Free The Other Side of Silence by Bill Pronzini Page B

musicians. Mixed group—Latino, African-American, Caucasian. The piano man appeared to be the leader, Benny Amato. The rest were drums, bass, alto sax, tenor sax, trombone, cornet, and Eddie Sparrow on trumpet. Sparrow sat slumped on a stool, doing less noodling with his instrument than the others. He was even smaller in the flesh than he’d appeared in the group photo, maybe five and a half feet tall and a hundred and twenty pounds. He didn’t look as if he could blow a dozen riffs without losing his wind and keeling over.
    Fallon knew a little about jazz. Geena’s brother Stephen was a nut on it, had insisted on dragging them to jazz clubs and festivals in the L.A. area. He liked it well enough, in small doses—the bluesy, sweet-and-lowdown pieces more than the wailing, frantic arrangements. There wouldn’t be much of the former here tonight, he figured, but he was wrong. The Jazzbos mixed it up pretty well, up-tempo and down-tempo, classics and less well-known compositions and a few that were probably of their own devising.
    The first set was strictly Dixieland, which meant that they’d do swing, probably thirties-style New York or Kansas City, for the second set, and fusion—jazz elements mixed with pop, rock, folk, R&B—for the third. Their late-hour sets would be a mix of all three, with plenty of improv for the true aficionados who would rather linger here than head downstairs to the gaming tables.
    They had the usual repertoire of standards: “When the Saints Go Marching In,” “Saint James Infirmary,” “Basin Street Blues,” “Stompin’ at the Savoy,” “Take the A Train,” “Blues in the Night,” “Perdido,” “Gloomy Sunday.” Mixed in were vocals featuring the dark and slinky Helen Dupree: “Moanin’ Low,” “Jazz Me Blues,” “Skeleton Jangle.” Good group, all right, with Amato’s piano and Sparrow’s trumpet dominating the instrumentals. Despite his slightness, Sparrow seemed to have more energy and stamina than any of the others. Plenty of talent, too. His solos earned him enthusiastic applause.
    When the first set ended, Fallon watched the musicians file off. Some of them went backstage, while three others, Eddie Sparrow among them, moved out through the audience. It took Sparrow six or seven minutes of handshakes and brief conversations to make his way to the rear bar. When he got close, Fallon stepped out and went to meet him.
    “Eddie. Eddie Sparrow.”
    The little man focused on him, ran liquidy brown eyes over him. “You Rick?” he asked in a surprisingly husky voice.
    Noise and people swirled around them. Fallon had to stand close and lean down to hear and be heard. “That’s me. You blow a mean trumpet, Mr. Sparrow.”
    “Thirty years of lip, man. Jazz your business, too?”
    “Not like it’s yours. Buy you a drink?”
    “Never use it. Come on, we’ll talk out front. Too crowded in here.”
    Fallon followed him out and a short distance away from the entrance. When Sparrow stopped, he said, “Five minutes, that’s all I got for you.”
    “Five’s plenty.”
    “So why the note? What’s worth my while?”
    “Court Spicer. I’m trying to find him.”
    “You’re not the only one.”
    “I heard the two of you were friends, so I thought maybe—”
    “Friends, hell,” Sparrow said. “That dude don’t have any friends. You’re not one any more than I am. What you want with him?”
    “Personal business.”
    “Money business?”
    “Among other things. I’ll pay cash for his current address.”
    Sparrow laughed, showing three or four gold teeth. “If I knew it, you could have it for free.”
    “So you don’t know if he’s living in Vegas now?”
    “Not a clue.”
    “Or if he is, where he might be playing?”
    Shrug. “Bound to be a joint, solo or with some crappy trio. Spicer’s strictly second-rate.”
    “You ever play a gig with him here?”
    “Never. Once, in San Diego, when I needed some quick cash. Once was enough.”
    “He played