Look at this," Natalie says, turning up  the sound on the
television.

We have the news on, just kicking back after an expensive
dinner to celebrate her birthday and my first gig in over a year.
The two nights at the Jazz Bakery linger sweetly in my mind.
I glance at the screen in time to see the anchor cut away to
a reporter standing in front of a large crowd. She has on a raincoat
and holds a micro hone in one hand, brushing her hair out of
her eyes with the other. She looks flustered, as if they've cut to
her before she was ready. She stares at the camera and puts her
hand to her ear.

"Yes, I can hear you now, Jim." She glances over her shoulder once, 
then looks back at the camera. "Well, as you can see,
we're at the Santa Monica Civic, where jazz star Ty Rodman just
finished performing to a sold out crowd."
She falters for a moment as the crowd jostles her from be
hind. Some of them are waving and yelling, just wanting to get
on TV. She turns her head again nervously, then back to the
camera.

"Santa Monica police are confirming that Rodman is the
victim of a stabbing, but we're not sure of the extent of his injuries
at this time. I'm trying to get word from the police. As you can
see, many of Rodman's fans are still here." She tries to keep her
look serious, but a smile slips through as she's jostled again.
"Somehow they've heard the news and are staying around al
though the concert was over some forty minutes ago. That's all
we have at the moment. Jim, back to you in the studio."
"Thanks for that re ort, Trish," Jim says. He shuffles some
papers and glances at his coanchor, a perfectly made up blond.
"Looks rough out there. Once again, we have unconfirmed re
orts of a stabbing at Santa Monica Civic involving jazz star Ty
Rodman. We'll have more on this before the end of our newscast,
right, Marion?"
"That's right, Jim," Marion says. "When we come back, Bob
will have the latest weather. Stay with us, right here on Action
News."
"Jazz star?" I look at Natalie as she hits the mute button. "Ty
Rodman?"
"You know him, don't you?" she asks.
"I know who he is, maybe met him once, but I don't know
him."
Ty Rodman and I don't travel in the same circles. He's one
of a half dozen sax layers who've fused blues riffs with a rock
beat and turned it into a fortune while breathing down Kenny
G's neck.
"I wonder what happened," Natalie says.
"I'm sure Action News will tell us. Want a beer?"
"Sure," Natalie says.
I'm halfway to the kitchen when the hone rings.
"Evan? You busy?"
"Coop? No, just celebrating Natalie's birthday. What's up?"

"I need you to come down to Santa Monica Civic."
"Yeah, I just saw it on the news. What happened? Is Rodman
okay?"
"He's not okay, he's dead. There's something here I need
you to look at."
"Now?"
"Now." There's none of the usual bantering in Coop 's voice.
This is his Lieutenant Cooper, homicide detective, tone.
"Why?"
"Just get down here. In a minute," he yells at someone. I hear
other voices. "I gotta go," he says to me. "Come to the stage
entrance."
Before I can ask more, Coop hangs up . I put down the hone
and glance at Natalie watching me. "Rodman's dead. Coop wants
me to come down there to see something."
"Dead? Why does he want you?"
"I don't know. I guess I better find out."
I don't like it, but I go, not only because Danny Cooper is a
homicide detective, but because he's also my oldest friend.

FROM VENICE, THE drive to Santa Monica Civic is short,
but at Pico and Ocean Avenue the traffic is backed up and being
diverted. A light rain peppers the streets. I creep  up  to the
intersection, manage to convince a traffic co I'm expected, and
pull in near a fleet of police cars. The news has s read quickly.
There's crime scene tape around the side entrance and a sizable
crowd of concertgoers pushing forward against the uniformed
co s trying to maintain control.
I get through to the front and identify myself to one of the
uniforms, who escorts me down a long corridor to Ty Rodman's
dressing room. There's a placard on the door, and Rodman's
name has a large X drawn through it with a black marker en.
Another uniform standing guard knocks and opens the door.
"He's here, Lieutenant." I get a glimpse of the dressing room
through the o en door. "Go ahead," the guard says.
Coop and his partner, Ivan Dixon, are squatting down over
Ty Rodman's body, which is half covered with a coroner's
blanket.
Coop stands up and looks at me. "Thanks for coming. Want
a look?" He nods toward Rodman's body. Dixon re covers it with
the blanket, but not quickly enough to keep me from seeing the
blood, shockingly bright against Rodman's trademark white suit.
"I'll ass," I say, glancing at Dixon. The police photographer
is packing up his equipment, and other forensic technicians are
slipping on latex gloves, ready to go to work. Another guy briefly
points a video camera at me. I wonder about the rest of Rodman's
band.
The dressing room is strewn with discarded clothes and beer
bottles. Traces of white powder are smeared on the countertop
in front of a large mirror bordered with oversize lightbulbs. I'm
already staring before Coop speaks.
"That's what I wanted you to see," Coop says, pointing to
the mirror. "What the fuck is this?" 
The letters still look wet. They've dripped down in laces.
It could be paint or nail polish, but I know it's blood- two words
scrawled across the to of the mirror:
Bird Lives!
I stare at it for a few moments, then look at Coop. He and
Ivan Dixon are both watching my reaction.
"Charlie Parker, right?" Dixon says.
"Another one of your jazz people?" Coop asks.
"Yeah, Charlie Parker, saxophonist. They called him Bird."
"Who called him Bird?"

"Everybody. That was his nickname. Charlie Yardbird
Parker." 
Dixon and I glance at each other. Dixon is a jazz buff him
self. He knew but wanted to be sure. Call your friend Evan
Horne. He'll know. Thanks, Dixon.
I look at the words on the mirror again. "When Parker died,
that started showing up all over Greenwich Village."
"Dare I ask? When was that?" Coop wants to know.
"March 1955."
Coop nods and glances at the writing, then back to me. "So
what does this Bird guy have to do with Ty Rodman?"
Good question. The only thing they had in common was that
they both played alto saxophone. "I think it's the other way
around. What does Rodman have to do with Bird?"
Coop ignores my question. He doesn't like this; he's out of
his element. He scowls at the mirror. "Are we talking about a
disgruntled jazz fan here?"
My eyes are drawn to a portable CD layer sitting on the
countertop. "Oh yeah, there's something else. According to the
stage manager, this was laying when he came to get Rodman."
Coop presses the lay button with a gloved finger. I recognize the 
tune immediately. It's Bird with trumpeter Red Rodney,
recorded some time in the early fifties. One of Bird's own tunes.
A blues called "Now's the Time."
Coop lets it lay for a few seconds, then stops the CD and
looks at me again, sees the expression on my face.
"What?"
I look around. "Where's his horn?"
Coop nods. "Over there, what's left of it."
In one corner, half covered with what is probably one of
Rodman's shirts, is the saxophone case. Coop pulls the shirt aside.
Nobody will lay this horn again. It still gleams, but this alto
saxophone has been smashed against the wall or the floor. Some
of the keys are broken off, and there are large dents in the horn.
It looks like it's been thrown back in the case.
Somebody yells for Coop, one of the uniforms. He turns to
me. "Look, I'll be here all night, but I need to talk to you in the
morning, okay?"
"Coop, I-"
"I need to talk to you." There's an urgency in his voice that
goes beyond the usual. "I'll call you."
I don't feel like arguing. "Okay."
Coop sees me look around the dressing room. I glance again
at the two words on the mirror. It's hard to breathe in here. I just
want to get away.
"What?" Coop says.
"Nothing right now, but . . ."
"But what?"
"Nothing."
Driving back to Venice, I keep seeing those words on the
mirror: Bird Lives!
What I haven't told Coop is that today, March 12, is not only
Natalie's birthday but also the anniversary of Charlie Parker's
death.

FOR THOSE WHO care, March 12 is one of those sacred
dates in jazz history. Everyone in jazz knows the story. At age
thirty four, Charlie Parker collapsed in the home of the Baroness
Pannonica Koenigswarter, a wealthy eccentric who lived in the
Stanhope Hotel and drove to jazz clubs in a silver Rolls.
Her a artment had become a haven for jazz musicians like
Bird and Thelonious Monk. There were even songs written
about her: "Pannonica" by Monk and "Nica's Dream," by Horace
Silver. But it was Bird's death that immortalized her forever. The
Bird had flown, died while watching some jugglers on the
Tommy Dorsey television show.
Once the news got out, the words Bird Lives! started showing
u all over New York City, on walls, subway stations, fences, and
the sides of buildings. Early graffiti. No one could believe it, but
it was true. The most important saxophonist in jazz had been
silenced.
Articles a eared in newspapers and all the jazz magazines.
The legend and mystique grew, and since then, scores of stories
and poems have been written about Bird. Like the poet Dylan
Thomas, who died under similar circumstances a year earlier,
Bird was a self destructive legend, but what he did for jazz was
incalculable.
I knew the general story, but most of this I had learned from
Clint Eastwood's movie, which I'd watched with my professor
friend Ace Buffington's commentary in my ear. Ace didn't a
rove of the movie, but this time he could help me.
Natalie is asleep  when I get back; an open law book with
notes scribbled in the margin lies nearby. I close the book, turn
off the TV, and crawl into bed. Natalie mumbles something and
wraps herself around me. I can't get the murder scene out of my
mind.

What did Ty Rodman have to do with Bird?   Continued...