Solo Hand

  SOLO HAND

  An Evan Horne Mystery

  By

  Bill Moody

  Copyright 1994 by Bill Moody

  First Down & Out Books Edition: June 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Down and Out Books

  3959 Van Dyke Rd, Ste. 265

  Lutz, FL 33558

  http://downandoutbooks.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

  For jazz fans everywhere.

  I must also mention the help and support of the First Monday Writers group—Beth McLaren, Dave Miller, John Myer, and John Swetnam whose gracious and critical reading helped make this a better book.

  Thanks also to Michael Seidman, an editor who saw a book here despite my violation of his cardinal rule.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Solo Hand

  Bio

  Also by Bill Moody

  Other Titles from Down & Out Books

  Preview of Bill Moody’s Death of a Tenor Man

  Preview of Rob Brunet’s Stinking Rich

  Preview of Les Edgerton’s The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping

  INTRO

  I’m at Howard Rumsey’s Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach, California. It’s minutes before the first set. The club is full. People are ordering drinks, lighting cigarettes. There’s a palatable tension in the air, an anticipation of the music about to be played. The jazz we’re going to play.

  On stage, the drummer makes the final adjustments to his cymbals. The bassist plucks a string, listens, reaches over and strikes an A on the huge grand piano. Satisfied, he glances toward me and nods. I’m standing off stage with Rumsey, a bassist himself and operator of one of the most established jazz clubs in America.

  “Let’s do it,” he says. He strides on stage to the microphone. I follow him up the steps and sit down at the piano, flex my bands, and stare for a moment at the keyboard. While Rumsey makes the introduction, I glance out over the crowd.

  The hum of conversation ceases. Through the opening between the lid and the piano, I catch the drummer’s eyes. He smiles briefly. There is light applause as Rumsey finishes introducing us. I’m already snapping my fingers for the beat of the opening number.

  I count us in. It’s an up-tempo blues. Now my concentration is totally on this arrangement of black and white keys before me. We play the first notes of the intro and roar through the head, an old bebop line penned by Bud Powell. There is a sharp break, two measures of silence from bass and drums, while I lead into my solo.

  My right band has a mind of its own, spinning off phrase after phrase as I fly over the keyboard through several choruses. Everything comes together. The bass walks solidly, the cymbals sizzle, we play almost as one. During the bass solo, I’m only vaguely aware of the crowd noise as I listen and feel the bassist chords.

  The drummer has his say in a flurry of four-bar exchanges with me, and then we’re going home, caught up in the out chorus, a restatement of the theme, and a final chord.

  As the applause rings out, I look at my right hand, surprised at its life, its ease, its effortless facility as the conduit from my heart, my brain to the keyboard.

  Then I wake up. It’s dark. I’m alone. There is no applause, no club. Only me.

  The Lighthouse, I remind myself, no longer features jazz. I no longer play piano.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “You don’t choose music,” I say as I watch the doctor’s fingers probe the tendons of my right wrist “Music chooses you.”

  “Where did you get that?” Dr. Martin asks. He presses harder and looks up when I wince. “Still a little tender?”

  I nod and expel the breath I’ve been holding. The pain is sharp but comforting, a good sign. An enduring reminder that my hand is still there, somewhat alive, even if for the piano it’s dead.

  “One of my first piano teachers,” I say, surprised that I recall the words. Axioms die hard but I remember his voice, especially whenever I balked at practicing or voiced doubts about the course I always imagined I’d set for myself.

  Dr. Martin straightens up and reaches for my chart, makes a notation. He’s a slightly built man, shorter than I am, with thick curly hair and an open, friendly face. His only concession to medical attire is the white coat open to the waist. The rest is golf shirt, jeans, and running shoes. I’ve seen him a couple of times driving a red BMW, and I know he keeps in shape playing racquetball. I like him, but there’s more to it than that. For the moment, I look upon him as my savior.

  A friend of mine, a violinist with the L.A. Philharmonic, has recommended him. Dr. Martin is one of two doctors in Los Angeles involved with performing-arts medicine.

  “You think your teacher was right?” He hangs the clipboard on the back of the examining room door and stands for a moment watching me.

  “I don’t know, I guess you could say the same for a lot of things.” I roll down the sleeve of my shirt and button the cuff. I try to smile but it doesn’t quite come off. Dr. Martin and I have been over this ground before.

  “Look, Evan, you can’t expect miracles, not after what you’ve been through. Even if you never play again, you’re young, there are a lot of things you can do, even in music.”

  “Name twenty.”

  Dr. Martin shrugs. “See you next week. Don’t forget your session with the therapist.”

  I pull on my jacket and sit alone for a few minutes in the examining room. Instinctively, I reach for the rubber ball in my coat pocket. I weigh it in the palm of my hand for a moment, then watch the fingers of my right hand, as if they’re detached from my body, close around the ball and squeeze until I feel the familiar sharp pain shoot up my arm. I try to hold on for a slow count of thirty, but get only to thirteen before I relax my grip and slump back in the chair.

  My teacher had been right. Music had chosen me and, once heard, the calling had been like a religious vocation. Everything else had become secondary. I’d first heard it at eight, and now, at thirty-four, I was only just beginning to come to terms with the reality that for me, playing the piano might be something I used to do.

  No more tours, no more record dates, rehearsals, no more jam sessions in smoky basement clubs. No more music. All thanks to a battered pickup truck looming out of the fog on the Pacific Coast Highway. Metal crunching metal, and shattered glass severing the major tendons on my right hand.

  A jazz pianist’s solo hand.

  It had happened too fast for me to have any memory of the impact. I vaguely remember brief glimpses. A concerned face hovering over me, lights, voices, the sound of a siren, the smell of gasoline, and then only black numbness.

  The surgery had been successful; the tendons had been repaired, but there was more to the story. Guarded optimism was Dr. Martin’s prognosis, but I know better. It’s been six months now.

  I still have trouble with twist-off bottle caps, despite the physical therapy sessions with Dr. Martin and the weekly counseling group, which is perhaps more important than physical therapy. I’m beginning to have my doubts about performing-arts medicine. My piano stands silent in my, apartment slowly gathering dust, but I refuse to give up. I try to be optimistic, whatever I say to Dr. Martin. I cling to hope and my rubber ball, as if I were drowning and the ball were a lifeline.

  It’s only a child’s toy, the kind fo
und in any discount store, but it’s become my talisman, taking its place among the other familiar items I cart around. Wallet, keys, comb, cigarettes—red rubber ball.

  “Mr. Horne?” The nurse sticks her head in the room. “The doctor needs this room, I’m afraid. Was there something else?” She smiles in a way that tells me she hopes there isn’t.

  I give her a mock salute and head for the elevator to go down to the parking garage, wondering how I will kill the rest of the day. I still have an article to finish. I’m past the deadline, but I’m finding it difficult to write about how good Chick Corea sounded at his last concert. Dr. Martin was right, I have to concede. I am doing something in music, but it isn’t playing piano.

  I step out of the elevator and stop suddenly. I drive a chocolate-brown Mazda sports car. That’s still new to me, but it’s the white Rolls Corniche next to mine that catches my eye, especially the license plate that reads SOUL I.

  A girl sits behind the wheel, leafing through a magazine. She turns as I approach. “Hello, Evan.”

  It takes me a moment to react to her voice. That too is familiar pain. “Sharon?”

  The night of the accident, I’d driven away from the house in a rage after a final argument that had ended our three years of marriage. Except for a brief get-well note and the separation papers, I haven’t heard from Sharon since. Her silence was, I hoped, at least partially accounted for by guilt. But despite the weak smile, Sharon doesn’t look guilty. She looks frightened.

  I watch her get out of the car and feel old stirrings. She’s wearing an expensive warm-up suit, one no one would ever sweat in, and running shoes with a stripe on the side. Her dark brown hair spills over her face. Her eyes are hidden behind large round sun. When she takes them off, I can see she’s been crying.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “You’re like clockwork. Mondays at two,” She lowers her eyes. “I told Dr. Martin I—I’m sorry I didn’t call before.”

  “So am I,” I say. “What do you want?”

  “Is there someplace we can talk?”

  “Now?”

  “It’s important, Evan. I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

  I sigh and try to focus on something other than her face. Sharon is not beautiful but she has a certain quality, a look that always got to me.

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t.” There’s a certain pleading in her voice I’ve never heard before. Maybe things aren’t going so well with Lonnie Cole after all.

  It’s too early for a drink. A brightly lit restaurant seems like the safest bet. “There’s a coffee shop up the street.”

  Sharon locks the Rolls and follows me into the elevator. We ride back up to the street in silence while I take in her perfume. Also something very expensive, I imagine.

  Fall has arrived in Los Angeles. Two days of rain have caused floods in the canyons and cleared the air. Today, at least, I can see the Santa Monica Mountains, usually hidden behind a yellow haze.

  Sharon and I walk along silently, feeling the distance between us. The coffee shop is one of those typical Southern California places: splashes of bright colors, plastic tables, and waitresses in bright orange uniforms. Ours has a name tag that says she is Marion from Des Moines.

  We settle in a booth and order coffee. I light a cigarette and study Sharon. She’s playing with the strap on her shoulder bag. I can’t make out if it’s me or what she’s come for that’s making her so nervous.

  “Why did you call Dr. Martin?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I wanted to see how you were doing, I guess.” She pauses and looks out the window. “No, that’s not entirely true. I know I should have called before. I—”

  “What did he tell you?” Deep down, I believe Dr. Martin is keeping the truth from me and simply trying to figure out a way to let me down easily. It’s a possibility I don’t want to admit even to myself.

  “He said all things considered, you’re doing very well.”

  I smile. “That sounds like Martin.” Marion returns with our coffee. I add a packet of sugar and some nondairy creamer to mine. I look up at Sharon and try a smile. “See, I can stir my own coffee.”

  Sharon reaches across the table to touch my hand, but I pull it away. Outside, I can see a man struggling to get a newspaper out of a vending machine. He gives up in disgust and slams the back of his hand against the Plexiglas. I almost envy him.

  I glance at Sharon again. “Look, I can see you’re doing well, so let’s skip the rest of the how-have-you-been routine. What is it you want?”

  “Evan, you’re not making this easy for me.”

  “Why should I?” I guess it comes out stronger than I intend. I start to say more, but Sharon seems about to cry. “Okay, okay,” I say. “It’s all history now. So what problems are the rich and famous facing these days?”

  I wait, but she doesn’t seem to know how to begin. Finally she blurts it out. “It’s Lonnie. He’s in trouble. You heard about the new album, I guess. Lonnie and Charlie Crisp?”

  I nod without enthusiasm. That news has penetrated even my depressed isolation. It had been on all the important TV programs like Entertainment Tonight. The trade papers were calling it the greatest collaboration since Willie Nelson and Marvin Gaye had toured together.

  Lonnie Cole, the King of Soul, had teamed up with Mr. Country and Western, Charlie Crisp. The idea, of course, was to rake in profits from both markets; naturally, the record company geniuses were calling this album The Soul of Country. It would probably go platinum in a month.

  My lack of enthusiasm isn’t entirely due to my taste in music—despite having paid some dues with a couple of grinnin’ and pickin’ bands along the way, I never liked country music—no, the real reason is that Lonnie Cole is my former boss, and Sharon now lives at his house.

  During my tenure with Lonnie, Sharon had developed an amazing rapport with his five-year-old daughter Kesha. Lonnie was divorced, so when I was on the road Sharon often stayed at Lonnie’s to take care of Kesha. When Sharon and I split up she moved in, ostensibly to become a full-time nanny. That’s what I wanted to believe; I thought I’d given up wondering if anything more was going on. Now, seeing Sharon again, I realize I’m not sure, about her or wanting to move on.

  “Well,” Sharon continues, “the session was in Nashville, at Charlie’s place. He has his own studio there.”

  “Good for him. When does Lonnie get his?” Sharon and I both know that were it not for the accident and various creative differences I had with Lonnie, I might have been on that album.

  She ignores my sarcasm. Had she done so a little more often maybe we’d still be married. One of the major flaws of my character, she’d always said.

  “After the recording session, everyone flew back to Las Vegas. Charlie’s playing there, at the Frontier. He threw a big party to celebrate. It went on for nearly three days and got pretty, well, you know how they go.”

  “I’ll bet.” I imagine how it went. The L.A. soul brothers meet the Nashville good ole boys in an orgy of wine, women, and grits. I’ve been to my share of record company bashes, but I found it difficult to imagine Sharon enjoying such a party. That was one point we’d always agreed on. I look at her and wait for the punch line.

  “Here,” she says suddenly. She pulls a large manila envelope out of her bag and slides it across the table. I pick it up and give her a quizzical look, but she just shrugs and turns toward the window.

  I open the envelope. Inside are two eight-by-ten, black-and-white glossy photos. These are not standard publicity pix. The overall quality is good, the faces easily distinguishable. So are the bodies. Sharon is right. Lonnie Cole is in trouble—big trouble.

  Sprawled on a king-size bed, arms draped over each other, in what appears to be a fond embrace, are Mr. Macho Man, Lonnie Cole, and America’s favorite good ole boy, Charlie Crisp. Charlie doesn’t quite look like Jim Palmer in jockey shorts; Lonnie wears dark socks and a white T-shirt.

  I glance up at Sharon and find her s
tudying intently. I look at the photos again and whistle softly. “Well, you did say it got wild. Where were you when this was going on?”

  “It’s not what it looks like,” Sharon puts in quickly. “You know how those parties go. They were both drunk. I was already asleep. Lonnie says he doesn’t even remember.”

  I nod. Charlie Crisp I know only by reputation, but Lonnie’s not at all that way inclined. In the two years I’d conducted and played piano for him, I’d seen him go through a lot of women. And, rather painfully, I remind myself, I’m sitting across from someone who might be able to attest to his sexual preferences.

  “Who took the pictures?”

  Sharon looks away again. “I—we don’t know. They came in the mail yesterday.”

  I look at them again and begin to understand. “And?”

  Sharon swallows and looks out the window. “There was a note. Whoever sent them wants five hundred thousand dollars from each, or copies go to—”

  I finish the thought mentally. Enquiring minds want to know. I whistle again, this time not so softly. Half a million dollars is a lot of first endings, even for recording successes like Lonnie Cole and Charlie Crisp. Both have carefully cultivated images.

  Crisp goes for the rugged western look, a tougher version of Waylon Jennings or Johnny Cash, if that’s possible. Lonnie is the slick, urban black dude about town. A former athlete, he’s been on the cover of Ebony twice and always surrounds himself with beautiful ladies. He’s already doing commercials for he-man beers.

  Photos of these two prime examples of American masculinity, embracing on a king-size bed, will do nothing for their record sales, but they are definitely front-page material for the supermarket tabloids. Whoever is calling the shots really has his timing down.

  The American Music Awards are just over a week away.

  I put the photos back in the envelope. “So where do I come in?” I have a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that I don’t want to know.