Tony sensed the debonair man he’d met at the jazz archive was his best hope of achieving success in solving Castalano’s mystery. Since he had no better idea on how to proceed, it didn’t matter much. They were soon on their way down St. Charles Avenue heading for the French Quarter.
“You seem to know lots about jazz,” Tony said.
“It’s what I do. I’m a researcher.”
“From N.O.?”
“Upstate New York, originally. Now I live in Paris.”
“Texas?”
“France. I visit New Orleans once or twice a year to do research at the Archive, and engage in the local music culture. It’s still quite vibrant, even after Katrina.”
“We’ve dodged lots of bullets. Katrina almost got us.”
“Yes she did. Back to the horn. Do you have a serial number for the one in the photo?”
“Why?”
“It might tell us what instrument company made it, and the year it was manufactured.”
“Never thought of that. Doesn’t matter because I don’t have one unless Mr. Castalano wrote it down someplace. I’ll ask him.”
“If he did, we can put a tracer out to all the used instrument dealers,” Jason said.
“You’re making my day. When we reach the Quarter, I’m buying as many drinks as you can handle.”
“You got a deal.”
Tony found a parking spot close to Royal Street. Tourists, many dressed in the colors of Arkansas and Texas, crowded the sidewalks. Jason threw up his hands when a football fan bumped into him, almost bowling him off his feet. He never even noticed.
“What the hell’s going on?” Jason asked. “Mardi Gras is still sixty days away.”
“Sugar Bowl. Apparently you’re not a college football fan.”
Jason grinned. “I like cricket and squash.”
“Bugs and vegetables? You’re crazy,” Tony said.
Jason grinned. “I’ve been called worse. The Brass Bell is up the block. You won’t believe the instruments they have.”
Many of the shops on Royal specialize in antiques such as Persian rugs, old books and original artwork. They all have something in common—even the postcards at the front door are expensive. It didn’t matter because Lil liked to window shop on Royal Street. When she did, Tony usually got dragged along.
“I hate antiques,” he said, producing a smile on Jason’s face.
He’d still spent countless hours with his wife, looking and occasionally buying. He and Jason crossed the street to avoid football fans arguing about who would win the big game.
“Here it is,” Jason said, a bell ringing as he opened the oak and cut glass door.
A little man was polishing a brass instrument, a smile appearing on his face when he saw Jason.
“Professor, I didn’t expect you back in town until spring.”
“I had a wild hair. Zeb, this is Tony Nicosia. He has more questions than I have answers, so I brought him to meet you. Tony, this is Zebudiah Zuckerman. People in town just call him Double Z.”
“Nice meeting you, Double Z,” Tony said, shaking his hand.
Zeb Zuckerman was probably in his eighties but had a smile and bounce in his step of a much younger man. He also had an enormous cigar in his mouth, unlit but well chewed.
“I’m running a special on flugelhorns today. Either of you in the market?”
“Zeb, you have specials every day. I’m going to browse while you speak with Tony. Maybe you can answer his questions.”
“You got some beautiful horns, Zeb,” Tony said. “How long you been in business?”
“Longer than you’ve been alive.”
“Then maybe you can help me.”
“You a cop?”
“Used to be. Now I’m just a private dick. A person hired me to find this cornet. Can you help me?”
Zeb gazed at the photo. “Frankie Castalano’s horn. I’m the first person he asked when he started looking.”
“Then I guess you’re telling me you haven’t seen it.”
“I know every brass dealer in America. If it were on the market, believe me, I’d know about it.”
“Mr. Castalano seems to think the horn belonged to King Oliver.”
“What does Jason think?”
“He don’t think so,” Tony said.
“Then you better go along with his opinion. He’s the only person in the world that knows more about horns than me.”
Tony’s mouth was agape when Jason returned and whacked him on the back.
“Did Zeb tell you what you need to know?”
“Tony still has a problem. I’ve been looking for that horn for more than ten years now. I’m convinced it’s not in New Orleans,” Zeb said.
“Well then there’s your answer,” Jason said.
“If it’s not in New Orleans, where do you think it might be?” Tony asked.
“In a private collection somewhere. Frankie was a brilliant horn blower back in the day. You know how much a collector would pay for that horn?”
“No idea,” Tony said.
“Who are we talking about?” Jason asked.
“Frankie Castalano.”
“I didn’t know he was a musician.”
“A real talent when he was young. All the players knew about him.”
“What happened?”
“Other things to pursue,” Zeb said. “His papa took the horn from him.”
“And his father is dead,” Tony said.
“Where’d you hear that crap?” Zeb said.
“But Mr. Castalano told me...”
“He’s not shooting straight with you. The old man is my age. I’ve lived in N.O. my entire life. Believe me when I tell you I know every influential person from here to Algiers. I’d have heard if he had died.”
“Then where is he?” Tony asked.
“Don’t know. He and Frankie had their issues. They got worse as time went on.”
“You don’t think...”
Zeb shook his head. “Frankie has probably whacked a lot of people. His papa isn’t one of them.”
“Sure about that?”
Zeb nodded. “Paco’s still alive. Bet money on it.”
Tony had already stuffed the photo of the horn back into his folder. Someone opened the front door, ringing the bell. After looking inside, they’d left without entering.
“Damn tourists,” Zeb said. “No one wants to buy a quality vintage horn these days.”
“Don’t feel sorry for him,” Jason said. “He sells ten a day on eBay. If I had Zeb’s money, I’d burn my own.”
“Don’t listen to him, Tony.”
“Not to worry, Double Z. I got other things on my mind.”
“Such as?”
“Wondering why Frankie told me his dad was dead,” Tony said.
Frankie didn’t whack him and he ain’t dead. Frankie’s a musician at heart and has a soft spot. Believe me, his papa has no such soft spot.”
Zeb nodded again when Tony said, “Sounds like you know that for a fact.”
“Take it to the bank. Sure I can’t interest you in a flugelhorn?”
Jason pointed to a horn in a display cabinet. “How much for that old Conn?”
“Three hundred bucks for my regular customers, two hundred for you, Professor.”
“Does it have a case?”
“You bet it does, still in excellent condition. I’ll even throw in some sheet music.”
“Great,” Jason said, handing him two bills. “Give it to someone deserving.”
“Thank you, Professor,” Zeb said.
“We may as well find a bar and get that drink,” Tony said.
“What?” Jason said as they exited the shop.
“That instrument you bought,” Tony said.
“Zeb gives away more horns than he sells. That one will go to a budding talent, I promise you.”
“Good for you, Professor,” Tony said.
Giving him a fist bump, Jason said, “Now let’s get that drink.”