The Sound of the Trumpet Page 7

  “And you don’t know if Cross is his real name?”

  “How would I?”

  Trask pauses a moment and looks up from the file. “Professor Buffington didn’t tell you?”

  I look from Ochoa to Trask. Both have a look of expectancy. “I don’t think he knew either.”

  Trask closes the file. “I had an interesting phone call this morning, from an attorney, Perkins’ attorney. Says your friend Professor Buffington is listed as executor of Perkins’ will.”

  I don’t have to try to look shocked. “What? Are you sure?”

  “Buffington didn’t mention it—you didn’t, know?”

  “As far as I know, their only connection to each other was through record collecting, and that was minimal. Ace says he had very little to do with Perkins, that Perkins was a very secretive guy.”

  Trask and Ochoa exchange glances again. “According to his lawyer, Perkins had some very valuable items in his collection—extremely rare recordings, were his words.”

  “Well, that’s what he did. That shouldn’t be a surprise.”

  “What if I told you this lawyer says a good deal of Perkins’s estate was left to your friend Professor Buffington?”

  Trask has me again, and I’d bet Ace will be dumbfounded. I still don’t see where Trask is going with this. “You’ll have to ask Ace about that, but I’m sure he doesn’t know.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll ask him.” Trask opens the file again, refers to something inside. “Perkins had only one surviving relative, a sister. She’s flying in today to make funeral arrangements.”

  “Well, that should clear up a lot of things.”

  “We hope so.” Trask looks at Ochoa. “Dave, can we have a few minutes?”

  Ochoa shrugs but looks annoyed as he goes out and shuts the door.

  “Look,” Trask says, “we have very little going on this. We don’t have a description of the alleged shooter, we have no gun, no prints, we don’t even have his name. Then I find Buffington stands to gain a good deal from Perkins’s death, and these tapes, if they’re as valuable as you say they are, could be worth a lot more than the fee they paid you to listen to them.”

  “For one thing, I didn’t get paid, remember? What are you suggesting? That Buffington and I had something to do with this?”

  Trask shakes his head. “You, probably not. I checked with Danny Cooper, and he vouched for you pretty solidly, but I don’t want your friendship with Buffington to cloud your thinking.”

  “Oh, come on, Trask. Ace is an English professor with a long-standing reputation in the community. Are you forgetting his help with Anthony Gallio?”

  Trask shrugs again. “No, I’m not, but he did little more than let us use his house for a short time, put a tap on his phone. This is a murder investigation, and I just have to keep my options open.”

  I shift in my chair, uncomfortable with Trask’s innuendo. I would stake my life on Ace’s honesty. “You’re all wrong on this, Trask, you really are. Ace would never be a part of something like this.”

  “Okay, let’s go to something else—the tapes. You say there were two, right?”

  “As far as I know. I only saw two.”

  “You think there might be more?”

  “If they’re genuine, I really doubt it. I’m not even sure these are genuine.”

  “I thought you said this was—what’s his name—Clifford Brown.”

  “I could be wrong. They could be very good fakes.”

  Trask frowns. “I won’t pretend to understand how this would work.”

  This is the opening I’ve been waiting for. If I’m reading Trask correctly, I’m not really a suspect, and neither is Ace. Trask is frustrated in having a murder on the books, and with almost nowhere to start, he’s grasping at straws.

  “Think of it as an art forgery. There would be tests made for the canvas, paint, and comparisons of the artist’s genuine work, to determine if the paintings were genuine or copies. We can’t do that with music except to listen to the tapes and try and determine if the artist is who it’s supposed to be. Call it expert opinion.”

  “We’ve had an audio lab listen to the one that was left on the machine at Perkins’s house—told us nothing. Good trumpet player, was all the technician said.”

  “Exactly my point.” I lean forward, hoping I can sell Trask on my idea. “If this was really Clifford Brown, the tape would have been made sometime before June 1956. That’s when he died in the car crash. That means the tape used would have to be vintage ’50s. There must be ways to test the tape through the manufacturer, some kind of manufacturer’s code, maybe even the makeup of the tape itself. Recording tape has improved vastly since then.”

  Trask thinks about that. “We don’t have the facilities to run a test like that. It would have to go to the FBI lab in Utah.”

  “Fine, have the test made, but do one thing first.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Make a copy for me, a cassette.” I throw up my hands and smile. “Think of me as the equivalent of an art forgery expert. I want to listen to that tape, maybe play it for some other people more expert than me who might be able to verify that it’s Clifford Brown.”

  Trask leans back in his chair, runs his hands through his thinning hair, and allows himself a slight smile. “Danny Cooper said you might want to do something like this. What if it’s not Brown on the tape, what then?”

  “Then we know that this whole thing was a scam to dupe a record company. That’s a whole other deal. I have some contacts you don’t have for the music end of things. Let me try. It can’t hurt your case to know exactly what you’re dealing with.”

  Trask gets up and walks over to the window, then turns back to me. “Okay, we’ll send the tape off to the FBI, and I’ll have a cassette copy made for you, but that’s the extent of your involvement, understood?”

  “Absolutely, no problem. When can I get the tape?”

  “I’ll let you know.” He puts up his hands. “I know, the sooner the better.” I stand up. “So there’s no reason I have to stay in Las Vegas. Some of what I’ve got in mind I’ll have to do in L.A.”

  “You mean, are you a suspect? No, but you stay in touch with me, and I want a full report on what you’re doing.” Trask picks up the file folder. “There’s one other thing.”

  “Yeah?” Here it comes; where’s the trumpet?

  “What’s going on with you and Ochoa? He doesn’t like you for some reason.” I try not to show my relief that’s all he wants to ask me.

  “Search me, unless it’s something to do with my girlfriend.”

  There’s a knock at the door before we can finish. It opens, and Ochoa sticks his head in. “Lieutenant, you’ve got a call. It’s Perkins’s lawyer.”

  “Okay, be right there.” Trask turns to me. “I’ll call you about the tape. Remember, stay in touch.”

  I brush past Ochoa in the hall. “Good to see you again, Dave. Nice tie.”

  “It’s Sergeant Ochoa,” the detective says, glancing down at his tie.

  Back in my car in the parking lot, I go over the conversation with Trask. I light a cigarette and sit for a moment, watching police arrive for work, suspects being brought in for questioning, allowing the luscious wave of relief to flood through my body.

  Not even a mention of the trumpet. It hasn’t been missed by anyone, and I get a copy of the tape as well.

  But my triumph is shadowed with doubt. Is Trask simply hoping I’ll come up with something by exploring possibilities in an area he doesn’t know, find some lead in a dead-end case? Maybe I’m imagining, it, but was Trask too receptive to my idea, too eager to cooperate?

  The thought crosses my mind, especially his allusion to talking with Danny Cooper. Maybe he was going, to sell me, and I saved him the trouble.

  Coming up with a safe place for the trumpet while at the same time ensuring I don’t make anyone else a target turns out to be easier than I thought. I’ve mulled over several possibilities.
A storage locker at the airport or bus station? Leaving it with someone totally unconnected to the case? I even considered a band teacher I know who deals a lot with musical instruments. One more trumpet in his lockers wouldn’t make a difference.

  But as I find a parking space on Fremont Street and walk into the Silver State Pawn Shop, I know I’ve come up with the right solution. I pause for a moment and glance in the window. There’s the usual array of jewelry, cameras, video and stereo equipment. It’s the clarinet, like new, sitting in an open case, that clinches it for me. Hide it in plain sight.

  Inside, there’s a young couple looking at engagement rings. I wander around the shop, browsing over the many offerings, items unredeemed that are now for sale. How many stories are there here?

  The clerk glances at me from time to time while he shows rings to the couple. Save money on a ring for other more important things. They look happy, in love, but practical.

  “That’s all I’ve got in that range,” the clerk says, winking at me. He’s thin, nearly bald, and probably in his mid-sixties. A jeweler’s magnifying glass hangs on a chain around his neck. He glances at the trumpet case. “Be right with you,” he says.

  The couple talks quietly for a moment, turning away slightly. Finally the man says, “Well, thanks for your time. We’ll check back with you.”

  Before they’re out the door, the clerk scoops up the ring boxes, replaces them in the locked glass case, and pockets a ring of keys.

  “How can I help you?” He eyes the trumpet case as I set it down on the counter.

  “Just want to see if I can get a few bucks on this.” I open the case.

  He takes the horn out, holds it with both hands like he’s held one before, presses down on the valves. He wrinkles his nose, looks up at me, and smiles.

  “What’s that smell?”

  “Valve oil.”

  He nods his head up and down. “Yeah. Awfully strong, though. I used to play a little myself,” he says. “High school band.”

  I nod and watch him give the trumpet a cursory examination. “How much were you thinking of?”

  I shrug, try to look hopeful. “I don’t know.” I tell him the figure I have in mind.

  “Bad day on the tables, huh?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  He fingers the valves again. “No mouthpiece?”

  I hadn’t even thought of that. I pat my pockets. “Yeah, I left it home, I guess.”

  “You probably got hurt, what with the strike and all, right?”

  “Strike?”

  “Yeah, Musicians Union strike. That’s why there’s no music in the hotels anymore.”

  “Well, I guess you know the whole story.”

  “Yep, sure do.” He looks at the trumpet one last time and puts it back in the case. “Well, it’s pretty old, needs some work and a shining up, but something tells me you’ll be back for it”

  For one scary moment, I think he isn’t going to take it. I look disappointed but agree to his price. He counts out the cash, and I fill out a form and take the ticket.

  “Well, thanks,” I say.

  “Son, let me give you some advice, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure.”

  “You get some money together somewhere, come back, and get your horn and go back home, wherever that is.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll definitely be back.”

  I walk out to my car feeling sad. It’s not even my horn, my instrument, but I think I can imagine the feelings of musicians everywhere who’ve had to hock their horns.

  INTERLUDE

  June 25, 1956

  They walked toward a booth in a back corner of the diner, Brownie leading, Richie just behind him, his hand protectively on Nancy’s arm. No problems, really. Just three pretty-well-dressed, road-tired Negroes in a restaurant, wanting some dinner. There were a few curious looks, but nothing to distress any of them. This wasn’t Alabama, this was Pennsylvania, and tomorrow they would be in Indiana.

  “Back Home in Indiana.” Brownie couldn’t think of a song title without running the chord changes through his mind or devising a new melody, his mind never at rest, working all the time. That’s why he enjoyed—excelled at—math, why he was so good at chess and so knocked out to discover Max Roach was a great chess player as well as a great drummer.

  Max had won the city championships in Brooklyn, but Brownie could beat him once in a while if Max was off his game. Brownie and Max were good together in so many ways, like brothers, especially with that big damn ride cymbal pounding behind him relentlessly on “Cherokee,” driving him toward the edge every time they played. And damned if that motherfucker couldn’t play melody on the drums. If you knew the tune, you could tell where Max was when he soloed. Brownie liked that, he liked that a lot.

  “And how are you folks tonight?” the waitress asked, setting down three glasses of water, handing them menus. She looked tired too, Brownie thought, but neighborly. He awarded her one of his best childlike smiles.

  “We’ll be just fine with some coffee, ma’am. How is that beef stew I saw on the blackboard? Tasty, I’ll bet.”

  “You’d win your bet, son,” the waitress said, returning Brownie’s smile. Like so many strangers, she warmed to him immediately.

  “Sounds good to me,” Richie said. “Nancy?” She was still studying the menu.

  “I think I’ll have the fried chicken.”

  Brownie and Richie both laughed. “Oh, you tryin’ something different,” Richie said, winking at Brownie.

  “Yeah,” Brownie chimed in. “Charlie Parker ain’t the only one should be called Bird.”

  “Don’t you laugh at me, Richie Powell,” Nancy said, playfully slapping Richie on the arm. The gesture reminded Clifford of how much he missed LaRue. Well, he’d call her tonight, wish her happy birthday, tell her how much he missed her and the baby.

  He watched the waitress write down their order, knew she was thinking, Who the hell is this Charlie Parker cat? One day everybody will know, he thought. Maybe one day everybody will know who Clifford Brown is too.

  They talked and joked over dinner. The food was as good as the waitress’s word, but they lingered long over several cups of coffee and cigarettes—Brownie stalling, Richie anxious to be gone, but leaving meant getting back in the car, getting back on the road. At least it was a short ride from here into Philly.

  They paid the check, walked outside to the car, and stood nearby stretching, smoking, Brownie reluctant to get in.

  “Well, come on, man,” Richie said, looking at his watch. “Sooner we get to Philly, sooner you play this gig, sooner we get to Elkhart. Them trumpet cats will be gone if we don’t get going. How many they gonna give you?”

  “At least one, they said.” Brownie nodded at Richie and Nancy, knew they were watching him, but not pressing. He ground out his cigarette. “I’ll drive this time,” he said.

  Richie said, “Cool,” and opened the door for Nancy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “You hocked Clifford Brown’s trumpet for fifty dollars?” Ace is beside himself, stalking around the kitchen, shaking his head. He stops and spins toward me, almost losing his balance. “A hundred thousand dollar horn?”

  “A hundred thousand? Relax, Ace. In the first place, we don’t know yet if it’s Brownie’s horn or how much it’s worth. Besides, it couldn’t be in a safer place. There’s a security buzzer on the door and a steel gate across the whole front of the shop when it’s locked up at night. Most importantly, no one knows it’s there.”

  Ace isn’t quite convinced. “But what if there was a robbery or something?” He’s more under control now. “Evan, that could be a very valuable horn.”

  “Even if there’ was a robbery, no one is going to steal an old trumpet in a battered case. They’d go after the jewelry, cameras, TVs.”

  Ace smiles for the first time since I came back to the house. “No, I guess not. God, I wish I could tell someone about this.” His smile suddenly changes to a fro
wn again. “You have the ticket.”

  “Of course.” For now, it’s safely tucked in my wallet. “This way I can get at it if I need to, and nobody is on the spot.”

  “When would you need to use it?”

  I had worked a lot of this out already. I find myself slightly doubting that the tapes are genuine. If they’re not, and I can prove it, doesn’t it follow that the horn would be phony too? “There are a couple of people still around who might be able to recognize the horn if it’s Clifford Brown’s. You can’t play with someone every night and not know what his horn looks like. Max Roach for one, and there’s Sonny Rollins, and Harold Land, who still lives in L.A.”

  “Right,” Ace says. “I’d forgotten about him. He was the tenor player before Sonny Rollins. And wait”—Ace snaps his fingers—“Teddy Edwards. He was the first tenor player with Max’s band. He was just at the Riviera last year.”

  “Great. Any other ideas you have, I’d like to hear.” Ace is not only a collector but an amateur jazz historian as well. Jazz names come to him as easily as characters in a Jane Austen novel.

  His good spirits sag quickly, though, when he gets back to the business of the day. “Did Trask tell you about Ken Perkins naming me in his will?”

  “Yeah, this morning. You had no idea, I take it?”

  “How could I? Not the remotest idea.” Ace sits down and checks his watch. “I have a meeting with Perkins’s lawyer and sister this afternoon. I’ve offered to help with the funeral arrangements. God, Evan, how did things get so complicated? I start off thinking I might play a minor role in verifying a great musical discovery, and I get us both involved in a murder investigation.” There’s pain and confusion in his eyes when he looks up at me. “I’m sorry, Evan, I really am. If I’d known—”

  “Forget it, Ace. There’s no way you could have known. The thing we have to do now is clear us both of any involvement in this. Meanwhile, I’m going to try and determine if that’s really Clifford Brown on those tapes.”

  “Do I want to ask how you’re going to do that?”