Looking for Chet Baker (15 page)

“I’ll take it,” I say, and hope Fletcher doesn’t already have it.

I take a long hot shower, listen to some music, and by ten I’ve exhausted myself. I fall into bed with my Hoke Moseley purchase. I get far enough into the story to read about Hoke getting beaten up and having his badge, gun, even his false teeth, stolen. Even that didn’t happen to Chet Baker.

That’s when I fall asleep.

***

Dekker isn’t too happy to see me; his expression betrays that he had hoped I wouldn’t show up. I tell him about visiting the consulate and the Canal House Hotel.

“I have to admire your persistence. It would seem to me, Mr. Horne, that you’ve done everything possible, and I’m afraid I have also. With your friend at another hotel, he is obviously not a missing person.”

“Yes, I suppose so. I just think it’s strange he changed hotels, and I’m still concerned about the jacket and the portfolio.”

“I think it’s easily explained. If you do find your friend, tell him we will hold them here for him. We have no reason to keep them.”

“But what about your Hemingway’s suitcase theory? Don’t you find it odd that he would copy everything in the portfolio?”

Dekker smiles. “Mr. Horne, I’m sure you know the expression ‘absentminded professor.’ Perhaps your friend foresaw just such a loss and made the copies for that reason. Perhaps after he lost his jacket.”

I sigh and shrug. “Yes, I’d thought of that. I guess you’re right.”

“Well, I’m very busy this morning. Enjoy the rest of your stay in Amsterdam.” Dekker is already on his feet, ushering me toward the door.

“Thanks again, Inspector. Sorry to bother you so much.”

Okay, Ace, you’re on your own after this one last errand. I check my watch. Still time to drop by the archives before getting back for Fletcher’s film. I swing by the Prinz Hendrik Hotel and take another look at the Chet Baker plaque, the list of donors, looking for the answer to one more question.

***

At the Jazz Archives, Helen is at her desk as usual. She smiles at me when I walk in, much happier to see me than Dekker was. “Ah,” she says. “Hello. Come to see the film again?”

“No, but I do want to ask you about something else.”

“Of course.”

“The plaque over at the hotel. Is there some kind of official list of the donors and how much they contributed?”

Helen looks troubled and doesn’t answer right away. She glances around nervously. “The donor list is right there with the plaque, but the contributions…I don’t know. That’s confidential information. Some were made in cash, some in certified checks. Some were bank transfers.”

“Bank transfers?”

“Yes.”

I lower my voice. “Helen, this is very important. A friend of mine is possibly in trouble, and I’m trying to find him. I don’t want to get you in trouble, and I’ll understand if you don’t want to help, but—”

“Oh.” She puts her hand over her mouth and looks around again.

“Please, I need to see that list. One of the names might help a great deal.”

She glances toward a file cabinet near her desk.

I follow her gaze and take a shot. “Can I suggest something? If that file happened to be on your desk, it wouldn’t be your fault if I happened to see it, would it?”

She considers for a moment and looks around again. “No, I suppose not.” She smiles then. “This is kind of exciting, isn’t it?”

“Well, it could be, I guess. What do you say?”

Her answer is to go to the file cabinet and open a drawer. She flips through some folders, then takes one out and places it on her desk. When she speaks, I realize how quietly our voices have been when she suddenly raises hers.

“If you’ll wait here, I’ll see if I can find that book you requested.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” I say just as loudly. I sit down as soon as she leaves the room and open the file.

The contributions range from individuals for as small as $100 to much more from some record companies. I run my finger down the list, noting the names and the amounts, and then stop. One entry might as well be in bold type. The amount sticks out beyond the rest, but there is no name, just a notation that it was a bank transfer and the words “See attached file.” I look through the rest of the folder, but there is nothing but receipts for the cash donations and canceled checks. No attached file. I close the folder and sit back, waiting for Helen to return. No need to push her further. I’m beginning to think I know who that anonymous donor is.

Helen returns then and hands me a book. “I think this is what you were looking for,” she says. It’s a copy of Duke Ellington’s book
Music Is My Mistress.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll leave it in the reading room when I’m finished. You’ve been very helpful.”

“I hope you found what you want,” she says, her voice quieter now.

“Yes, thank you.” I start to leave, then on impulse, something else occurs to me, something Fletcher remarked on earlier. “Just one more question.” I take out the photo of Ace to show her. “This is the man you talked to? Professor Buffington?”

She takes the photo from me and looks at it, but her face clouds over. “Yes, but later, there was a different man. He was Dutch.”

All the alarms go off then. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Helen says. She holds the photo. “Your friend only came once.”

***

Instinct, gut feeling, whatever it is, I know something isn’t right. My mind is racing as I walk back to the flat, going over the description Helen gave me of the man who claimed to be Ace. As I cross a street, I stop suddenly, remembering why the description sounded familiar. I hear a bell just in time to jump out of the way of a bicycle and get a litany of curses in Dutch for my carelessness.

The man at the train station, with the umbrella and raincoat, who was so helpful. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but now it was connecting. He didn’t have a raincoat at the coffee shop, but now I’m sure he was the one I saw there too. Helen had said he’d presented a letter of introduction to use the archives, and she’d said it hadn’t been necessary. The archives were open to anyone, but this guy, whoever he was, wasn’t taking any chances.

Why impersonate Ace? What did he want? Just to see the Chet Baker film? Why? I think I know now, and it’s still running through my mind when I get back to the flat.

In the living room Fletcher is sitting in one of the easy chairs, a bright light shining on him and a reflector on a stand to the side. Opposite him is a young woman with dark short hair and large eyes. She has a pad and pen on her lap. Behind her a large burly man in jeans and plaid shirt points a camera at the two of them.

Fletcher looks at me and smiles. “Here’s my man,” he says. “We’re just doing some sound and light checking. Say hello to Elaine Blakemore.” Elaine is also in jeans and a pink T-shirt. She has a light meter around her neck. She’s maybe thirty and very pretty.

“Hi,” I say. “Evan Horne. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Not at all,” she says, getting up to shake hands. The accent is very British. “Fletcher has been telling me about you, your collaboration.” She looks at me closely, as if she’s trying to place me, then suddenly her face brightens into a smile. “Hang on, I heard you interviewed on Colin Mansfield’s show in London. Mike Bailey did a piece on you. You’re
that
Evan Horne?”

“Afraid so.”

“I meant to get down to Ronnie Scott’s to hear you. Could we talk? I have several questions for you myself.”

“Well, maybe later. I don’t want to be in the way here.”

“Oh, yes. We do want to get some footage of you playing with Fletcher. I hope that’s all right.”

“Sure, whatever you need. I’ll just watch for now.”

“Okay.” She turns to the cameraman. “Are we okay, Kevin?”

“Yeah, luv,” Kevin says. “I’ll shoot over your shoulder for now. We can do some reaction shots later.”

Elaine checks her light meter and looks at her pad. “Right, shall we have a go then?”

I mime
I’ll be back
to Fletcher. He nods and turns his attention to Elaine as she begins her questions. I want to talk to Fletcher, but it’ll have to wait.

I go into my room and dig out the list of donors for the plaque, reading them again, trying to unstick that thing in my mind, but it doesn’t come to me. When I go back to the living room, they’re deep into it. Elaine has done her homework. She leads Fletcher through the questions with ease, and he’s very relaxed. I sit down out of camera range and just watch the proceedings unfold.

“I’m going to ask you some other questions,” she says. “You just talk. I’ll add them in with voice-over later, okay?”

“Sure,” Fletcher says.

“First, then. Tell me about your decision to make Amsterdam your home.”

Fletcher looks every bit the part of an expatriate artist. He’s in tan slacks, a dark sports coat over a light turtleneck sweater. “I came over on a tour with Count Basie, and like a lot of the guys over the years, I just stayed. I liked the way I was treated here. I liked the people, the lifestyle, getting away from all that hustling in New York. I already had friends here—Art Farmer, Kenny Drew, Kenny Clarke—you know, they were all here, scattered around Europe and doing fine. I guess I was drawn to Amsterdam because of Ben Webster. Johnny Griffin had been here a while too.”

“Was some part of your decision racially motivated?” Elaine asks.

“I think there were a variety of reasons, but yes, that’s part of it. There’s a better acceptance of your talent as a jazz musician. Europeans look at jazz as an art form. There’s less pressure in terms of competition, and people here are serious listeners. They exchange tapes with friends, talk about the music. Hell, they know more about me than I do. They’re really involved. I can go anywhere in the world, play jazz, and not be a stranger. I thought, Hey, why not live here?

“But yes, there is a racial factor, too. I’ve been here seventeen years and never had a bad racial experience. No one has been rude, no one has ignored me as people will do in America if they don’t want to serve you or sell you a ticket. There has never been the slightest trouble with hotels or restaurants, except maybe some slight surliness in London.” Fletcher laughs then. “Guess you’ll have to cut that, huh?”

“No,” Elaine says. “Go on, please.”

“A couple of times I’ve been through small villages or towns. People tend to stare then, but not in a bad way. Maybe like you would if it’s a car you’ve never seen before. It’s always something of a shock to go home—and I’ve been back a few times—because nothing has really changed. The same hang-ups are there. The way it is now, I can play at some small club in Europe and be recognized. In a similar American town, nobody outside the jazz world would know me.”

“And that’s important to you?” Elaine asks.

Fletcher stares right back at her. “Of course it is. I’m an American, playing American music, and I’m a black man too. It’s funny, but somehow it’s easier doing all that in foreign countries. But hey, what are you going to do? That’s the way it is.”

Elaine nods and turns to Kevin. “Okay, let’s stop a minute.”

Fletcher looks at me and smiles. “How am I doin’?”

“Looks good to me, Fletch. Is this for the BBC?” I ask Elaine.

“Yes, hopefully. We have a small grant and hope we can sell it. It might even get to America if we’re lucky.”

Fletcher gets up and stretches. “You want us to do some playing?”

“Yes,” Elaine says. “Let’s keep it casual, as if you’re rehearsing.”

Fletcher laughs. “That won’t be hard, because that’s what we’re doing. Let me get my horn.” He goes off to his room.

“So,” Elaine says, “I assume you’re here for a different reason than Fletcher.”

“Mostly by accident,” I say. “I came here to play the Bimhuis, and the promoter put us together.”

Elaine’s eyebrow rise slightly. “Oh, Fletcher told me you were doing a little…investigating? He said your friend had disappeared, something to do with Chet Baker? I imagine you couldn’t resist that?”

I shake my head. “I could, and would have otherwise. But let’s not go into that now, okay?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s not that, it’s just—”

“All right, man, let’s get it on for this lovely lady. Show her how we work out all these complicated arrangements.” Fletcher winks at Elaine and blows a few notes. I know he’s already had his daily workout.

I sit down at the piano and warm up a little. “What should we play?”

“How about something Ben recorded?” Fletcher says. “The Touch of Your Lips?” He gives Elaine such a big smile that she blushes.

“Just play a bit,” Kevin says, “so I can get a sound check.”

“Yes,” Elaine says. “I’d like to keep this as casual as possible. You can stop and start, talk it over if you want. We can always edit the footage later.”

“About right here,” Fletcher says, snapping his fingers. He counts us off, and in four bars, Fletcher makes me think I’m playing for Ben Webster. When he solos, it’s even more pronounced as he emulates Webster’s breathy tone perfectly. We start playing lines off each other and get so caught up in the tune, we don’t stop. When we go out, Fletcher turns toward Elaine and the camera and raises his eyebrows. “That’s jazz,” he says.

“God,” Elaine says. “I hope you got all that, Kevin.”

Kevin turns off the camera. “Oh yeah, every note.”

May 7, 1988, Rotterdam

The Thelonious jazz club. The poster in the window reads, “Tonight Only—Chet Baker.”

The turnout is light, but for once Chet is early, talking with the rhythm section, thinking he’s ready to play. The three musicians listen to him, watch him warily, sneak glances at one another. Seeing his condition, they know it will be a long night. The promoter has already told them earlier that paid attendance is less than twenty people. They want to play, but they want to get paid, even if it is Chet Baker. Nobody needs to tell them Chet is not well.

Before the first set, he wanders outside, feeling the itch, trying to get himself together. The promoter follows him out. “I’m sorry, there should have been more advertising,” he says.

“How many?” Chet asks him.

The promoter scrapes his feet on the pavement and looks down. “Seventeen.” He looks up then, watches Chet nod, seemingly unmoved. “You are okay?”