She turns it over in her hands and looks at the inscription. “Kind of makes it all real doesn’t it?” She hands it back to me.
I nod. “Can you remember anything from that missing file at all?”
Andie shakes her head. “What I do remember is there was nothing in there that pertained to this Jean Lane woman. Like I said, it was a routine background check. We didn’t go very deep.” She looks away again then back at me. “We just wanted to know who you were hanging out with. ‘Known associates’ is the Bureau term.” She sees me frown. “Come on, Evan, that’s the way the Bureau works. We were bringing you in to help with profiling on a case no civilian had any business being involved with.”
I sigh and know she’s right but it still bothers me. “So what about searching those data bases? Maybe you’ll get a hit.”
“I can try to swing it, but these records are scrutinized carefully. There are a lot of restrictions now. I can’t just log on and go searching without some justification, some connection to a case. Every time an agent logs in, it’s there for the record and I’d have some explaining to do.”
“So that’s a dead end too?”
She shakes her head again. “Look, I’ll do what I can, maybe see if I can clear it with Wendell Cook. He liked you. But even if I can get authorization, there are no guarantees. There is so little to go on and Jean Lane could be anywhere, remarried, dead, who knows.”
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry, baby, that’s the best I can do.”
“I know, I just wish I had that file on Cal. Maybe something in there would trigger a thought, an idea.” I put my hands up. “Okay, I’ll stop for now. You want to go?”
Andie smiles. “Yes, I want to go home and lounge on that comfortable couch with you and fall asleep watching a movie. How does that sound?”
“Like a plan.”
Back at the house, Andie struggles up the stairs, leaning on me heavily. While she changes into a thick robe, I find there are two messages on my machine. One from Dana, the other from Roy Haynes’ agent Larry Klein, to call as soon as I can. It’s already after midnight in New York, so that one will have to wait till morning, and I’m not about to call Dana with Andie hovering around.
We settle on the couch and find an old movie on Turner Classics. Ten minutes and Andie is already yawning, her head against my chest, my arm around her. “You want to go to bed?”
“No, I just want to stay right here for now.”
A half hour later, she’s sound asleep. As carefully as I can, I slip my arm out from under her and get up. She stirs briefly but stretches out and I cover her with a blanket. Taking the phone with me I go out on the deck and light a cigarette and call Dana.
“Hi, Dana. Hope I’m not calling too late.”
“No, not at all. How is Andie doing?”
“Fine. She’s conked out already. Mexican food, beer, and a couple more Percodan.”
“Lethal combination. The reason I called is that guy Al Beckwood called. It’s a good thing you had your calls referred to the new number.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much, just that he wanted to know who I was and send his condolences about Cal.”
“Did he leave a number?”
“Yes. It’s a different one than before. Got a pen?”
“Hold on a sec.”
I go in the house, glance at Andie, and grab a pen and pad of paper.
“Okay, go.” I copy down the number but don’t recognize the area code. “Any other calls?”
“Yes, some agent for Roy Haynes. He wants you to call as soon as possible.”
“Yeah, he called here but we were out.” I hope Haynes hasn’t changed his mind or something. “And nothing more from Brent Sergent.”
“Nope.”
“Good. Let me know right away if he contacts you again.”
“I will, don’t worry.”
“Thanks, Dana.”
“Do you have to go?”
“Yeah, I really should. Got to check on Andie.”
“Well good night then.”
I catch the note of wistfulness in her voice. “We’ll talk again soon. Night.”
***
Andie is still asleep when I get up at seven. I make some coffee, take the phone out on the deck, and call Larry Klein. I get his secretary but she puts me right through.
“Evan, Larry. Thanks for getting back to me so soon. We need a favor.”
By we, I assume he means Roy Haynes and himself. I try to form a mental picture of Klein, legs up on his desk, phone head set, stack of messages to get through. “Well, if I can, sure.”
“Outstanding. We’ve got a conflict on dates. As I’m sure you can imagine, this is a nightmare, scheduling a half dozen busy piano players. Anyway Herbie Hancock has had to cancel the date we booked him for, last minute thing he can’t get out of, and Roy has a conflict with the alternative date Herbie suggested, and we have studio time booked while Roy is in New York, so—”
“You want me to drop out.”
“Drop out? Oh no way, man. The gig is solid, a commitment. We want you to take Herbie’s date. We were originally going to schedule you for later. Just want to move it up. Any way you can swing that?”
I look back into the house and see Andie limping toward me, a cup of coffee in her hand “Sure, I guess so. When’s the date?”
I hear some movement, as if he’s swung his feet back down to the floor. “This is the killer. It’s next week. I know it’s a drag to hit you with this so last minute, but, hey, you know, shit happens. Can you help us out?”
What choice do I have? If I say no I could get cut out later with somebody else’s cancellation and I do want this gig. When, if ever, will I have a chance to record with Roy Haynes? I glance at Andie. She is leaning on the railing of the deck but I know she’s listening. “Okay, next week is fine.”
“Outstanding. That’s just great. Roy will be very pleased, and I am forever in your debt. I’ll send you the tickets and book a room. You and a guest for the weekend. My treat. It’s next Friday, two o’clock at Avatar Studios.” He double checks my address.
“By the way, who’s the bass player?”
“Hang on, let me check.” I hear him shuffling through some papers. “Eddie Gomez or Ron Carter. Not sure yet. Gotta scoot. Call me if you need anything, and thanks so much. You’re a prince.”
He hangs up before I can say goodbye.
Andie watches me sipping coffee. “Next week is fine for what?”
“The Roy Haynes recording session. The date has been moved up. I have to go to New York.” I watch Andie’s face for some reaction but there’s none. “Look, I can call him back and—”
“No, no,” Andie says. “I’ll be fine. I can get around and by next week I’ll be much more mobile. I know this is important.”
“Want to go with me? They’re booking a room for the weekend and it’s on them.”
Andie sips her coffee, looks away for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. You’ll be busy and I won’t be much good hobbling around New York City, getting in and out of cabs.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” She smiles. “I’ll be fine. Really, Evan, it’s okay.”
I still feel a little guilty, but I take Andie at her word. “Okay.” I look around. “You hungry? I’m going to walk over to that little market and get a few things, maybe take a walk, stretch a bit.”
“Sure,” Andie says. “I feel almost ready to join you.” She runs a hand over her leg. “I would like to get this bandage changed though. How far would we have to go to find a hospital?”
“Guerneville. There’s a clinic there. I’m sure they could do it. I can call.”
“I’ll do it. I can give them my insurance number. Do you have any cellophane wrap or plastic bags?”
I shrug. “Plastic bags for sure. What for?”
“I’m going to wrap something around my leg and take a shower.”
Under the sink, I find several plastic grocery store bags and hold up a couple. “These do?”
“Perfect. Go to the store and take a walk. I’m going to try and get my old self back.”
“Okay, see you later.” I grab my cell phone and trot down the stairs and out to the street. At the bridge, I start to turn toward the store, but then decide to walk across the bridge and check out the movie theater. I’d never been there but it might be a good diversion. Maybe I can talk Andie into a movie.
I stop in the middle of the bridge and lean over the concrete railing, looking at the Russian River flowing below. It seems higher than usual and I’d been told about flooding but it’s still way under the bridge. With the redwoods and hills as a backdrop, the scene is like a postcard. Farther up the river I can see houses lining the shores and wonder what they do in high flood water.
Continuing across the bridge, I check out the movie marquee. There’s a fairly recent thriller playing with a starting time of seven. I stand for a minute, debating on whether to walk the mile or so to the post office but decide against it, and retrace my steps back across the bridge and turn right to the small family run grocery store.
I get a bagful of things—bacon, eggs, milk, some lunch meat and cheese, and a few bottles of beer. I start back to the house when my cell phone rings. Setting the bag down in front of the Elephant Bar, I open it.
“Evan, it’s Roy Haynes.”
“Oh hey, how are you?”
“Much better. I checked in with Larry and just wanted to thank you for helping us out on Herbie’s cancellation.”
“No problem.”
“Well it would have been, so I appreciate it. Got some tunes down?”
I tell him my three ballad choices.
He pauses a moment. “Let’s go with ‘Porkpie Hat.’ It’s not recorded enough.”
“Cool. How about Invitation for the up tune?”
Haynes laughs. “That would work fine. We’re all set then. I’m looking forward to this. See you Friday, and thanks again.”
“My pleasure. Bye, Roy.”
The bag feels lighter in my hand as I walk back to the house. I feel the surge of excitement flow through me and it increases as I see Andie. Her hair is still damp and she’s wrapped in my big terry cloth robe. She comes over and reaches up on her toes to kiss me.
“God I never thought a shower and washing my hair could feel so good,” she says. She eyes the grocery bag. “Goodies?”
“Bacon, eggs, toast sound okay?”
“Mmmmmm, yes, I’m starving.”
“Coming up,” I head for the kitchen.
“I called the clinic. I can get in at one o’clock.”
After breakfast, Andie finds something to read while I run through “Invitation,” trying out some variations on the changes, then call her upstairs. “What do you think of this?”
I play through “Goodbye Porkpie Hat,” as Andie listens. Even on the electric keyboard it sounds good to me.
“Beautiful,” she says. “Just gorgeous. I’ve never heard that before have I?”
“Not unless you know Charlie Mingus.” I tell her about the tune, how it was written for Prez.
She nods. “Makes you think about Cal, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, it does.” I turn off the piano. “Let’s get you to the doc.”
The clinic is right off Main Street in Guerneville. We get out of the car and Andie eyes the steep stairs. “Not very good planning,” she says, but I point to the ramp entrance so it’s not nearly as bad.
Inside, the nurse-receptionist has Andie fill in a form and checks her insurance card. The nurse’s eyebrows go up a bit when she sees the attached FBI identification. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”
There’s only one other person there, a young woman who looks over six months pregnant. She and Andie exchange smiles as we sit down to wait. When Andie is called in, I flip through some very out of date magazines, then finally go outside and have a cigarette. As I start back in Andie comes through the door.
“I’m all set,” she says. “The doctor told me the wound is healing just fine and I should do a little walking so it doesn’t stiffen up.” She links her arm in mine as we start down the ramp. “He also told me as long as you don’t lean on me too hard, we can do it tonight.”
I look at her. “You asked him that?”
***
Despite her brightened spirits, and mine, Andie takes another long nap while I do some more practicing on “Invitation,” and “Porkpie” feeling as good as I have in a long time. When I finish, I pick up the rubber ball I used for so long when I was rehabbing my hand and wondering if I’d ever play again. I squeeze it hard and smile.
When Andie wakes up, we have a sandwich and she seems well rested and eager to try the movie theater. “Good test for my leg,” she says. “I can make it across the bridge.”
She only has to stop once as we walk over and find a large crowd in the lobby waiting to go inside. Everybody seems to know everybody. Andie takes it all in. “Nothing like a small town is there.”
She eyes the snack bar and catches sight of a handwritten sign about homemade sausages. “Goodies,” she says. “I want one of those, some popcorn, and a coke.”
“My we are feeling better, aren’t we.”
“You better believe it, Buster, and I hope you are later.”
We get our food and drinks and go inside where animated conversations are going on all over the theater. Andie glances at her watch. “Isn’t it supposed to start at seven?”
A woman next to her overhears. “Yes, hon, but the owners know everybody is always a little late, so they hold things up till everyone gets here.”
“Of course,” Andie says and glances at me. “Isn’t it cute. Just like Mayberry.”
The lights finally go down and we get ten minutes of coming attractions before the feature. Andie hooks her arm in mine and leans on my shoulder. “Wow, this is just like a date isn’t it?”
Twenty minutes later she’s asleep. When the lights come up, she glances up at me sleepily. “Was it good?”
“Come on, you, let’s go home.”
Crossing the bridge, we stop and look at the lights, hear the low sound of the river flowing under us as a few cars pass by. Andie turns and kisses me. “Thank you for bringing me down here,” she says.
“My pleasure.”
“It will be as soon as we get home.”
By Tuesday, tired of bucolic life in Monte Rio, Andie is anxious to get back to the city and her own place. We’d spent the weekend lounging around—Andie napping, me practicing—eating out, exploring the shops in Guerneville, but I could see she was antsy. For her, it was like being on a cruise ship. She liked the ship well enough, but was anxious for the next port and home. We went for longer and longer walks along the river. She pushed herself, sometimes I thought too hard, like an injured athlete desperate to get back in the lineup, but it was good to see her recovering so quickly.
My ticket and hotel reservation for New York had arrived by express mail from Larry Klein. I’d been booked on a red eye flight Wednesday night, so I’d have all day Thursday in New York, so said the note Klein had enclosed with the ticket. He’d signed it with a large flourished scroll. That made it all the more real. I am going to New York to record with Roy Haynes. The adrenaline rush makes me feel like I’ve won the lottery.
As for Andie and I, we’d come to a sort of truce on the search for Jean Lane. She promised to do what she can when she returns to work, already moaning about being on a thirty day desk duty assignment the bureau mandates after an agent involved shooting.
“I’ll have plenty of time,” she said, “and yes I’ll try to track down Cal’s file.” That was still the sticking point for me, that nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. Something was missing, even though she’s assured me there was nothing relevant or anything that could help with tracking down Jean Lane in the file. I haven’t mentioned it again.
Since I’m going to be in New York, I decide to check in with my folks, maybe take a run up there while I’m in the area. While Andie wanders around the bookstore next to Guerneville’s answer to Starbucks—a wooden table and chairs place run by guys in tee shirts and pony tails—I call late Tuesday afternoon, hoping to catch them after dinner time. It’s my dad who answers.
“Hi, Dad, it’s Evan.”
“Evan, how are you? We got your postcards from Amsterdam. Sounds like you had a good time.”
“Yeah, it was a good trip.”
“Good, good. Well let me get your mother.”
Still a man of few words, little interest, even less time I think to myself, although we never had much to say to each other since I was a teenager. He had no affinity for music, knew nothing much about what I did, and didn’t care to know more. I’d resigned myself to that long ago. My mother had once been a decent pianist, and I think once longed for a career in music, but life caught up with her and she transferred her enthusiasm to me, usually over protests from my dad.
One afternoon when I was about twelve, I came home from school and found her at the piano, playing some classical piece, sheet music and books spread everywhere on the floor and tears streaming down her face. I watched her for several minutes. Then, I guess feeling my presence, she stopped suddenly and turned, looked at me, then just sat there till I left the room. I never knew why, but after that, she hardly played again.
“Evan?” Her voice draws me back to the countless arguments between her and my dad, the peacekeeping attempts, the apologizing for my father.
“Hi, Mom. How are you doing?”
“Oh just fine. Where are you?”
“Right where I live now. That’s one of the reasons I called, to give you the new address and phone.”
“Great. I’ve got a pen and paper right here.”
After she copies them down, she asks, “So how are you? Everything going okay with your music? How do you like living in San Francisco?”
“I love it. Nice change from Venice. Just been going through a few things lately though.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah that old friend of mine, Calvin Hughes, died and made me his executor, so a lot of legal paperwork.” She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “Mom?”
“What? Oh, sorry. Yes, the piano player from Kansas City.”
“Yeah. He left me his house in Hollywood and some money. I found out there was a life insurance policy through the musicians union, and I’ve been trying to find the beneficiary. It’s all kind of a mystery.” I leave out the way Cal left the note and don’t even mention the photo.
“Still playing detective are you. That always gets you in trouble.”
“Well not this time, it’s just that there are no leads on the woman he named in the policy so I’m trying to track her down. Andie is helping me.”
There’s another pause. “Well the FBI should be able to do that I would think.”
“I’m going to give it a try. I owe that much to Cal. The other reason I’m calling is I’m going to be in New York next week for a recording session. I thought I might run up and see you guys if it’s convenient.”
“Next week?” She pauses again, sounding unsure.
“If it’s not, or you’re not going to be around, that’s okay. I just thought—”
“No, no we’ll be here. That would be nice, Evan. You can tell us all about Europe. You’re dad may be away on business but I’ll be here. We haven’t had a good talk in a long time.”
“No, we haven’t.”
“Is Andie coming with you? I’d like to meet her.”
“No. Ah, she was, ah, shot, during an attempted bank robbery.”
“My God! Shot? Is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s fine but she’s recovering well and going through rehab now.”
My mother laughs. “Your life is like those television shows your dad likes.”
“Who got shot?” I hear my dad say in the background.
“Evan’s girlfriend,” my mother says, “but she’s okay.
“Yeah I guess it is sometimes. Anyway, I’ll call you when I get to New York and see where things are.” There’s another long pause. “Everything okay, Mom?”
“What? Oh yes, everything is fine. I look forward to seeing you, son.”
“Me too. Bye, Mom.”
“Bye. I love you, Evan.”
Son? I can’t remember the last time she called me son. I press the off button and sit for a minute thinking about the call, like I’d missed something, something my mother had said, or hadn’t said, but I can’t put my finger on it. The pauses, the kind of unsureness in her voice, but maybe it was just the aging process. My mother is generally very sharp, but she’d sounded distracted, not quite with it.
“Hey, earth to Evan.” Andie stands over me, passing her hand in front of my eyes. “You look like you were zoned out there.” She sits down next to me with a coffee and a paper bag from the bookstore. “I bought you a present.”
She hands me the bag. Inside is a book called
Kind of Blue
.
“Isn’t that the music Cal left that you’ve been talking about?”
“Yes.” I flip through the book and quickly read the jacket flap that claims to tell the behind the scenes story of the recording session. On a whim, I quickly scan the index for Hughes, Calvin, but no. It isn’t going to be that easy. “This is fantastic. Thanks. I didn’t know about this.”
She leans over and kisses me. “No problem. So what had you in a trance?”
“Oh, nothing really. I just talked to my mother, told her I might visit her while I’m back East. She just sounded, I don’t know, funny.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know really. I told her about Cal dying, the insurance policy. There was something she said that was off, but now I can’t remember what it was that made me think that.”
“Let it go. It’ll come to you when you least expect it.”
“Yeah, maybe it will.”
“C’mon, we got packing to do.”
We have an early dinner, watch a movie, then Andie goes to bed around ten. I sit up late, listening to all the records I have of Roy Haynes playing, and finally fall into bed after midnight.
We get the car packed up, stop for breakfast in Guerneville and two hours later, we’re on the road and just barely beat the rush hour along 19th Avenue through San Francisco. I’d packed clothes, the file folder of legal papers on Cal, and the copies of the music sheets I’d found in the piano bench at his house. I plan to read
Kind of Blue
on the plane, maybe do a little digging around while I’m in New York.
We pull into Andie’s place in late afternoon. Her mail box is stuffed with several days of bills, junk mail, and a couple of things from the bureau which she goes through quickly. I watch her unfold one letter and read intently. Then she sighs and lays it aside.
“I’m scheduled for a review board on the shooting Friday. Just as well we came back when we did.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, just more bureau crap. I’ll wear a short skirt so they can see my bandage,” she says laughing.
“Did the guy you shot, did he…”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I’ll have to call Rollins and find out.”
I frown at her. “Give him my regards.”
I shower and change, have a sandwich with Andie, and get ready to leave for the airport.
“You want me to drive you?” she asks.
“No, I’ll just leave my car in long term parking. You just take it easy.”
She stands up and gives me a mock salute. “Yes, sir.” Then she folds into my arms and mumbles against my chest. “I’m going to miss you.”
***
At San Francisco International, it’s relatively quiet, so even the security check doesn’t take as long as usual, although I do have to take my shoes off again. I make the long trek down to the gate and check in at the desk for my boarding pass with forty-five minutes wait till boarding. I grab a cup of coffee from a small snack bar and settle down with the book Andie bought me.
As I sit down, I glance over at a man working on a laptop computer. He looks up and our eyes meet for a moment in one of those don’t-I know-you looks, then he’s back to his computer screen, and I start flipping through my book, trying to think where I might have seen him before. I scan the preface, but my mind isn’t on it. I glance at my watch, then grab my stuff and wander over to a corner and call Dana.
“Dana, it’s Evan.”
“Oh, hi,” she says.
“Just thought I’d check in with you. I’m at the airport, getting ready to fly to New York. I’m doing a recording session there.”
“I’m impressed,” she says. “Is Andie going with you?”
“No, she’s still recovering but doing fine.”
“Well, that’s good. How long are you going to be gone?”
“Just a few days. If you need to get me, you can call on the cell or leave a message. Everything going okay? How’s Milton?”
“Fine and Milton has settled in pretty well. He’s used to me now but I’m sure he’d like a visit with you.”
“Well, who knows. Maybe I’ll get down there soon.”
“I hope so,” she says. “Have a good trip, Evan.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
When I come back to the gate, the guy I thought I knew is waiting, looking at me.
“Evan Horne, right?” He’s standing in front of me, the laptop in a case slung over his shoulder, a small carry on bag in his hand. He’s in jeans, a light sweater, and some expensive looking loafers.
“Yeah, I was just trying to remember where—”
“That party on top of the mountain.” He sets his computer case on the floor and sits down next to me. “Cameron Brody.” He holds out his hand.
“Oh yeah, you were with that girl in the…dress.”
He grins. “You remember her better than me, huh? Haven’t seen her since the party. So what are you doing in New York?”
“Recording session with Roy Haynes.”
“Whoa. That should be cool.” I explain the project and mention some of the other players. “Nice, very nice.”
“How about you?” I remember his business card now, that he works in some kind of capacity for ASCAP.
“Checking on some royalties, trying to track down a blues singer who has some coming and maybe doesn’t know it.”
People are starting to gather up their things as the attendant at the desk makes the preboarding announcement.
“Where are you sitting?”
We compare boarding passes and discover we’re seated only a couples of rows apart. “Hey if you want to talk I’ll see if I can trade seats with somebody,” Brody says.
“Sure, but I have to get some sleep too.”
He notices my copy of
Kind of Blue
then. “Interesting story. Jimmy Cobb, the drummer is the only one left from that band.”
Brody was right. Miles, Coltrane, Cannonball Adderley, Bill Evans, Wynton Kelly, and Paul Chambers were all dead. “Well, I have a kind of personal interest in this.” But before I can explain, we’re called for boarding. “I’ll tell you about it after we get on. Maybe you can even help me.”
“Cool, I like mysteries.”
We file on board and I find my seat about halfway down, by the window. I stow my bag in the overhead rack and settle in just as Brody comes up. So far, the middle seat is empty. A guy in a rumpled suit drops into the aisle seat and glances over, looking like he’s ready to sleep the whole way.
“Excuse me, sir,” Brody says. “I didn’t know my friend was on this flight and we’d like to sit together and catch up. I have a window seat just a couple of rows up where you won’t be bothered.”
“Hey, sure,” the mans says. “Lead me to it.”
He gathers up his things and follows Brody, who is back before I can glance at the airline magazine. “Okay, we’re set,” he says, throwing his small bag in the rack and keeping his laptop to push under the seat in front of him.
We buckle up, listen to the safety lecture, and settle back to wait our turn on the runway. “So,” Brody says, “How can I be of service.”
Cameron Brody brims with confidence and congeniality. He has a quick disarming smile and the good looks to be very successful with women, I imagine, if that girl at the party was any example.
In the twenty minutes or so we wait to take off, I briefly run down Cal’s legacy. The note, the photo, and the music sheets.
“Have you got them with you?” Brody asks.
I have everything in an accordion style plastic filer. He rubs his fingers over the thin, almost transparent paper, squints at the notes and chords and begins to hum. I watch him nod his head. “You a musician too?”
He shrugs. “Not really. I thought I was going to be. Played a little in college, but…” His voice trails off, then he hands me back the sheets. “So you found these at your friend’s house?”
“Yes, along with some other music from
Birth of the Cool.
You familiar with that?”