“There’s Mr. B. He comes in for a steak frites every Wednesday, before it gets too crowded. Nice guy, talks about the old days. He’s the one you want to talk to.”
“Do you happen to have his contact info?”
“No, but he lives in apartment 5D. If you buzz him and tell him that Nicole said he should talk to you, he might let you up. Or you can come back on Wednesday and catch him here.”
The name on the buzzer for 5D said BUCKLEY.
Jackpot. Maybe Sam had been living a ten-minute taxi ride from Darby the past fifty years. A rush of adrenaline surged through her.
Rose hit the buzzer and waited. Nothing. “He’s got to be an old guy; we’ll give him time.”
“You’re the boss.”
She turned to him. “Look, I’m really sorry about what I said before. I don’t think I’m Snow White, I assure you of that. And you’re not . . .”
Again, she couldn’t finish the sentence.
He did. “A dwarf?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Most dwarfs would take offense at the comment, by the way. They like to be called little people.”
“It was just an expression.” Sweat prickled her neck. She really didn’t want to have this conversation. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Whatever you say.”
God, he was frustrating, always with that stupid smile. “But you do smirk.” She couldn’t help herself. “You’re smirking now.”
“No, I’m not. I’m smiling. You’re getting all bent out of shape and I’m enjoying it immensely.”
“That’s the definition of smirking.”
He laughed. “Point taken. Am I smirking now?”
She couldn’t help grinning. “Yes! You are.”
“Hello?”
The voice was crackly, although it was hard to tell if it was from the intercom or the person speaking.
Rose leaned in. “Mr. Buckley? Nicole downstairs suggested we try to reach you. We’re doing research on a news story about the Flatted Fifth and she said you might be able to help. My name is Rose Lewin and I’m with my colleague, Jason Wolf. Would you be interested in coming down and talking for a moment? We’d be happy to take you out to coffee nearby.”
“I can’t come down there. You come up here.”
Rose looked at Jason and he nodded. “Let’s go.”
The stuccoed hallway smelled of rotting vegetables, and the once colorful tile floors were edged with brown grout. When Mr. Buckley finally opened the door to his apartment, Rose was shocked at the contrast from the building’s public spaces. Sunlight streamed through the windows and the place was inviting and well kept.
“Come on in. You’re reporters, you say?” Mr. Buckley walked with a cane. He’d once been a tall man, but now his spine curved painfully forward. He had a gray beard and wore thick-framed glasses that overpowered the sharp angles of his face. He looked them both up and down before leading them to the sitting room.
“We are; we appreciate your time. We’re interested in finding out more about the people who frequented the Flatted Fifth in the early 1950s.” Rose sat on a scarlet couch dotted with garish saffron-colored pillows. Jason sat beside her and took out his camera.
“Do you mind if I record the interview?” he asked.
Mr. Buckley eased himself into a rail-back armchair upholstered in a nubby green fabric and nodded. “Fine with me.”
Jason nudged Rose and she followed his gaze. The entire wall of a hallway was filled with shelves of vinyl records, thousands of them.
“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.”