It was getting late when Tony returned home. Sitting at the kitchen table, he mulled the folder of information mob boss Frankie Castalano had given him. He had no idea where to begin or what to do with the ten grand in hundred dollar bills Castalano had paid him. Lil was looking over his shoulder when he glanced up.
“Where did you get all that money?”
“Could be a bonanza, or maybe a pile of dog crap I just stepped in. Don’t know yet.”
“Talk to me.”
Tony held the wad of hundred dollar bills to show her.
“I got hired today to find a missing brass instrument for someone. They paid me lots of money, all in cash.”
“Oh my!”
“That’s what I said. Can we put it in our bank account like this?”
“Of course, you can, but why would someone pay you with so much cash?”
“That’s my problem. Actually, our problem.”
“You’d better explain.”
“My new client is Frankie Castalano.”
Lil’s hand went to her mouth. “You mean Frankie Castalano the Mafia boss?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, shit! Tony, you can’t work for that monster. We don’t need the money that badly.”
“He’s not really a monster.”
“That’s not what the papers and magazines say.”
“He’s just a man.”
“A man that can have someone killed at the drop of a hat.”
“You don’t really know that,” Tony said.
“Maybe not, but it’s what everyone thinks.”
“Then what do you want me to do?”
“Give him the money back. Tell him you’re too busy to do the job.”
“What if he takes offense?”
Lil glanced at the clock on the wall as if it might hold the answer to Tony’s question.
“You’re right. We do have a problem.”
“Then maybe I should just do what he hired me to do.”
“I won’t let you do anything illegal, Tony.”
“It’s a legitimate job. Nothing illegal about it.”
“You have no clue where that money came from.”
“And neither does anyone else. It’s just a retainer. The man could have made the money selling lemonade on the sidewalk for all I know.”
“You know that’s not where it came from,” she said.
“How do you know? How do you ever know where the money your employer pays you actually comes from?”
Lil glared at Patch when he came through the doggy door from the backyard and jumped into Tony’s lap.
“Don’t know,” she said. “I never thought of it like that.”
“He just wants me to find a horn for him. What could be illegal about that?”
“You sure?”
Tony grabbed Lil’s hand and squeezed it. “Would I lie to you?”
“Every time you open your mouth.”
“No way. Far as I’m concerned, this money’s legit. I just need a place to start looking for the horn because I don’t have a clue.”
“Let me see your folder,” she said, sitting beside him.
Tires screeched on the street outside their home as Lil began thumbing through the stack of photos and documents.
“Crazy New Orleans’ drivers,” Tony said when they heard a crash.
Lil ignored the car wreck. “What’s this?”
“A picture of the old cornet he wants me to find. He thinks a local jazz legend named King Oliver once owned it. It’s also a mystery how he got it.”
“So what’s the problem? Everyone knows you’re the best detective in New Orleans.”
“Then why don’t I have a clue where to start?”
Lil ignored his question. “He lost it? How?”
“His old man took it from him when he decided his attention was more focused on music than the mob. He never gave it back.”
“Then ask his father. He knows what he did with it.”
“Not so simple,” Tony said. “He’s dead. Maybe I should just give him back the money.”
“Don’t you dare,” Lil said, taking the cash from him. “You’re absolutely right. If we had to know where every dollar we receive comes from before we spent it, this country would grind to a halt.”
“What’ll we do?”
Lil peeled off ten hundred dollar bills and handed them to him. “In case you need it. I’ll hide the rest in the sock drawer. It’ll be our rainy day fund.”
Tony stuffed the hundreds in his wallet. “Now what?”
“Maybe you could start at the Hogan Jazz Archive at Tulane University?”
“Never heard of it.”
“My book club visited it a year ago,” she said. “Check it out. It’s as good a place as any to start.”
###
The following day found Tony walking across the campus of Tulane University, trying to locate the Hogan Jazz Archive. The name imparted visions of grandeur. Reality was quite different. Although nothing like Castalano’s private museum, this one, he quickly learned, had many resources. He approached the woman behind the desk to see if he needed to sign in.
“Ma’am, I’ve never been here before.”
“I see that,” she said. “You’ll have to leave your briefcase and pens with me.”
“Then what’ll I take notes with?”
“A pencil if you have one. If you don’t, we have plenty to lend. There’s a pencil sharpener on the shelf by the window.”
“I don’t need much. Maybe you can help me.”
“Sir, this is a research facility. We provide the resources, you do the research.”
“But I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”
She stared at him as if he were the town idiot, and then apparently decided to try one more time.
“Much of the reference material we offer is on computer. You are welcome to check what we have. If you see something you’d like to examine closely, be it book, reference, video, or CD, I’ll be happy to retrieve it for you, but whatever research you do is up to you.”
Tony wished he still had his badge. A glance was usually all it took to obtain any information he needed. He wasn’t used to poring through documents in a research facility. Intent on the woman behind the counter, he didn’t hear the person approach him from behind.
“Is there a problem here?”
He turned to see a man in a white shirt, tie, and sleeveless, wool pullover. The dark frames of his glasses marked him as a professor, his frown as the archive administrator.
“Mr. Wall, this gentleman has never used the Archive before and seems a little confused about our policies.”
“Sorry,” Tony said. “I hoped I could get someone to look at a picture of an old horn and maybe tell me a few things about it.”
“Mr...”
“Nicosia, Tony Nicosia.”
“Look, Mr. Nicosia, this is a research facility. We have one of the largest archives of jazz and Louisiana folk music in the world. If you have a question about jazz, you can probably find the answer here. We aren’t the Antique Road Show.”
“Sorry,” Tony said, seeing he was getting nowhere. “If you don’t mind, I’ll use your computer to see what you have.”
“Fine,” Wall said, smiling. “Call if you need me, Doris. I’m going down the hall for coffee.”
Doris didn’t bother looking up or responding as she thumbed through Tony’s briefcase.
“Here’s a pencil. I’ll supply another if you break it. You may take the Manila folder and yellow tablet to the table with you.”
He nodded and turned toward a table with a computer, noting that only one other person was working in the archive. Mumbling to himself, he took the computer beside him.
“They have a way of making you feel like an errant third grader sometimes,” the man said.
“Hey, I thought she was going to slap my wrist with a ruler for a minute.”
The man grinned and extended his hand. “I’m Jason Fasempaur. I heard your question. Maybe I can help.”
“Glad to meet you, Jason. I’m Tony Nicosia.”
“Gentlemen, please lower your voices,” Doris said, interrupting their conversation.
“I’ve been here all morning and was about to take a break. If you join me, maybe I can answer your questions.”
Jason Fasempaur was younger, six inches taller and twenty pounds lighter than Tony was. He had the mannerisms of a college professor, although his Italian loafers and expensive tweed sports coat pegged him as a person with a more rewarding career. He also had a warm smile.
“Best offer I’ve had all day, Jason. Lead the way. I’m right behind you.”
“Are you familiar with the student union?” Jason asked.
“Can’t say as I am.”
“It’s a wonder, three stories tall, all open, with passive heating and cooling. The abundance of windows invokes the unmistakable feeling of being outside. Add the tropical plants and rain walls and you’ll forget New Orleans’ summer heat and winter gloom.”
“Sounds inviting. I have a friend that teaches here. She told me about it.”
“Who? I know a few of the professors.”
“Professor Mulate. She teaches English.”
“You know Doctor Mulate?”
“We go way back. You know her?”
“No, but I’d like to. In addition to being intelligent, she’s also one gorgeous babe.”
Jason nodded when Tony said, “You noticed.”
“Tell you what. You introduce us, and I’ll help you any way I can with your research.”
“You got a deal. I’ll call and see if she’s busy. Maybe she can join us.”
“Great. Grab a table and I’ll get our coffee while you call her.”
The student union was all but deserted, and Tony had his pick of tables. He chose one beside a rain wall, so called because of the water trickling down its stone surface. The slow moving panel above him fanned the humid air. He took a deep breath, feeling as if he were in a forest glen as he punched in Mama Mulate’s cell phone number.
“Tony,” she said. “What a surprise.”
“I’m at the student union and thought you might like to join me.”
“I’d love to, but I’m on my way to a staff meeting. It’ll probably take the rest of the day.”
“Doesn’t sound like fun. Sure you can’t cut it short?”
“The Dean of our department will be there. I’d love to join you, but I’d better beg off. Come by the house and see me. It’s been too long.”
“I’ll do it, Mama. You take care now.”
“Bad news?” Jason said, handing him a cup of coffee.
“Afraid so. Mama’s on her way to a staff meeting.”
“It’s okay. I’m not sure I could concentrate on your problem if she were with us.”
“She has that effect on men.”
“Show me what you have.”
Tony pulled out the photos of King Oliver, and Castalano’s missing horn. Fasempaur studied them intently.
“You want to know if the horn in Oliver’s hands is the same one in the other picture.”
“You’re good,” Tony said. “You’d probably make a great detective.”
“That’s what we researchers do. We call it research, but it’s actually just detective work. I’m curious. What difference does it make?”
“It makes a humongous difference to my client. Someone gave him the horn in the second picture, and he thinks it was Oliver’s horn.”
“Let me have a look, and I’ll tell you,” Jason said.
“That would work if he still had it. It ain’t that simple. His daddy took it because he didn’t think he was paying enough attention to the family business. All he has left is this photo.”
“Why doesn’t he just have his father return it to him?”
“Because the old man is dead.”
“He could buy another horn. They sell lots of vintage horns on eBay, and I’m sure he could get a replacement at one of the shops on Royal Street.”
“My client is Frankie Castalano, and he wants his own horn, not a substitute.”
“Frankie Castalano the mob boss?” When Tony nodded, he said, “Now I see your problem.”
“Can you at least tell me if it’s the same horn in both pictures?”
Jason placed the two photos on the table, crossed his long legs, and took a sip of his coffee. Tony was suddenly aware of recorded orchestral music playing softly in the background.
“They’re not the same horn,” he finally said.
“How can you be so sure?”
“There are dozens of cornet manufacturers, and many have several different models. You have Blackburn, Courtois, Schilke, Besson, and Getzen. The list goes on. Though they may all look similar to the untrained eye, I promise you, they are all different. Even the same models had differences through the years.”
“And you can tell the difference?”
“This one I can. The horn King Oliver’s holding is a King Silver Tone made by H.N. White. You can see the engraving on the bell.”
“And how is it different from the horn in the other picture?”
“The bell of the Silver Tone was made of solid sterling silver. These photos are both black and white, but you can see the shading difference. The second horn has a brass bell.”
Tony held the two photos together. “I thought it was just a color change because the photos were old.”
“Nope, they’re two different horns.”
“But they are both stamped with the word King.”
“The Silver Tone was a great horn, and maybe the name on the bell was part of the reason King Oliver owned one.”
“But the horn in the other picture is also engraved with the name King.”
“Yes, elaborate engraving. It’s not a Silver Tone. I’d say it’s an Artist horn.”
“A what?”
“A one-of-a-kind made for a particular musician.”
“Then it could have been King Oliver’s horn,” Tony said.
“That’s right. An instrument specially designed for a particular artist’s playing style. More coffee?”
“With whiskey in it after what you just told me. I have no clue where to start looking for Frankie’s horn.”
“I’ve done all I can at the lab today. I was going to take the streetcar back to the Quarter and browse some of the antique shops on Royal. I know a specific shop that specializes in vintage horns. Come with me, and we can get that whiskey along the way.”
“If I was my boss, I’d fire me and hire you. We may have to split my retainer.”
“Just buy the first round of drinks, and introduce me to Professor Mulate when you get a chance.”