The youth smiled. “Sort of. Students can borrow instruments here and experiment with them without actually having to buy one. Are you looking for something in particular?”
“Some one. Alexander Petrinski.”
“Wednesday mornings, Professor Petrinski holds student conferences in his office. Ramo Hall. Second floor.”
“Where’s that?”
“Straight out the doors, past the coke spoon, first building you come to. You can’t miss it.”
“Coke spoon?”
“One of the sculptures. You’ll see.”
After thanking the youth, I continued down the curved pathway, pausing before a huge stone carving that in my opinion looked more like a double-ended washbasin. Proceeding beneath a canopy of sycamore and jacaranda, I found the Virginia Ramo Hall of Music around the next bend. Upon entering the building, I checked the directory, locating the name for which I was searching: Alexander Petrinski, Keyboard Studies Chair, Rm. 212. Instead of taking the elevator, I ascended a single flight of stairs and exited on the second floor. Petrinski’s office lay at the end of a short hallway. I stopped at the entrance and knocked.
“Come in.”
I opened the door. Two grand pianos, a desk, a filing cabinet, and a leather couch all but filled the small studio beyond. A young woman sat at one of the keyboards. A heavyset man with thick gray hair stood behind her, his robust bearing belying his advancing years. The man turned, his eyes registering surprise. “Dan. I’d about given up on you.”
“Sorry, Alex. I’ve been busy.”
Petrinski turned to his student. “That’s enough for today, Carla. Keep working on it. I’ll see you after the holidays.”
“Yes, sir,” said the young woman. She rose and started for the door. “Have a nice Thanksgiving, Professor.”
After she left, Petrinski and I regarded each other uncomfortably. Although we had known one another since Travis first began studying piano, our relationship had often been less than cordial. “I suppose I should have phoned before stopping by,” I offered. “I had a couple minutes, and-”
“I’m glad you came,” said Petrinski. “We haven’t talked since the funeral.”
“No.”
“Tom’s death was a great loss. I’m truly sorry.”
“Thanks. But that’s not why you called.”
“No. I want to discuss Travis.”
I sat on one of the piano benches, my back to the keyboard. Hunching my shoulders, I leaned forward. “What about Travis?”
Petrinski hesitated, seeming uncertain how to proceed. “Can I be frank?” he asked.
“Aside from myself, probably better than anyone else I know,” I answered.
Petrinski smiled. “I’ve been told that,” he agreed. “All right, but you won’t like what I have to say. No offense, Dan, but I’ve always believed that the best thing for Travis’s musical development would be for him to get out from under your influence. Now I’m not so sure. I don’t know what’s wrong, but your son seems to need some form of guidance I can’t give.”
“The kid’s screwing up in school, and you want me to boot his tail back on the straight and narrow?” I said. “You could have told me that over the phone. I’ll talk to him, all right. Where is he?”
“Classes are over for the holidays, but Trav mentioned staying till Thursday. He’s probably in one of the annex practice rooms. And actually, your son is doing well in most of his university courses. Especially those given by the Music Department.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Instead of responding, Petrinski gazed at me for a long moment. Finally he asked, “What do you know of Travis’s world of music?”
I shrugged, aware of Petrinski’s irritating habit of broaching subjects obliquely. “Not much,” I answered, wishing he would get to the point. “I’m not totally ignorant on the subject, but country music’s more my style.”
“You may understand more than you think. I define good music as any that can repay our attention by enriching our lives and giving us pleasure, revelation, and maybe even enlightenment. Music, all music, if it fulfills its potential, can play a vitally worthwhile role in our lives.”
“I never said that I thought what Travis is doing isn’t worthwhile,” I objected, anticipating the direction the conversation seemed headed.
“Maybe not in so many words, but that’s what he thinks.”
“Even if that’s true, I still don’t see-”
Petrinski cut me off. “I think Travis is at a critical juncture. There’s no doubt he has the ability to become a world-class musician. After his success at the Van Cliburn International, many think he’s already achieved that status. I believe he has more to offer.”
“Like what?”
“In a senior-level course Travis is auditing, he’s shown a wonderful talent for composition. It’s something I suspected he possessed, but I had no idea of its depth. That he’s waited until now to show it is puzzling, to say the least.”
“And?”
Petrinski paused, scowling at me like a headmaster dressing down a student. “I believe Travis has something of value to communicate through his music, not only by interpreting the writings of others, but also with his own compositions. Despite your son’s finally beginning to do work commensurate with his abilities, something’s holding him back. I believe it has something to do with you.”
“I’ve never had a thing to do with Travis’s music.”
“Do you think that could be part of the-”
“No. His mom encourages him enough for the both of us,” I interrupted, checking my watch. “Alex, I have a one o’clock appointment. Can we cut to the chase?”
Petrinski sighed. “All right. Does intuition sometimes play a role in your job?”
“Sure. Cops go with gut feelings all the time.”
“Well, I have a gut feeling, too. It’s telling me that something’s wrong with Travis.”
“And you think I’m the cause.”
“I don’t know. You and I have had our differences over the years, but I know you love your son. Unfortunately, sometimes that’s not enough.”
“I’m not following. What do you want me to do?”
Petrinski slumped, suddenly seeming old. “I’m not sure,” he said. “But I believe Travis needs help. And although I don’t know why, I think you’re the only one who can give it.”
Puzzling over Petrinski’s words, I returned to my car. Deciding to forego lunch, I jammed more quarters into the parking meter, asked directions from an attendant at a kiosk, and walked two blocks north.
Another addition to the university since I’d attended, the Colburn School of Performing Arts, or the Performing Arts Annex as it is better known, sprawled the better part of a block between Thirty-Second and Figueroa. I entered through a door on the west end. Glancing up at the forty-foot-high ceiling, I surmised that the rambling structure had once served another purpose-probably, if the now abandoned catwalks and grids traversing the ceiling were any indication, as a sound stage during Hollywood’s heydays of years past. Now, like cells in a hive, row upon row of rooms partitioned the cavernous space. I followed a narrow passage, checking a warren of deserted practice rooms as I went. Many of the small chambers contained only a chair and music stand; others had upright pianos crammed in, some even two.
After several wrong turns I arrived at a central receiving area. At a desk in the middle, a young woman with tortoiseshell glasses and a bored expression glanced up as I approached.
“I’m looking for Travis Kane,” I said.
The young woman flipped through a register. “D-eighteen,” she said, indicating a walkway behind me with a slight inclination of her head. “Straight ahead, left at the first bend.”
“Thanks,” I said, starting for the corridor.
Making my way down the hall, I began to hear the faint tones of a piano coming from somewhere up ahead. The sound grew louder as I rounded a corner. I listened as I walked, recognizing a piece I had occasionally heard Travis play at home. Now, however, the work contained subtle, foreboding alterations I couldn’t quite pin down. I paused as I reached a glass door marked “D-18.” Travis sat at an upright piano on the other side, concentrating on his playing. Abruptly, the music stopped. As I raised my hand to knock on the glass, Travis resumed, now playing an unfamiliar work. Letting my hand drop, I stood outside and listened.