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Editor's Note: San Francisco trumpeter Allen Smith passed away February 3 following a long illness. Read his obituary online at JazzWest.com.

It had been months since I had played with trumpeter Allen Smith regularly. A while back, some jerk had parked in the white zone at Jazz at Pearl's; that white zone was Allen's parking space. Allen went to park someplace else and didn't come back for hours.

Now, anyone who knows Allen Smith knows he was the paragon of punctuality. He was never late. Something was wrong.

Fortunately, saxophonist Jules Broussard found Allen wandering on Grant near Broadway and brought him back to Pearls. Allen had gotten lost only a few hundred yards from Jazz at Pearl's, where he had played at least once a week, hundreds of times. Not to mention we were only a block from Enrico's, where Allen often played with Chris Seibert and Lavay Smith.

Given the proliferation of jazz clubs like the Keystone and the Blackhawk that used to be in the neighborhood, I figured Allen — like most jazz musicians — knew North Beach like the back of his hand. I mentioned it to his family right away so they knew to keep an eye on him. It was the beginning of the end.

Even though it had been a while since our last gig together, I wanted him for one more gig. I was playing Gerald Wilson's "90th Birthday Tribute" and I knew Gerald and Allen were old buddies. I asked Allen if he would do it and he said no. The show was part of Monterey Jazz and was being held at Clint Eastwood's place in Carmel, and that was too far away. Besides, he mentioned, he didn't know how "he would be doing" months from now. So I waited until a month before the concert and asked him again, but received the same reply. I asked again two weeks before, then one last time the week of the show.

He responded with astonishment, "Kim! Haven't you found a trumpet player yet?"

I replied, "I don't want a trumpet player. I want you!"

He agreed to do the show and we made arrangements with Julie to pick him up at the bottom of the hill and to make sure he would not have to walk a bunch of steps at the venue and had a bed to lie down on during the hurry-up-and-wait period that occurs in between set-up and downbeat.

Our usual pianist, Dave Mathews, happened to be on tour with Etta James, so Kent Strand was playing piano on the show and driving us down. Even though Allen had played with Kent several times, he didn't remember him, but Kent re-introduced himself and we all made small talk on the 2-1/2 hour drive down to Carmel.

When it finally came to time to play, Allen slayed it as usual. Even though we played together less frequently as his health declined, he always both sounded and looked like a million bucks. Once we played our show, I brought Allen over to sit with Gerald, and it was like a 1000-watt light bulb instantly switched on in both of their eyes.

"Hey man, how have you been? Are you still at (212) 555-1515?"

"Yeah! That is still my phone number. You still living at 555 Such and Such Drive?

"Yes. I haven't moved."

These guys chit-chatted with a relish that made my eyes water. They remembered everything from as far back as WWII in amazing detail — old addresses, old numbers and all the old familiar places. I was so happy I had managed to get Allen to that gig.

When it came time to go, Kent brought the car around and as Allen got into the car he looked over at Kent in surprise and asked in startled tone, "Who are you?"

Kent replied, "I just played the gig with you," and drove us back home to San Francisco.