The clerk glances at me quickly, obviously unimpressed and says, “Awesome.”
Dana waits by the door as I pay for mine. “Thanks,” I say to the clerk, but she’s already focused on the next customer.
“She’s obviously not a jazz fan,” Dana says, nodding toward the cashier.
“Yeah, there aren’t many of us.”
I drive back up Sunset. It’s still warm as I pull into a spot in front of an old style ice cream parlor coffee house. Marble tables, wire chairs, and a white tile floor. It’s been such a long time, I decide to indulge in my all time favorite—a hot fudge sundae. Dana opts for a frozen yogurt. I get two coffees to go with the ice cream and we find a place at one of the outside tables.
The sundae is delicious and I haven’t felt this relaxed in a long time. Dana watches me eat and smiles. “Hmm. Doesn’t like peas, loves hot fudge sundaes. I’m getting to know you, Evan Horne.”
“You think?” I finish off the sundae and chase it with some coffee and light a cigarette.
For a few minutes we both just kind of space out, watching the people walk by, the traffic, and occasionally exchange glances over one wild hairdo or outfit. Finally, Dana says, “So tell me about your girlfriend.”
“Andie? Well, she’s an FBI agent. She was a profiler but now she’s on bank robbery detail whatever that is.”
“Cal told me a little about her. I don’t think he liked her. He said you met when that serial killer thing happened. I remember seeing some of it on the news.”
“Yeah, we did. She had to run a background check on Cal during that investigation. Just brought up some old wounds and bad memories I guess.”
Dana continues to study me. “So, is this pretty serious?” She leans forward and touches my arm. “I’m sorry, I’m just curious. It is kind of a strange combination. A jazz musician and an FBI agent.”
“Yeah I guess it is. I don’t know how serious it is really.” I suddenly realize I don’t. “We each have our own place but we’ve spent a lot of time together since I came back from Europe. I guess neither of us is sure where it’s going. We’re just kind of playing it by ear.”
Dana nods and looks away.
“How about you? No boyfriends on the horizon.”
She shrugs. “There was a guy for awhile but it didn’t work out, and I’m so busy with grad school I don’t have time for a relationship. Casual dating is kind of boring and the only guys I meet now are as tied up with studying as I am.”
“That’s too bad,” I say. “You have a lot to offer someone.”
She smiles. “Why thank you. That’s very nice of you to say.”
My cell phone rings then. I dig it out of my pocket and see it’s Andie.
“Hey.”
“Hey, yourself,” Andie says. “How’s it going?”
“Well, I just had a hot fudge sundae. Trying to relax a little.”
Dana gets up and points inside and mimes ladies room.
“Sounds decadent,” Andie says.
“I found out Cal had a life insurance policy with the musicians union, but I have no idea who the beneficiary is or how to find her.”
“It’s a woman?”
“Yes. Someone named Jean Lane. Any chance you could do some digging for me?”
“Evan, I told you I’m swamped but when you get back and I can see that photo and all, I’ll see what I can do.”
“That would be good.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Hopefully by the weekend. I’m going to go along on a boat to scatter Cal’s ashes. Have to call them tomorrow to set it up.”
“I’m sorry, Evan, about all of it. That’s going to be hard. I wish I could be there with you.”
“Dana is going to go. I figured since she was the last one to see Cal and all,” then regret it immediately.
“Of course,” Andie says, a decided chill in her voice. Dana comes back and sits down and stares at the traffic.
“Come on, Andie, lighten up.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated at not being there and I’ve been so tied up here.”
“I know.” There’s a long pause where neither of us say anything. “Well, I’ll let you go.”
“Yeah, I’ve got an early briefing. Call me tomorrow.”
“I will.”
“Night.”
“Night.”
I punch off the phone, and light another cigarette. Dana looks at me. “Everything okay?”
I shrug. “Andie has a little jealous streak about her.”
Dana nods. “I understand that. It’s good. It means she cares.”
***
Wednesday morning I call the cremation society around nine and talk to the same woman. There’s a boat on Friday morning if I’d like to make a reservation, she tells me.
“There will be two, another friend of Mr. Hughes.”
“Fine, I think you’ll be glad you decided on this, Mr. Horne.”
“I’m not so sure I am,” I say.
“Trust me,” Mrs. Johnson says. “Friday morning at ten. The lower deck of Santa Monica Pier. One of our representatives will be there.”
I hang up the phone and wander around the house for a bit. Dana is already gone and has left a note for me that she has classes but will be back later this afternoon if I need her for anything. She’s even drawn a little happy face on the bottom of the page.
I have to admit her presence has made things much easier and she’s a bright attractive girl and…
I don’t finish the thought when my cell rings.
“So, am I picking you up sometime today?” Andie asks.
I tell her again about the excursion to scatter Cal’s ashes. “It’s Friday. I just have to have some kind of closure on this, Andie, and this seems the only way.”
I’d sat up late thinking about all this. Although it was a done deal and what Cal wanted, there would be no grave to visit in the coming years, no visible signs at all. But maybe it was best to remember Cal as I’d last seen him.
Andie sounds disappointed. “You’re right.”
“I have a couple of other things to run down while I’m here but I’ll try to make it back Friday night or Saturday, okay?”
“Well I can’t promise I’ll be around. This case I’m on may get heavy by the weekend.”
We’re both silent for a long moment. “Let’s just play it by ear then.”
“Not much choice,” she says. “Let me know what you decide.”
“Andie.”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to pursue this thing with Cal and try to find the woman, the child in the photo, with or without your help.”
“I know.”
She’s quiet again then, “Evan, you may not like what you find.”
I know what she means. I’ve heard it before.
***
I call the Musicians’ Retirement Home again and try to catch Mal Leonard. I get the same woman who tells me he’s expected back around noon.
“Are there any restrictions on visitors?”
She laughs. “No, nothing like that. I’m sure he’ll be glad to swap stories with you.”
“Good, just tell him I’m the friend of Calvin Hughes.”
“Will do,” she says and hangs up.
With time to kill I sit down at Cal’s piano and go through some exercises and start thinking about tunes for the Roy Haynes date. That still hasn’t quite registered yet. A recording date with Roy Haynes. Big label, promotion, and very likely I’ll be in some very fast company with top flight bass players as well as Roy Haynes.
I love playing ballads so it’s not hard to come up with several possibilities I can suggest to Haynes. For something more uptempo, I decide on “Solar,” the Miles tune, and a blues line I dredge up from memory called “Shifting Down,” by trumpeter Kenny Dorham that has a kind of quirky, rhythmic line I know Haynes would love to play on.
It feels good under my hands and before I know it, a couple of hours have passed. I also get out the lead sheets I’d found that Cal had left and play them again. I’d have to check them with the recordings, but the chord changes all fit and sound like the original to me. What Cal was doing with them is something I still haven’t figured out, but as I leave I slip them into the file folder with the rest of the papers and photos.
On the drive down to the musicians’ home, I stop at a Kinko’s and make several copies of both lead sheets.
The young clerk picks them up. “Man, these are really old and in pencil. Can’t promise the quality is going to be very good.”
“That’s okay. Do what you can.”
He’s back in a few minutes with fairly clear copies. “I punched up the contrast,” he says. “Not bad really.”
“Thanks.” I pay for the copies and drive down to the address of the home off Melrose.
I’m not sure what I expected. A rest home? A convalescent hospital? But it’s neither. A couple of low stucco buildings with a courtyard and some grounds that look pleasant enough. There’s a large porch-veranda kind of affair in front and several men are playing cards at small tables. A few others are relaxing in chairs, some look to be dozing.
Inside at a small reception area, the voice on the phone has a face, a woman in her fifties named Connie. She has glasses on a chain around her neck and is dressed in a long shirt kind of dress with music notes all over it.
“Hi, I’m Evan Horne. I called earlier about seeing Mal Leonard.”
“Right, right,” she says. “He just got back a while ago. He’s having lunch. Down that hallway, then to your left.”
I start to ask her how I’ll know him but she anticipates my question. “Mal is black and the biggest guy in the room.”
“Thanks.” I walk down the hall and find the small dining room. There are only a few men sitting around in little clusters seated at the picnic table style seating. Mal Leonard is by himself near the window with a cup of coffee in front of him.
“Mr. Leonard? I’m Evan Horne. You left a message for Cal Hughes last week.”
He turns to me and smiles broadly and stands up to shake hands. “I sure was sorry to hear about Cal. Sit down, man. I’ll get you some coffee.”
For such a big man, he moves gracefully. He gets up and goes over to a small table with a coffee urn, mugs and brings me back one. Cream and sugar are on the table already. His hair is salt and pepper and tightly curled and he could be anywhere from fifty to seventy. He sits down again and looks at me.
“So you were a friend of Cal’s, huh?”
“I didn’t see him as much as I should have and now of course—”
“I know what you mean,” he says. “Damn if I had known he was around here I would have got up there somehow. You a piano player too?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Figures. Well you must be good. Cal didn’t mess with people that couldn’t play. So what can I do for you?” He smiles again. “I got my bass back in my room if you feel like playin’?”
“Well, I—”
He grins. “I’m just teasing.” He flexes his hands. “This arthritis got me. I don’t know why I even keep my bass. I tell you, getting old sucks.”
He takes a sip of his coffee. “How can I help?”
I open the file folder and show him the photo with Cal and Miles and Barney Jackson first. He adjusts his glasses and studies the photo. “Uh huh,” he says. “Well course we know that’s Miles and Cal. Other guy is Barney Jackson, but I bet you already know that.”
“Yes, I was at the Musicians’ Union. One of the business reps recognized him, and I talked to his wife. He died over a year ago.”
Mal blinks a couple of times. “You don’t say. I don’t know how I missed that. I knew Barney pretty well at one time. We used to trade gigs sometimes.”
I take out the other photo. “This is the one I can’t figure,” I say as I show it to him.
He leans over close to peer at the photo and studies it for a couple of minutes then pushes it aside. “You know Cal talked about a woman in Kansas City but, well, I s’poze this could be her, but I didn’t know nothing about no baby.”
“You think this could be Cal’s baby?”
“Could be, man. Could be. We spent a lot of time in Kansas City in those days. There was women everywhere.” He turns and looks out the window, smiling, digging through memories. “Women, lot of bands, lot of music. There was a lot of scuffling, but we always had gigs in those days.” He looks at me again. “What did you say your name was?”
“Evan Horne.”
“And do you know Cal?”
The questions confuse me for a moment but then I realize Mal’s short term memory is much less accurate than his early life.
“I’m sorry, man. I can remember gigs, conversations, even hotels I stayed at but sometimes I can’t remember what I did yesterday.” He shakes his head. “Just drives me crazy.”
“Do you think this photo might have been taken in Kansas City?”
He looks at it again. “Oh yeah, no doubt about that.”
I sit up straighter. “Really? Why are you so sure?”
He points to the OTEL sign in the photo with a thick finger. “That’s the Carlisle Hotel. The H was shot out by this crazy trumpet player and they never fixed it.” He laughs so hard then his whole body shakes. “Mmm, mmm. Billy Webb. That boy thought his girlfriend was up in one of the rooms. He was trying to hit the window and missed.” He looks at me steadily, then points to the photo. “Right there to the left is 18th and Vine. Yep. Carlisle Hotel, Kansas City, MO. Charlie Parker, Lester Young. Why I remember one night—”
Then he’s off for ten minutes recounting a jam session he was involved in before he realizes how long he’s been talking. Or that I’m even there. I was just the trigger. He stops suddenly and then looks at me.
“Sorry, I get carried away sometimes. Are you Evan Horne?” He leans in closer. “Any chance you got an extra cigarette?” He notices the pack in my pocket. “We can’t smoke in here and I’m not supposed to at all but hey, one won’t hurt. Let’s go outside.”
In the back there’s a garden area and a few wicker chairs scattered around. “Connie won’t see us out here,” he says, taking a cigarette and a light from me. He leans back in the chair and drags deeply on the cigarette. and looks at it. “Menthol. Lucky Strike was my brand.”
“Do you remember a woman named Jean Lane? Somebody Cal knew maybe.”
Mal leans forward. “Cal had a lot of women, they just gravitated to him like bees to a flower, but names? Man, I wish I could help you.”
“Well you did. At least I know where the photo was taken. Jean Lane is listed on Cal’s life insurance policy from the union.”
“Oh I dig,” Mal says, “and you trying to find her.”
“Exactly.”
He crushes out the cigarette under his heel and pockets the butt. “Can’t leave no evidence for Connie,” he says.