“Uh huh. What about the life insurance? Who is the beneficiary?” Union membership comes with a small term life insurance policy at group rates. She looks at me as if to say, are you kidding? “He just died last week. I’m the executor of his estate.”
Her expression changes to one of mild sympathy. “Sorry,” she says, “but I still can’t give out that information without authorization. The beneficiary will have to file a death certificate with the union. See one of the business agents. They can help you.”
“I understand. Thanks.” I start to turn away, then step back to the window. “Any of the business agents from way back. You know, 50s or 60s?”
She shrugs. “You might try Harvey Douglas.” She nods toward the stairs.
“Thanks.” I go up the stairs and turn down a hallway of offices for the business agents. Harvey Douglas is halfway down and on the phone. I tap on the open door. “Got a minute?”
Douglas crooks his finger at me “Be right with you.” I take a seat opposite him and look around the office. It’s not much. Small and most of the space taken up with Douglas’ desk, file cabinets, couple of chairs, and a window facing Vine Street. A few photos hang on the wall.
“Look, let me get back to you on this. If there’s no contract there’s no way we can do anything.” He rolls his eyes at me as he listens. “Okay. Yes, I promise I’ll look into it.” He hangs up the phone, shaking his head. “Some lady complaining about the band at her daughter’s wedding. They didn’t play all the right music she wanted.”
He puts his hands flat on his desk and looks at me. “So, what can I do for you?” Douglas is wearing a short sleeved white shirt, dark knit tie, and black framed glasses. His thick hair is all white.
“My name is Evan Horne. I’m trying to track down some info on a former member, friend of mine. Calvin Hughes. I checked downstairs at directory. She said his membership lapsed but he caught up his dues and still has the life insurance.”
“Was he a piano player,” Douglas says. “I knew a Cal Hughes. We went way back. I always wondered what happened to him.”
“You knew him? He’s been living right here in Hollywood for over twenty years.”
“No shit,” Douglas says. “I was still playing trombone then.” He jerks his thumb at one of the photos. “That’s me with Les Browne. USO Tour.” The photo is of a big band and Douglas is standing up in the trombone section. “We might have done some rehearsal bands together. That was a long time ago. Cal was a hell of a player if it’s the same one. Nobody could figure out why he just kind of disappeared.”
I take out the photo and show it to Douglas. He takes it, removes his glasses, and opens a desk drawer and takes out a magnifying glass. He studies the photo. “Yep, that’s Cal all right.”
“Do you know if he was married or had kids?”
He looks up at me. “Are you a relative?”
“No, just his friend, but he named me executor of his estate. He just died last week. I’m trying to find out who the beneficiary is for the life insurance.”
“If Cal was married or had kids I never knew about it, but then we weren’t close.” Douglas hands me back the photo. “The beneficiary, whoever it is, will have to file a death certificate for payment.”
“I understand.” I show him the other photo from Cal’s bedroom.
“Son of a bitch. Cal and Miles Davis. I didn’t know about that either. When was that taken? Miles looks pretty young too.”
“Do you know who the other man is?”
Douglas squints at the photo again. “No can’t say I do, but…hang on a minute. I’ll be right back.”
While Douglas is gone I study the baby carriage photo, using the magnifying glass. Cal has his right hand on the handle of the carriage. His left hand is hidden behind the carriage. I move the glass all over the photo. The OTEL has to be hotel but there’s no name, nothing to indicate where the photo was taken. I move the glass near the edge and then I see it. Part of another hand and a small band on the ring finger.
I lean back in the chair, trying to come up with some plausible scenarios. Maybe the woman is a married friend of Cal’s and it’s a congratulations photo taken by the husband. Or it’s a girlfriend of Cal’s who’s married. But neither of those possibilities explain why Cal kept it all these years and left it for me to find. Coop and Dana are both right, I decide. That’s Cal’s baby.
Douglas comes back then. “Got it,” he says. He lays the photo on the desk and taps his finger on it. “That’s Barney Jackson, bass player. One of the other guys recognized him.”
“Really? Is Jackson still around do you know?”
“Well it’s easy to check.” He punches three numbers on his phone. “Marge? Pull up Barney Jackson will you. Thanks.” He holds his hand over the phone while he waits. “I’m sorry to hear about Cal.” He takes his hand off the phone. “Yeah, Marge.” He listens and writes down something on a pad in front of him. “Okay. Thanks, Marge. Wait a minute.” He covers the phone again.
“You have any paperwork that shows you’re the executor?”
“Yeah, right here.” I open the file, thumb through it and find the papers I want.
Douglas rubs his chin, and studies everything. “Yeah, well, this all looks in order I guess.” He pauses again. “What did you say your name is?”
“Evan Horne.”
“Marge. While you’re at it, pull up Calvin Hughes and print it out and send it upstairs, okay? Thanks.” He hangs up the phone. “This won’t take long.”
He gets up and goes to one of the file cabinets and takes out a form and lays it on the desk in front of me. “You need to have the beneficiary fill that out and enclose it with the death certificate for payment. We’ll run an item for the federation newspaper. You can write something if you want.”
“Yeah, thanks. I’d like to do that.”
Douglas sits back down and studies me, his hands folded across his stomach. “Evan Horne. I got it. You’re the guy who broke that serial killer case with the FBI. I knew the name was familiar.”
I nod. “Well, there wasn’t that much to it as far as I was concerned.”
“You’re too modest,” Douglas says. “Man the
Times
was full of that story.” He hands me a slip of paper. “That’s Jackson’s last known phone number and address. His membership is lapsed.”
We’re interrupted then by a young black girl in jeans and a sweater top. She smiles at me and hands Douglas some printouts. He takes them and his chair creaks as he leans forward on his desk, studying them.
He tears off the top sheet and pushes in across to me.
“There’s your beneficiary. See, right there.” He points to a space on the form.
Jean Lane.
I sit for, I don’t know how long, staring at the name, then look up at Douglas.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, fine. I just don’t recognize the name.”
He leans back. “The sooner you find her, the sooner the benefits can be paid. She will have to file that form.”
“Yeah I know.” I gather up the papers and put everything back in the file folder. “Thanks for your help. I’ll get something together for the union paper.”
***
I walk in kind of a daze back to my car and I sit there for several minutes. I light a cigarette and roll down the window, and look at the insurance form again.
Jean Lane. Who the hell is Jean Lane? The name rings no bells whatsoever. I go back over the many conversations I had with Cal but there’s nothing I can recall about any woman named Jean Lane. Any woman at all for that matter. I always assumed Cal had never been married, never had any kids. I can’t think of how to start looking for Jean Lane. There’s nothing to go on but a forty-year-old photo.
Then I remember the two phone messages Dana told me about. Musicians, she thought they were. They must have known Cal, worked with him. Maybe they would know something. Maybe one of them was Barney Jackson from the photo, the third guy with Cal and Miles Davis.
I let all that swirl around in my mind for a few minutes. It’s like looking through fog, catching a glimpse of something now and then. I shake it off.
First, there’s something very unpleasant I have to deal with. I look through the file again for the number of the Cremation Society, take out my cell and dial the number.
I explain who I am for a pleasant sounding woman who assures me that Cal’s remains, his ashes, will be held for sixty days for the next of kin or “so designated person,” as she calls it. Designated is obviously the key word, and given Cal’s morbid humor, I almost expect some bizarre name, like Jelly Roll Morton or Fats Waller. After sixty days, if they are not claimed, the ashes are disposed of at sea along with other unclaimed remains.
“A mass burial at sea? Is that what you mean?”
“Well, yes actually. However, you may choose to accompany a group for such disposal although there is an additional fee.”
I think about that for a moment. I’ve been to a few funeral services, some memorials, but overall, this is a subject I’m not at all comfortable talking about. Now it’s one I’m going to have to deal with directly.
“Mr. Horne?”
“Yes, sorry, I was just thinking.”
“I understand. When you decide, please let us know.”
“Thanks, I will.” I make a tentative appointment with one of their counselors.
When I ask if Cal has designated a next of kin, there is another surprise.
“Checking now,” she says. She’s one of those people who, on the phone tell you everything she’s doing. “Checking, checking, where did that sheet go?”
I hear a rustle of paper and then, “Yes, next of kin is listed as…” She pauses. “That’s strange.”
“What?”
“Evan Horne. That’s you, right?”
After leaving the union, I drive down Sunset till I find a coffee place with outside tables. I pull in, park, and go inside. Joining a fairly large line, I order a large coffee to go and take it outside to one of the tables where I call the number Harvey Douglas gave me for Barney Jackson on my cell.
“Hello,” a young woman’s high pitched voice says.
“Hello. My name is Evan Horne. I’m trying to reach Barney Jackson, the bass player—”
“Oh, you mean my father?” She pauses for a moment. “He passed away over a year ago.”
I sigh, not quite sure what to say. “I’m sorry. Actually, I’m calling about an old photo he’s in and I was hoping somebody could help me identify the other people. Maybe you—”
“Identify?” Her voice takes on a hesitant tone now.
“Well, recognize. I’m a musician too,” I say quickly. “It’s a photo of your father and Miles Davis, you know the trumpet player. And another man,” I say quickly.
She laughs. “I know who Miles Davis is. I’ve seen him in some other pictures with my father.”
“Look, you don’t know me, but it’s pretty important. Do you think we could get together. I’d like to see those other pictures, and have you take a look at this one.”
“Sure, I guess so but you should really talk to my mother. She knows more than I do.”
“That would be great. Is she home?”
“She will be in about an hour if you want to come by.”
“Great.” She gives me an address in Vanuys. “Thank you very much.”
I light a cigarette and drink off half the coffee, feeling a little better about things. At least I have some place to start. I take the coffee with me and start for the Valley, hoping to beat the traffic going over the hill on the 405, but L.A. freeways are always busy and it takes me almost an hour to get there. The Jackson home is not far off the Ventura Freeway and easy enough to find.
It’s a small frame house with a large front yard. I park in front. A small slender woman in jeans and a t-shirt is dragging a sprinkler hose to another section of the lawn. She looks up as I get out of the car.
“Are you the man that called earlier and talked to my daughter?”
“Yes, thanks for seeing me.”
She nods and looks at the grass. “Can’t keep anything green out here.” She walks over to me. “I’m Wanda Jackson. Did you know Barney?”
“Hi, Evan Horne. No, but I think a friend of mine who just passed away did.”
“Oh, I’m sorry about your friend. I guess Beth told you we lost Barney over a year ago.” She shakes her head. “Seems longer somehow.”
I nod. She has a tired look about her, as if life has played a trick on her and she doesn’t know how or why it happened.
“Well, come on in.”
“Thanks, I won’t take too much of your time.” I follow her inside and we sit down in the small living room. It’s dominated by a large screen television on one wall. She notices me looking.
“That was for Barney. He loved his sports.” She blinks for a moment. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.” I notice a couple of photo albums on the coffee table in front of us. I open the file I’ve brought in with me and show her the photo of Cal, Miles Davis, and her husband. A small smile comes over her as she takes the photo in her hands.
“Oh my, this was taken a long time ago.”
“Yes. Look, let me explain. The other man is, was, a friend of mine. He just died last week. I’m the executor of his estate. In going through his things I found this photo. Anyway, he had a life insurance policy with the musician’s union.”
She nods and frowns. “Yes, not even enough for a decent burial.”
“I know, but I don’t know who the beneficiary is, so this is all I have to go on. Do you recognize the other man in the photo. His name was Calvin Hughes.”
She continues to look at the photo and shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry I don’t. I think this was taken way before Barney and I were married.” She puts the photo aside and opens up one of the albums. There are several of Barney Jackson with various bands, none of which I recognize, and none with Miles Davis.
“What was his connection with Miles? Do you know?”
She leans back and thinks. “Barney lived in New York before he came out here. I can’t remember for sure, but I think he played in some big band with Miles, a rehearsal band. He wasn’t the main guy I don’t think, but he subbed with the band. You know how that goes.”
“Yes, I’ve been there myself.”
“Wait, I remember now. He was always telling this story about how he should have been on that record with Miles,
Birth of the Cool
, but he was out of town when it was recorded.”
I feel the hair on the back of my neck rise as I think about the music sheets I’d found in Cal’s house. I knew Miles had played on the west coast at the Lighthouse.
“Do you know if your husband ever worked with Miles out here?”
She shakes her head. “No, he took me to see Miles once, at Shelly’s Manne Hole. He spoke to him briefly but he came back kind of annoyed. Miles hardly remembered him, he said. By then Barney was starting to do studio work, lot of television. He’d given up jazz or rather jazz had given up on him.” She listed off several shows he’d played on and flipped through the photo album showing me various photos of Barney with studio and television bands. One has Carol Burnett standing, laughing with the piano player. Another was with him and Johnny Carson and Doc Severinson.
She sighs. “But it all ended eventually, and he wound up doing weddings, parties, that kind of thing, got his real estate license.” She shrugs. “If you’re a musician, you know how it goes.”
“Yes.” I lean back, thinking, disappointed that there’s no more here. “Well, I won’t take up anymore of your time.” I write down my cell phone number. “If you think of anything, would you please give me a call?”
She shrugs. “Sure.” She gets up and walks me to the door. “I hope you find who you’re looking for.”
Back in the car, I head for the Ventura Freeway, but of course, it’s like a parking lot. I call Dana to tell her I’m going to be hung up in traffic for awhile.
“That’s okay,” she says. “I just got back myself. What are you doing in the Valley at rush hour?”
“I’m asking myself the same thing. It was a dead end. I’ll tell you about it when I get there.” Inching along I decide to use the time to make a couple of other calls.
“I left those numbers of the musicians you said called on the table by Cal’s chair. Can you give them to me.” In the glove box, I find a pen with the rental car company logo.
“Sure, hang on.”
By the time she comes back on the line I’ve gone all of a hundred yards.
“Ready? First one is Al Beckwood. The other is Mal Leonard.” I write the names and numbers on the front of the file folder beside me on the seat.
“Okay, thanks, Dana. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I try Beckwood first but there’s no answer, not even a machine. I’m not sure but I think it’s a New York exchange. For Mal Leonard, there is only partial success.
“Musicians’ home.”
“Hello. I’m trying to reach a Mal Leonard. What is this place?”
“Musicians’ Retirement Home,” a woman’s voice says. “Mr. Leonard won’t be back until sometime tomorrow.”
“Does he work there?”
“No, he’s a resident. He’s with his daughter on an overnight visit.”
“I see. I’m returning his call. He left a message a few days ago. Can I get him tomorrow then?”
“Yes, he’ll be available then.”
“Okay, thanks.” I close the phone and drop it on the seat beside me. A musicians’ retirement home. I didn’t know there was such a place.
***
Back at the house, I find a parking space fairly close and jog up the steps. Dana is in the kitchen, stirring a pot of sauce and I can smell shrimp sautéing in garlic and olive oil.
“Hey,” she says. “Won’t be long now. Why don’t you open the wine.” She nods to a bottle on the table. A corkscrew is lying beside it.
“Looks like you’ve done this before,” I say as I open the wine.
“Oh I love to cook. Just haven’t had the time or opportunity for awhile.”
I pour us both a glass. “Merlot.” I look at the bottle. “How did you know?”
She smiles. “Just a guess. It’s about the only red wine I like.” She gives the sauce a final stir and turns off the fire under the shrimp. She’s in a t-shirt and jeans and sandals, her hair loose about her face. “So how did it go?”
I catch her up on things as she drains the pasta, mixes in the sauce and adds the shrimp in a large bowl. She doesn’t ask any questions, just listens until we sit down at the table.
“Well, here’s to it.” She holds up her glass and I tap mine against hers.
“This is really nice,” I say. “How about some music?”
I go in the living room and dig through Cal’s records and put on
Birth of the Cool
. I listen for a minute. It’s such an old copy there’s a lot of noise and static.
“Cal used to play that a lot,” Dana says as I return to the table.
“This is delicious,” I say as the band moves through the tricky little line called “Boplicity.” I tell her about the music sheets I’d found.
She looks puzzled. “Does that mean anything?”
“Well, they’re very old but it could mean two things. Cal was either just writing out the line for himself, or, he possibly had a hand in the composing.”
“But wouldn’t his name be on the record?”
“Normally, yes, but there are a lot instances where the wrong people got credit, or the rights were sold. Sometimes it gets complicated.”
There had been a persistent controversy over “Blue in Green” between Miles Davis and Bill Evans on the record
Kind of Blue.
Both had claimed to have written it. And there were others. “The Chase,” by Wardell Gray and Dexter Gordon, who sold the rights for a hundred dollars. A similar story floated around about Oliver Nelson’s “Stolen Moments,” which had been recorded many times since the 1960s when it first saw light.
“A lot of groups recorded those tunes in the past forty years. That means maybe thousands in lost royalties for the person who didn’t get credit.”
Dana listens, takes a last bite, and pushes her plate aside. “So Cal might have written some of these tunes and never got credit?”
“Who knows. It was a long time ago.” I listen for a couple of minutes, recalling the tunes then think of something else. “Is there a big record store anywhere near here?”
“Yeah, Tower down on Sunset and a couple of others in Hollywood. Why?”
“There’s a newer version of this, a two CD set with a little booklet. I’d like to see it, see who the musicians are.” I was mainly curious to see if Barney Jackson was listed.
I pour us both some more wine and light a cigarette. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about, Dana.”
Dana nods but looks a little wary. “You’ve changed your mind? You’re going to sell the house?”
I laugh. “No, nothing like that. It’s about Cal.” I tell her about calling the Cremation Society, the scattering of ashes at sea. “It’s something I want to get over with and I’d like you to go with me, since you were the last person to see Cal.”
I study her for a moment. She holds her glass in both hands and looks down.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Isn’t it really a more private thing for you? I mean I got to know Cal but—”
“No, I understand if you don’t want to. Hell, I don’t want to but I just don’t like the idea of going by myself.”
“It’s not that, I just don’t want to, you know, intrude.”
“You won’t be and I’d really appreciate it.”
She smiles. “When is it?”
“I’ll have to call them tomorrow to make arrangements.” I feel an inner sigh of relief that I’ll have some company.
“Look, let’s leave the kitchen and run down to Tower and then I’ll buy you a cappuccino or something. How about it?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
***
Sunset is crawling with cars full of cruising teens as we wind down toward Tower Records, past the clubs and restaurants. I manage to find a parking place in the crowded lot and we go inside. I almost wince as I hear the heavy, blaring band with a screaming vocal they’re playing over the store sound system.
Dana sees my frown and laughs. “Not your thing, huh? Aerosmith.” She takes off. “I’ll meet you in the jazz section,” she says.
Jazz is in the back, a couple of aisles worth with quite a selection. There’s plenty of Miles Davis in the racks and several copies of
Birth of The Cool
. It’s a two CD set and even includes a few of the tracks recorded live at the Royal Roost. I grab one and wander around looking randomly at all the new releases. Half the names I don’t recognize. So much music, so little time. I’d about seen enough when Dana comes by.
“Find anything?”
She frowns. “Nothing I don’t already have and nothing new I want.”
I watch her browse through the jazz, her fingers dragging over several rows of CDs, then she lets out a little squeal. “Oh, look,” she says. “You’re here too.”
I walk over and see she’s pointing at one of the tabs separating each musician. Right between Red Holloway and Bobby Hutcherson is one with my name on it and a single copy of
Haiku
, the recording I’d done before I took off for Europe. Cal had been in the studio that day. I didn’t even know Tower was carrying it.
Dana picks it up and looks at the front with my photo. I guess I’d been trying to look pensive at the time, but seeing it now, I think I look more puzzled than anything. Dana looks from the cover to me and back several times. “Not bad,” she says, “but you look better in person. They’ll order more if I take this one, right?”
“You don’t have to do that. I can get you one of the promotional copies.”
She shakes her head. “No, I want this one. I’ve never been in a record store and bought one with the guy who made it with me.”
We both pause for a moment and then laugh at what she said. She even blushes a little. “Well, you know what I mean.”
I start to take it from her. “At least let me buy it for you.”
“No, this one I pay for myself. You can autograph it for me later.”
We stand in line a few minutes and then a bored cashier in spiked purple and green hair rings up Dana. As the clerk starts to put it in one of the yellow plastic Tower bags, Dana points to me and says, “This is the guy who recorded it.”