The Saxophone's Ghost

Written by Moe Zilla, Published on 10/17/2008, Re-published on 4/19/2010

"Ghosts," said Dillon, sadly.

"A thief!" I replied. "Why would you think it was ghosts who stole your saxophone?"

"It started 30 years ago," Dillon sighed. "There were four of us, then, playing an alto sax and a baritone, plus a low 'contrabass' and a high 'soprano'." His eyes were lost in memory, and he smiled happily. "Our band had a sound like no other. We were this city's biggest saxophone quartet!"

Dillon walked to a tall bookcase, which was stuffed with vinyl records, and ran a tired finger along their edges. He settled on worn-out cover, and soon the needle on his phonograph had found the record's groove. His tiny room filled with 30-year-old music, fast saxophones rollicking while a bass and a drum kept the beat. "I didn't know it then," Dillon explained, "but my saxophone also had its own legend."

The quartet's producer had been a notorious music promoter named Shorty Jenkins. "Rumor had it Shorty created the careers of some famous musicians -- but then later, destroyed them!" After twenty years of working the music business, Shorty had the right connections to help acts succeed. But was he also a powerful enemy? "We did whatever Shorty said," Dillon laughed. "And we did it happily. He picked our songs, wrote our arrangements, and he even lined up the other saxophonists. Within four weeks, somehow Shorty had gotten our record into the stores."

But then reading a newspaper, Dillon had spotted a disturbing article. "Shorty was bragging that he'd used the instruments of dead musicians for his new saxophone quartet. Without telling us, he'd given us each the saxophone of a famous jazz artist he'd worked with decades before. Dark whispers spread throughout the clubs. Were we exploiting the artists who came before - or preserving what made them special?"

Dillon stared thoughtfully for a moment. "That Christmas, our alto saxophonist got real sick. And within two weeks, the baritone saxophonist disappeared. We couldn't continue with just two of us, but Shorty promised he'd find the group a replacement. We found out later he was stuck in a big legal fight with a trumpeter he'd discovered years before. Eventually our third saxophonist found another gig instead. And I never heard from any of them again."

The vinyl record reached the end of its last song, circling through the static in its final groove until Dillon lifted the needed.

"But now, even my saxophone's gone."

I'd known about Dillon for years -- he was a local legend in our neighborhood, though his glory days had passed. I'd only met him recently, so I was honored that he requested my help. But I had to know one thing first. "Do you really think ghosts stole your saxophone?"

"I've played it every afternoon for the last 30 years, riffing and improvising, while imagining that our band might somehow get back together. And every day, for 30 years, I've left it on that saxophone stand." He pointed to empty clasps which had always held his instrument. "Today an hour after I finished, it was gone."

Could someone have broken into his apartment?

"The window was closed," Dillon insisted, "and my only door was locked! I live on the second floor, high above the street."

Did anyone have a key?

"Well, obviously the manager of this apartment building has a key, but we never see him around. But you know who else has a key? The boy at the grocery store on the corner," Dillon said casually. "Every Friday he brings around my groceries, so I don't have to visit his store."

I got his name, but also took a look at Dillon's window. It was covered with dirt, but the window lifted easily, and opened onto a fire escape. But the fire escape stopped on the second floor, its ladder to the street broken off many years before.

It seemed impossible, but I asked Dillon one more question. Had he spoken to anyone before the saxophone disappeared?

"That morning I gave an interview," Dillon said proudly. "A college student was recording the history of music in this neighborhood, and he'd wanted to get my story." Dillon gave me his number, and I began my investigation.

The grocery store was easy to find, with its stands of fruit on the sidewalk and a busy father/son team who were putting customer orders in bags. It was the son who was Dillon's delivery boy -- a skinny teenager named Lenny. He was struggling to put six tomatoes into a sack. I asked Lenny if he delivered groceries to Dillon.

"Yeah, but mostly because I feel sorry for him," he said, weighing the sack of tomatoes on a scale. "After thirty years, that man has nothing." I pointed out Dillon had a valuable antique saxophone. "A saxophone's nothing in this neighborhood," Lenny laughed. "We haven't had a club with live music here for years." As he stacked bundles of carrots into a tall pile, Lenny asked his father if just this once he could take a break, but his father sternly shouted back the family motto -- "Work all day with no breaks ever!"

It seemed sad that the music scene was dying, so I was even more determined to find the legendary saxophone. I placed a phone call to a college student named Eric, who'd phoned Dillon that morning. "It's certainly a valuable saxophone," his eager voice insisted, "more valuable than most people know!" I asked him what he meant.

"Those four saxophones really did come from famous jazz men," he said with excitement. "The group's producer, Shorty Jenkins had worked with the greatest musicians of the century. There are historic photographs of the quartet's saxophones that prove it. And now the instruments are ten times more valuable than they were 30 years ago, at least $30,000 apiece! Every morning while he played, Dillon had no idea how wealthy he could've been."

"I began thinking about the legend after visiting a local music store called Red's," Eric continued with excitement. "Red knows the history of the neighborhood. He's the one who had given me Dillon's phone number so I could do the interview!" I wondered if Eric's visit had inadvertently tipped off a saxophone thief. Or if maybe the greedy thief could be Eric himself.

Red's seemed like a likely place to investigate. He spoke in a voice that was mellow and relaxed, remembering the talented saxophone quartet and the neighborhood's glory days. "Now I give music lessons from noon to five," he laughed jovially. "But music is music!"

Red remembered Eric's visit. "An excitable young kid, that's for sure," he laughed, "but he's right about Dillon's saxophones. There are collectors who'd be willing to pay a lot of money for them." Was anyone in the store during Eric's visit?

"There was one customer, but he didn't buy anything. Oldest guy I've ever seen. No hair, bristly moustache, about five feet tall." Who was he? "He owns a lot of buildings in this neighborhood, but he almost never comes around."

I had one last theory. Back at Dillon's place, I asked the residents about the fire escape. They all agreed that it hadn't worked in years, and couldn't even be lowered to the ground. I searched the ground below the fire escape - a patch of dirt which now contained a small flower bed. It was clear that no one had dropped here from the fire escape, or placed a ladder here to climb up.

Had they asked their building manager to repair the fire escape? No one had ever seen him. He holed himself up in his fancy apartment, presumably counting all the money that they'd paid him for rent.

After reviewing all the clues, I knocked on Dillon's door, and told him the news.

"Ghosts didn't steal your saxophone. But I know who did."