to move out either, but if I find out you have anything more to do with Brent Sergent other than hanging up on him if he calls, I’ll close the house down. I don’t want to do that but I will. I want to be clear about that.”
She nods and wipes her eyes with a napkin. “Thank you. I’m so sorry I did anything for you to doubt me, and don’t worry, I don’t want anything more to do with him anyway.”
She doesn’t say why, but at this point I don’t care. “Okay, fair enough. Let’s just forget it. It’s over and we’ll move on for now.”
She manages a smile and nods again. “Why did you come to L.A.”
“To meet with a woman who knew Cal pretty well. I went up to my folks when I was in New York, and my mother finally told me everything. Cal is my father and she was, is, Jean Lane.”
I catch her up quickly and drop her at the house, hoping I’m not making a mistake.
She gets out of the car then leans back in the window. “Are you sure we’re okay?”
I nod. “Yeah, we’re okay.” She turns away, obviously not sure. I watch her walk up the steep flight of steps, then turn and wave at me. For all I know, Brent Sergent is waiting around the corner, watching the house. I make a U-turn and go back to Beachwood Drive, turning left instead of back into Hollywood.
Driving up a few blocks, I turn around, go back and park a half a block or so from the house. I sit for half an hour, feeling sillier with every passing minute.
Dana’s confusion and remorse do seem genuine, so why am I still wary, checking on her? Why can’t I trust anybody anymore? Dana, my long time friend—so I thought—Ace Buffington, who sold me out to drug dealers in Amsterdam, even Andie. I realize suddenly what I’m feeling is probably only the beginning of a long road back to normalcy in my dealing with people close to me. My mother’s revelations have seen to that.
I glance at my watch and start the car. I have to go with it until something else proves me wrong. Turning around, I head back to Beachwood Drive, drop down to Franklin, and make for the Hollywood Freeway. Driving through the Cahuenga Pass, I dial Maybeline Jones.
“Where are you, baby?” she says.
“On the freeway heading toward the Valley. Just got in a couple of hours ago.”
“Don’t think I’m weird but can we meet someplace public? On Ventura Boulevard, Coffee Plus. You get one of the outside patio tables, okay?”
“I think I know the place. How will I know you?”
“Oh, I’ll know you, sugar. You just look for the best looking, sixty-one year old black woman you’ve ever seen.”
I laugh and close the phone. I like her already. The traffic is heavy at the Ventura Interchange. I go a couple of exits and turn left toward Ventura Boulevard. Coffee Plus is down a couple of blocks connected to a huge bookstore.
I park, get a large coffee, and go through the glass doors to the patio tables and wait. Fifteen minutes later, I see a tall black woman in a floral print dress and big sunglasses. I start to wave, but she spots me and comes over. She doesn’t say anything at first, just drops her bag and cell phone on the table, sits down and looks at me.
“I’d know you anywhere,” she says. “I’m Maybeline.”
I take her hand. “Nice to finally meet you.” She’s slim with caramel colored skin. Nails, jewelry, everything happening, but all very tasteful. She may be sixty one but she looks much younger.
She smiles. “It’s living good, baby. That’s the secret,” she says, as if answering my thoughts.
“I’ll try to remember that.” There’s a long moment of silence as neither of us seems to know where to start. I’m sitting here across from a woman who probably knew Cal as well as my mother did, maybe better. I have so many questions spinning through my mind. so much to cover.
She looks in my eyes and smiles warmly. “You’re hurting aren’t you baby. Well, I’m not surprised. I never thought we’d meet.”
“It’s kind of a shock to find out you’re not who you thought you were at this late date.”
She nods. “That used to worry Cal so much, wondering how you were doing, what you were doing.”
I feel a flash of anger. “Why didn’t he try to find out?” It comes out more harshly than I intend. “I mean he could have tried to make contact couldn’t he?”
She looks away for a moment. “Oh he wanted to, but the longer he let it go, the harder it was.” She reaches over and touches my hand. “He was afraid, baby, afraid you wouldn’t want to see him.”
“Hey, I didn’t even know he existed. When I met him, spent time with him, I still had no idea who he was. Why didn’t he tell me then?” I look away for a moment. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to go off on you.”
She looks surprised. “What, just come right out and say, oh by the way, I’m your father? No, baby. That wouldn’t have been Cal’s way. He was just glad you’d found him, even if it was by accident.”
“How do you know that?”
She leans back in her chair. “We had one phone conversation after you started taking lessons with him. I hadn’t seen or heard from him in ages but I knew his voice right away, like it had been only days instead of years. I don’t even know how he got my number and didn’t ask either. He just said, ‘I found him, Maybeline, but he doesn’t know.’”
She shrugs. “We talked for almost an hour. I told him he should tell you but he was afraid that would drive you away or you wouldn’t believe him. I think eventually he would have.”
I shake my head. “Maybe not.” I tell her about the note he left, the long buried secret, the chase he’d sent me on with nothing to go on but an old photo and a name.
Maybeline nods, watching me. “He wanted your mother to be the one to tell you. Remember, baby, he loved your mother.”
“Why didn’t you see him after that call?”
“He didn’t want it. He said our time had long passed and I could tell he wasn’t well. He was right. I had my life, he had his. It was better to keep those memories.”
“That’s what I want to hear about.”
