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
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
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