The Dollhouse(52)

“Can I take a look?” Jason asked Mr. Buckley.

“Go right ahead. My collection. Pretty much everything you need to know about the bebop era of jazz. The library at Lincoln Center asked me to leave my collection to them when I go. Nice to think of all those Juilliard kids getting a taste of what real music is like.”

“Are you Mr. Sam Buckley?” Rose couldn’t help herself.

“Sam?” His face clouded over. “No. I’m Malcolm.”

Rose silently kicked herself. If she pushed him too hard, she might very well scare him, as she’d done with Darby.

“This is your album.” Jason held a cover with black graphics over a photo of a drum kit.

Mr. Buckley grinned. “That it is. I toured and played with the best of them. Until I got hooked on the hard stuff. Not an easy life, when you’re always on the road. Easy to turn to whatever makes you feel good.”

Rose took out her notebook. “Heroin?”

“You got it. Went down the same path as Monk and Parker. I didn’t die, so I’m not famous. Could’ve been, though. Later, I found steady work as an arranger.”

“Maybe it’s better to be unknown and alive than famous and dead?” she said.

“Not so sure of that.” He looked down at the thick, arthritic joints on his hands. “It’s tough getting old when everyone else is gone. What’s your report about?”

“It’s an article, with some video as well. It’s basically about the Barbizon Hotel for Women and what it was like to be in New York City in the fifties and sixties.”

“How did you hear about the club?”

“One of the women who lives at the Barbizon has a menu from the Flatted Fifth. I understand the club was once owned by a Mr. Cornelius Buckley. I assume you’re related?”

“Cornelius was my dad. My older brother, Sam, was the cook.”

Rose tried to stifle her excitement. “Sam Buckley. Right. We found a book he compiled, of various spices and recipes. Dated from 1952.”

“Not surprising. He learned about that from his time in the war, all those fancy spices and things. My dad always put him down, didn’t want a cook for a son; he wanted a musician. My asthma kept me from being drafted, which meant I could focus on the drums. For a time I was the golden child. Until I washed out.”

“Can I put this record on?” asked Jason.

“Sure thing.”

She shot Jason a look, annoyed he’d changed the subject, but his back was turned to her as he fiddled with the stereo. The drums came loud and fast, the beat hard.

Malcolm’s face lit up. “You picked a good one. Dizzy and Charlie Parker at Birdland in 1951. Classic bebop.”

Rose listened carefully. From the look on his face, music was the key to getting Malcolm to open up. Jason had already figured that out.

“What makes it bebop?” she asked.

Malcolm laughed. “Bebop was all about speed and virtuosity. Back then, everyone was used to swing, right?” He waved his arms in the air. “Dancing around, all that. The greats, like Thelonious Monk, Dizzy, Max Roach, they started exploring a different take on the music. Listen here.”

The trumpet solo screeched up into the higher register, and although it always found its way back to the chord, at times the sound seemed strident, off-key.

Rose said so out loud and Malcolm nodded. “Yup. Not what you expect. It’s aggressive.”

Jason spoke up. “Bebop made what sounded like the wrong notes the right notes.”

“You’ve got it, kid. That’s it exactly.”

Score one for Jason. Maybe he wasn’t so annoying after all.

Rose could hardly wait for the song to finish to ask her next question, but she did, so that the noise wouldn’t interfere with the taping. “Is Sam still alive?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t heard from him in years.” He didn’t look at her while he spoke. “Where did you get his spice book?”

“From a Miss Darby McLaughlin. Is that name familiar?”

He blinked a couple of times before answering. “Nope. But why don’t you just ask her how she knew my brother?”

“She’s incapacitated at the moment.”

“Huh.”

“The notebook is a work of art, full of information and drawings. Sam wrote in the front that he gave it to her for safekeeping, as proof of his love. The message implies they were in danger. I’m curious to know more.”

“Can’t help you there. I was touring most of the time; didn’t make it back much until Sam had taken off.”

“Do you know why he took off?”

“My dad said he ran into trouble and had to leave town fast. Last I heard, he was out in California.” He pulled at his earlobe. “Anyway, he’s a private guy.”

The use of present tense was interesting. How did he know, if he hadn’t seen him in years? “Do you know anyone named Esme Castillo?”

He squinted his eyes as if he were conjuring up a vision. “Esme. She was the hatcheck girl at the club before I went on tour. Good voice. Pretty, too.”

Esme was the missing link between Darby and Sam. She worked in the hotel and at the Flatted Fifth. “Do you know what happened to her?”

“Who, Darby?”