“No,” Cameron says. “I don’t think we should do it. Fuck man, I don’t want to go down there at night.”
“Let’s wait and see what Andie says.”
We drive back to the house and find Andie waiting, studying the map. She has it folded open to show the area around Hunter’s Point.
“What’s this?” she asks Cameron, pointing to a square with a star alongside it just outside the navy yard.
“Restaurant. Been there forever. Pretty famous at one time, but I don’t remember the name.”
Andie nods and paces around for a couple of minutes. She turns and looks at us, her face set and determined.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.”
I’m still not used to the change in weather that happens so suddenly in San Francisco. Driving down 101 from Tiburon, it’s cool but clear, a three quarter moon competing with freeway and car lights. But as we come out of the Waldo tunnel, down the incline, the Golden Gate Bridge is shrouded in a bank of fog, and the temperature has dropped twenty degrees.
Andie and I are in her Ford; Cameron Brody’s BMW is just ahead of us as we cross the bridge and pull into one of the toll booth lanes. I pay the five dollars and follow Cameron as we head into the city. We stay on the two-lane divided road then drop down to Bay Street and turn on to the Embarcadero, past the Ferry Building, and continue on, skirting AT&T Park, the Giants baseball stadium. Cameron turns left on Third Street and I follow. He knows the way but Andie keeps checking the map.
At Evans Avenue, we turn left and pass through an older area of boarded up shops, buildings under construction, deserted office buildings and the occasional neon of a convenience store lighting the dark street. At the end of Evans, we make a little jog left near the entrance to the navy yard. Cameron pulls over by the curb. I park behind him and watch as he gets out and walks back to our car.
“I don’t think there’s anyone in the guard shack,” he says.
“Good,” Andie says. If there was, she had planned to flash her FBI credentials to gain entrance. “Pull in the restaurant parking lot.”
Cameron nods and goes back to his car and pulls in the lot. I park next to him. We go inside and sit at the bar, Andie between me and Cameron. We order three draft beers and look around. The walls of Dago Mary’s are covered with black and white, framed photos from decades earlier. There’s lots of oak paneling, ornate carving, done during the restaurant’s better days, but Cameron says it’s still a popular place.
Now that we’re actually here, I have even more reservations about Andie’s plan. She’s going to ride in with Cameron on the floor by the back seat, wait for the exchange to happen, then take Solano. She’d already grilled Cameron about Hunters Point.
“If he’s coming, he’s probably already here. For all we know, he’s friendly with somebody in there that has a studio,” she says. “He wouldn’t have picked this place if he didn’t know it well. You,” she tells me, “are going to stay here. Just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to play it by ear. Just keep your cell phone on. Once we have him, I’ll call you.”
“Be right back,” Cameron says. He gets up and heads for the Men’s room.
Andie watches him go. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I look at Andie. I can see she’s pumped, ready for action, dressed in dark jeans, a black sweatshirt and running shoes. “Look, Andie, maybe we should just bail on this. We don’t know enough about this guy, what he’s going to do. There are too many variables.”
She shakes her head. “No, we’re here, we’re going to do it.” She pats my arm. “We’re going to get those tapes.” She sees the doubt on my face. “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”
“Somebody probably said that to General Custer too.” Andie just rolls her eyes.
Cameron comes back, looking okay, not nervous, but I can imagine what’s going on in his mind.
Andie studies her watch. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s do it.”
We pay the check and go outside.” Andie gets in the back seat of Cameron’s BMW, and scoots down on the floor. She gives me a little wave as I shut the door. Cameron gets in, nods at me and drives off. I watch the car slowly cruise past the darkened guard shack, and bear right. I watch until the tail lights disappear, then turn back.
This is the part I hate, the waiting. I light a cigarette and pace around the parking lot. A few people come out of the restaurant going to their cars, but nobody pays any attention or even looks at me. Next to the restaurant is a small shop that’s closed now. I stand close to the street, in the doorway, but no cars approach for the next twenty minutes.
What if Solano doesn’t show? Maybe he decided after the fiasco at Borders, it was too risky, but Andie is probably right. He’s already there, waiting. I play out all kinds of worst case scenarios in my mind and grip my cell phone tightly, willing it to ring.
The restaurant parking lot is emptying out now as they start to close up for the night. I check my watch again, then see a car coming off Evans Avenue, heading for the entrance to the Navy Yard. I move back deeper in the doorway of the shop. I don’t know what kind of car Solano has, but I bet it’s not a tan Ford Taurus. As it passes me, I see the driver’s face clearly for a second. Ted Rollins.
Shit. How did he know? I watch him pass the guard shack, then brake and make a U-turn, and pull into the parking lot, stopping behind Andie’s car. He sits for a minute, engine idling, like he can’t decide what to do. The lot is almost empty now. Finally, he exits the parking lot and turns toward the Naval Yard.
I run for my car, jump in and follow Rollins, my lights off, staying back far enough to just keep his taillights in sight. He circles around several buildings, all with numbers on them, obviously not sure where he’s going, but eventually, he comes out in a flat area with huge spaces between the large warehouse type buildings that are silhouetted in the moonlight. Across the bay I can see the winking lights of Oakland and the Bay Bridge looming in the distance, traffic going back and forth, the cars looking like toys.
The taillights on Rollins’ car brighten as he brakes, then starts again, driving between two of the big buildings. One of them has a weak light mounted on the roof, trained on large block letters on a yellow background. C-128. Submarine Cafeteria. Damn, how did Rollins know?
I park behind another building and get out and circle behind Rollins, looking for Andie, not sure if she’s still in Cameron’s car or already inside the building. I watch for a minute as Rollins approaches the car and looks inside. He glances around then cautiously heads for the entrance to the building. I start to follow him when I feel a hand on my arm. I jump and turn to see Andie, gun in hand, crouching behind me.
“What are you doing here?” she whispers. “I told you to wait at the restaurant.”
“Rollins is here,” I say. I point to the building.
“What?”
We both look toward the building. Rollins must have heard something as he flattens himself against the wall at the other end of the building. The door opens and Cameron and Eddie Solano come walking out, heading for Cameron’s car. I can’t see anything clearly but Solano’s hand on Cameron’s arm.
Andie stands up and starts running toward them.
“FBI Special Agent,” she yells.
Rollins, whirls around toward her at the same time he sees Solano and Cameron. He starts toward them, gun drawn.
“No!” Andie screams, but she’s too late. Rollins is sprinting toward Eddie Solano like a defensive back closing on for an interception. Cameron crouches then drops to the ground. Solano freezes for a moment, then starts running toward the retaining wall by the water.
A few steps behind Andie, I stop, then she does too, her arm dropping, her gun to her side. We both freeze, watching helplessly as Eddie “Slow Hands” Solano, trying to dodge Rollins, trips, falls back, his arms flying out to his sides, the shoulder strap of the computer bag slipping off his arm and racing through the air toward the water.
It’s as if I’m seeing everything in slow motion. Ted Rollins lurches out to grab for Solano, realizing too late he’s on the edge. His knee hits the low wall, the momentum propels him forward, arms and legs flailing, as he goes over the side.
Ted Rollins, Eddie Solano, Cameron’s laptop, all plunging into the water.
And inside that bag, my tapes. The only documented recording of the
Birth of the Cool
rehearsals, right along with them, splashing into San Francisco Bay.
***
Cameron Brody and I sit on a couple of wooden crates watching the area around Building C-128 become a scene from a television crime show. A few members of the San Francisco SWAT team pace around mumbling curses, helmets tilted back on their heads, their rifles slung over their shoulders now, awaiting orders to disperse.
What must be ten or twelve squad cars, lights still flashing, ring the area. Someone has set up a couple of klieg lights facing the retaining wall where Rollins and Solano went over the side. I can see them both huddled on the ground, blankets wrapped around them after being fished out by two uniformed officers.
Andie is standing, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, listening to a tirade from a tall heavyset man in jeans and a dark wind breaker with FBI in yellow letters on the back, glaring at her and pointing to Rollins.
“I want to know what the fuck was going down here and somebody better tell me damn quick,” he says, his voice booming out over the water. “I’ve got a senior agent splashing around in the Bay with a has been blues singer over some goddamn laptop computer and some recording tapes fifty years old.” He takes a breath and looks around at the chaos. “I’ve got the fucking SFPD SWAT team here, and an agent who is on medical leave, apparently responsible for the whole thing. Jesus!” He turns and walks a few paces away, then whirls on Andie again.
“God dammit, Lawrence, talk to me.”
“I think that’s my cue,” I say to Cameron. I get up and walk over. “Excuse me,” I say. “I think I can help clear this up.”
Andie flashes me a look. “Stay out of this, Evan,” Andie says.
“Who the fuck are you?” the big man says to me.
“Evan Horne. The tapes, are, were, mine. I simply came down here to get them back when your man Rollins showed up and interfered with the exchange.”
“How do you know Special Agent Rollins?”
“Through Wendell Cook in your Los Angeles office.”
“Wendell Cook?” He looks at me for a moment, his eyes squinting, then some flicker of recognition washes over his face. “Are you the guy who…the Gillian Payne case a couple of years ago—”
“That would be me.”
Out of the corner of my eye I catch Andie shaking her head and sighing.
“If you call Agent Cook, I’m sure he’ll vouch for me. This has just been a big misunderstanding all around.”
The big man looks down, scrapes his foot on the asphalt, like he’s about to step into the batters box. He nods, turns and walks away, then turns back. “Agent Lawrence, I’ll want to see you in the morning, my office.”
“Yes, sir,” Andie says. She takes something out of her pocket and hands it to her boss. “I think this belongs to Agent Rollins.” He shakes his head and walks away.
She looks at me and shakes her head. “You are something else,” she says, but manages a slight smile.
“What was that?”
“Tracking device. It was under the bumper of my car. That’s how he knew where we were.”
“Hey,” somebody yells. “It’s one of the two divers that arrived earlier.” He pulls himself up and over the edge on the wall, his rubber suit glistening in the moonlight, clutching Cameron’s laptop bag by the strap. “Got it,” he says.
He holds it up, water dripping and pooling on the asphalt around his fins, the mask pulled up on his forehead. Cameron gets up and walks over, taking it from him. He looks at me and shrugs.
We all watch as Eddie Solano is handcuffed and put in one of the police cruisers. Rollins is right behind him, escorted to a waiting FBI car.
“This isn’t over, Horne,” he says as he walks by. His clothes are dripping water, his hair plastered to his head. He points at Andie. “You, you’re finished Lawrence,” he snaps at Andie, then he’s gone.
Things start breaking up then. Car doors slam, engines start, the lights are taken down as Andie, Cameron, and I walk to our cars. Cameron throws the water logged laptop in the trunk. There’s nothing for any of us to say now.
“Talk to you,” he says, and gets in his car and drives off. Andie and I go to her car and I wind slowly back toward the main entrance, not wanting to talk, not wanting to think. When we get to the guard shack it’s manned now. They must have shaken awake whoever should have been on duty. Cameron’s car is in front of us, the doors and trunk lid open. Suddenly security conscious, the guard, flashlight in hand, is going through everything.
Cameron glances toward us and puts his hands out in a helpless shrug as the guard lifts the wet laptop case out of the trunk. I roll down the window and hear the guard tell Cameron to open it and take the computer out.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Cameron says but complies with the guard’s instructions. He unzips the case and pulls out the laptop, then opens the side pocket with his cell phone and the tapes. I stare in morbid fascination as Cameron holds them up. He studies them for a moment, then turns to me and yells. “Evan!”
I get out and walk to his car, Andie right beside me. “Jesus,” he says. “Look.”
Just like the CDs that Buzz had sent FedEx, the tapes are shrink wrapped and encased in zip lock bags. Cameron unzips one of the bags and holds the tape up to the guard’s flashlight. Then we both smile. The guard looks confused but Cameron, Andie, and I all smile.
“Yes!” Cameron says.
Thank you, Buzz. The tapes are bone dry. Not a drop of water on them.
“Sure looks different in the daytime doesn’t it?” Cameron Brody says.
We’re standing on the sidewalk, just outside the Hunters Point Naval Yard, looking toward the guard shack. It’s manned now, and after what happened there it probably will be all the time.
“Yeah, it does.” We can see past the shack at the collections of buildings, old structures that housed Navy personnel at one time. Further on, the dark water where ships once docked, and the span of the Bay Bridge, filled now with traffic on both decks.
We turn and walk back to Dago Mary’s restaurant and go inside. It’s crowded, but we find a table out on the patio and order the lunch special.
“Andie is meeting us here?” Cameron asks.
“Yeah, she had another meeting at the Bureau, kind of winding things up, but the review board gave her a clean pass on the bank robbery shooting. Today is more about her and Rollins and what happened here.”
It’s been nearly two weeks since Rollins and Eddie Solano went in the Bay along with Cameron’s computer and my tapes. Things had settled down considerably since then. I was even finally getting my mind around Dana’s death.
Coop had followed up with his contacts at Hollywood police. Brent Sergent confirmed he had coerced Dana to help him get me to sell Cal’s house, exploiting the relationship they’d had earlier. She’d gone along with it at first, but later balked and refused to cooperate further.
“She just got caught up in things with the wrong guy,” Coop said.
Her status as a UCLA grad student was genuine, and her family had come out to take her back to Iowa for the funeral. They wanted to prosecute Sergent, but Coop didn’t think it would fly. Tragic, but an accident nevertheless. It would never go away completely, but I was dealing with the finality that she was just gone.
The waitress brings our order and we dig into thick hamburgers and a pile of fries. “You’re right, the food is good.”
Cameron nods. “Yeah imagine what this place was like sixty years ago.” He looks up and waves then. “Hey, here comes the FBI.”
I turn and see Andie standing at the entrance to the dining room waving back. She comes over, eyeing our plates, kisses me lightly and sits down. She’s dressed smartly in a dark pants suit and white blouse.
“So, tell us. How’d it go?” I ask.
Andie puts both hands on the table and looks at us, a grin spreading over her face. “How’d it go? It went fucking great!” She looks around for the waitress. “God, I’m hungry.”
She orders what we have and still grinning, looks at us. “The best part is Rollins got reamed for unauthorized use of a tracking device, and transferred. With any luck to North Dakota.” She sits up straighter and beams. “I, on the other hand, have been reassigned to active duty.”
“So you’re a good girl again,” I say.
“Well there was, shall we say, somewhat of a reprimand, but nothing serious.”
“Congratulations.” Cameron joins in with me.
“Thank you gentlemen.” She looks at Cameron. “Eddie Solano has been arraigned too. New York waived extradition for the assault charge, so it’ll all happen here.”
Cameron had already made a statement to the police. He frowns. “You know,” he says, “I feel kind of sorry for him in a way. He did have that money coming.”
“Maybe so, but that wasn’t the way to get it.” Andie says. “He’ll be doing some time.”
I’d thought about Solano too, what the waiting had done to him, knowing his song had been recorded and unable to collect the royalties. He’d gone over the edge but in a way I could almost understand. The same could have happened to Cal but he turned the frustration in on himself.
“Hey,” Andie adds, seeing Cameron’s face. “It’s a first offense. It might not be too hard on him.”
Cameron nods and finishes his hamburger without looking up.
Andie gives me a puzzled look, but I just shrug. Things were finally almost back to normal. I’d started to get a trio together and was doing some gigs locally, hanging out at Niki’s Deli in Crockett on Sundays, and enjoying the quiet of Monte Rio. I’d already had some feelers from Yoshi’s, the Bay Area’s premier jazz club. The release of the Roy Haynes CD should help things along nicely. I’d played and replayed my two tracks and was very satisfied with the final mix.
Cameron had done more checking for me on the
Birth of the Cool
band, but it was pretty definite that Cal had not penned any of the tunes. It was disappointing but deep down I knew it was true, and I did have the tapes. It was enough for me to know and have proof that Cal played a small role. I hadn’t told Andie or Cameron about the call from Dan Morgenstern.
“The Institute of Jazz Studies is interested in the tapes and how I came into them,” I tell them. “They want to add them to their collection, and have me tape the story for their oral history collection.”
“Awesome,” Cameron says. “Another little piece of jazz history falls into place.”
“Oh, sweetie, that’s wonderful,” Andie says. She squeezes my hand.
“Did you hear about the Monk and Coltrane discovery?” Cameron asks.
“No. What was it?”
“Wait,” Andie says. “That’s Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane?”
“Exactly,” Cameron says.
Andie beams and nods toward me.
“At Carnegie Hall in 1957. It was originally done as a Voice of America broadcast, but it was never aired. Somebody going through some old tapes found a box just marked. T. Monk.”
“Amazing.”
“So jazz things get lost too,” Andie says, smiling, looking at me.
We hadn’t talked about it anymore, but we both assumed Rollins had mailed me the file on Cal. His non denial when Andie had called him on it was proof enough for me. As for the blacked out lines, well, we’d never know and it didn’t matter now.
I’d called my mother and had a couple of long talks to assure her I was okay with things and update her a little. She’d sounded pleased but I was still digesting everything I’d learned, not sure when I’d really have it all together, getting used to the idea that Richard Horne was not my real father. I may not ever. That seems to be more difficult than accepting Cal. I know though, that Richard is right. I may have come from a different name, a different father, but I’m still who I am, and I can live with that.
We finish lunch and walk out to the parking lot, all of us instinctively glancing again at the guard shack at the entrance to the Naval Yard one last time.
“Well, I’m outta here,” Cameron says. We shake hands and he hugs Andie. “Stay in touch. Let me know where you’re playing.”
“Will do.” He gets in his car and we watch him drive off.
“I want to spend the rest of the week in Monte Rio,” I tell Andie.
“Me too,” she says. “Now I can really relax. I’ll be down later. Just have to do a few things at home.”
***
I sit upstairs in the loft, the headphones on, listening to the tapes one last time before I pack them up to send to the Institute of Jazz at Rutgers University. A light rain coats the redwood trees and trickles down the glass, and I can hear a steady tapping on the sky lights. Fall is definitely here now as I feel the chill in the air.
The CD copies are better quality of course, but somehow for me, not the same as the actual tapes, the raw recordings. Miles Davis, the band, and Calvin on piano. Maybe it’s just watching those plastic reels slowly turn. I’d managed to borrow an old reel to reel recorder to listen to them again.
I glance out the window and see Andie’s car turn into the driveway, then the front door opens and I hear her footsteps on the stairs. Milton raises his head off my foot and perks up his big floppy ears.
I switch off the recorder and walk down to the living room, thinking how I like the idea that the tapes will be at Rutgers, making Calvin Hughes at least a footnote in jazz history.
I think my father would like that.