Looking for Chet Baker (20 page)

Three months. Not many jazz gigs like that. “I’ll be ready,” I say.

Fletcher’s smile fades then. “Hey, man, I’m sorry about your friend.”

“You know?”

“I guessed, from what you told me about him.”

“It’s just something I have to do, Fletch, but I’ll be back.”

Fletcher grins again. “Hey, I’m not worried. You ain’t going to pass up a chance to play again with Fletcher Paige.”

“No, I’m not.”

We get back in the car and continue home. Fletcher turns into the parking place by the canal, but neither of us makes any move to get out of the car. We watch a small boat, its running lights reflected in the canal, move by slowly under the bridge.

It’s a long time before he says anything. “You know how Chet died too, don’t you?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

Wednesday, May 10, 1988, Rotterdam

The Alfa Romeo, lost again. Wandering around in the night, his teeth hurting, his heart hurting, thinking maybe it’s time to go home for a while, to Oklahoma, see his family, his friends. Diane is gone too. At the police station again, he calls his agent.

“Stay there, Chet,” he says. “I’ll have someone pick you up. I have a place for you to stay until the concert Friday.”

“Okay,” Chet says. He hangs up and waits outside, pacing, feeling the itch, thinking he’d like to play. When the car comes, the agent’s friend introduces himself, asks Chet what he wants to do.

“I need something,” Chet says.

“I will try,” the man says. They go to the house. There’s another man there Chet thinks he knows. They talk, but Chet is restless, craving, waiting for some word, but none comes. Chet wants to play, so they all go down to the Dizzy Jazz Café and go inside. Nobody notices as he walks in, his horn under his arm.

Bad Circuits is playing, a kind of fusion group, but the pianist is good, Chet decides after listening for a few minutes. Chet floats to the bandstand like an apparition, unaware of how bad he looks. He suddenly appears next to the pianist but doesn’t register the surprise on the young musician’s face as he recognizes Chet. “Do you mind?” Chet asks.

The pianist says, “No, please.” He glances at the bassist and drummer, who have also become aware of Chet’s quiet presence.

They play two tunes. On the second, “Green Dolphin Street,” the pianist is nervous—this is Chet Baker—but devotes himself to comping for Chet. It doesn’t help—Chet has no strength. The notes he tries for elude him, and he plays so quietly, the drummer strains to hear. The saxophonist is unimpressed. It just isn’t happening. He takes the horn from his lips, smiles his thanks to the pianist, and disappears as quickly as he came, shaking his head, stuffing the horn back in its bag. He knows the tune so well, but tonight it’s like a stranger.

“I’ll see you back at the house,” he tells his two companions. They know it’s useless to try to talk him out of it. Outside again, he stands quietly, unsure of what to do next. He wanders some more, then finds himself in a coffeehouse, thinking he must get back to Amsterdam, score, get straight, get ready for the concert with—did the agent say Archie Shepp?

Thursday, May 12, 1988, Amsterdam

It’s late afternoon when he gets off the train and makes his way through Central Station. He’d slept through most of the day in Rotterdam, but he can’t make it anymore. Tonight with Archie Shepp—but he has to find a connection first, then a hotel. He heads for Zeedijk, makes a buy, then hears that someone is looking for him, someone he should avoid unless he has money. He can’t remember who it is. All he cares about now is to get to a hotel and fix.

He tries the usual haunts, but it’s busy everywhere—some holiday, he’s told—and all the hotels are full. Finally, near Central Station, traffic whizzing by, trams bearing down on him, he tries the Prins Hendrik. Yes, there is a room available, on the second floor.

He checks in, fixes; finally there is relief on this very warm evening, the mix of cocaine and heroin taking away the awful craving. He makes some calls and leaves for the Old Quarter, wanders around the Dam Square, feeling the warmth of the drugs as the sun sets on Amsterdam.

Back in the room, he smokes, dials numbers, turns on the television, and watches darkness settle over the city. He plays a little, gets the window open after a struggle and sits on the ledge, watching below, leans out to glimpse the canal, smiling and waving at a young girl on a bicycle, but she doesn’t wave back, doesn’t see him. Seeing the girl makes him think about Diane, all the hurt he’s feeling, wondering how much longer he can play with the dentures.

He should call the promoter, let them know where he is. There’s the concert with Archie Shepp. They’ll be waiting, but it’s slipped his mind, and there’s time. There’s always time, but it’s so dark now, way after midnight.

He’s lost all track of time, and now it’s Friday the thirteenth. He hears nothing, but then he’s leaning more, starting to nod off. It isn’t supposed to be like this.

Did he hear something behind him, feel something pushing him, a voice, or was it all in his mind?

Then, suddenly, it makes no difference. He’s flying, the cobblestone alleyway rushing up to meet him.

Chapter Fifteen

I’m up early, way too early for Fletcher. I slip out the door and just walk until I find a café, sit down outside with a large mug of coffee, and think about going to San Francisco. I could write Ace a letter, tell him that I know everything, end it like that, save myself money and the trouble of a trip, but I know I won’t. This is something I have to do in person. I want to see his face, hear what he says when I confront him.

I sit there for nearly an hour, going over conversations in my mind, trying to rationalize, make excuses, come up with some acceptable explanation, but none of them work. There is only one way to do this, one way to close it down for me, answer all the questions I have, including the big one. I have to hear Ace Buffington say why. I pay my check and head for the Old Quarter. There are other things to do first.

***

I don’t expect to find Inspector Dekker at the police station on Saturday, so I’m surprised to catch him coming out of the station in casual civilian clothes as I round the corner. He’s carrying some file folders under his arm and seems in a hurry, like a man on a mission.

I call to him from across the street. “Inspector Dekker.”

He wheels around, and his face drops as he sees it’s me. “Ah, my favorite visitor to Amsterdam. Please tell me this meeting is an accident.”

“Well, not quite,” I say. “If I hadn’t caught you, I would have tried to find you at home. Let me buy you breakfast. It’s important. Please.”

Dekker sighs, sees there is no escape. “When is it not with you, Mr. Horne? Very well, but I’ve promised my wife a day in the country, so I haven’t much time.”

“Great, thanks.” I point to a nearby café. “How about there?”

“Fine,” Dekker says, and walks along with me.

We order coffee and breakfast. While we’re waiting, I give Dekker a short, heavily edited version of my meeting with van Gogh and the two drug dealers and what I’ve found out. I leave out de Hass’ demand and threat if I don’t come through.

Dekker is incredulous. “But how?” he says. He leans back in his chair and studies me. “No, never mind. I don’t want to know.”

“Let’s just say I made some contacts. The older man’s name is Navarro. He didn’t actually talk to me, but his partner did. His name is de Hass.”

“Navarro…Navarro.” Dekker stares out the window, trying to dredge up the name. “Yes, I know the name, but he’s been inactive for a long time. We have a file on him. De Hass I certainly know. He stays in the background for the most part. He is right, however. It’s impossible to make any charges against him, since your friend has left Amsterdam.”

“I know. I’m not concerned with that now. What I want is to confirm that my friend has really left Amsterdam. I’d feel better if I knew for sure.”

The waiter brings our order, and Dekker dives into toast and eggs. “I see,” he says. “Let me guess. You want me to make an official inquiry with the airlines to confirm that your friend was on a flight to America.”

I smile at Dekker. “You’ve a very good detective. I’d appreciate it. They wouldn’t tell me. Otherwise I wouldn’t bother you.”

Dekker just mumbles and wolfs down the toast and eggs. He puts his plate aside and studies me as if I’m an abstract painting he’s trying to decipher.

“Mr. Horne, you are truly quite amazing.”

“No, not really. Just persistent and sometimes lucky.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Dekker says. “I think you missed your calling. Very well. Anything else?”

“Well, actually, yes. I’m sure de Hass is responsible for the prostitute’s beating.”

“Yes?” Dekker says, his interest intent now.

“How is she?”

“Her friends tell me she will be fine. She’s going home tomorrow.”

“Good. I’m not the only one who’ll be relieved to hear that. I’m meeting with de Hass again.” Dekker starts to protest, but I push on. “In broad daylight, in a very public place. If you were to be there as well, it might discourage him, perhaps make him a little more wary, bring him out of the background.” It would also make me a lot more comfortable to have Dekker along. I can’t risk telling him everything—he’d stop me in a second—but this he might go for.

“And what is this public place?”

“A bank.”

“A bank,” Dekker says. “I’m sure there is more to it than you’re telling me, but…” He shakes his head for a moment, thinking. “I must be out of my mind,” he says. “When?”

“Monday morning, if it all works out. I’ll call you.”

Dekker nods and pushes his plate aside.

“There’s one other thing.”

“I’m not sure I want to hear it,” Dekker says. “I’m an old man, Mr. Horne. My heart.”

“Oh, this is easy. I’d like to have the portfolio. I want to return it to my friend in person.”

Dekker frowns. “You’re going to see him? I can understand your feelings, but what will it accomplish? I know you have strong suspicions, but are you sure that—”

“Yes, there’s no mistake. It may not accomplish anything, but it’s something I have to do.”

Dekker’s expression changes then. “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Horne. As I told you the first time we met, friends sometimes do strange things.”

“Yes, I guess you were right.” I look away and wonder why it had to be Ace.

He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Well, I must go,” Dekker says. “What was the name of that place where you are performing?”

“The Baby Grand.”

“Yes. I have the portfolio at home. Suppose I bring it to you this evening. Frankly, I’ll be glad to see the back of it.”

“Thank you, Inspector. I appreciate it. Then I’ll be out of your hair for good.”

“No,” Dekker says. “That will only be when you leave Amsterdam.”

***

Fletcher is just signing off on his computer when I get back to the flat. “I sent an e-mail to Margo,” he says. “If she’s around, she should answer soon. I’ll keep checking.” He picks up his horn and snaps it on the chain around his neck. “I want to try a couple of tunes if you’ve got time.”

“Sure.”

“I want to do ‘Lament.’ You know it?”

Perfect for Fletch, I think. Beautiful tune by J. J. Johnson. “Yes, I think so.”

“Well, let’s go find out.” We go into the living room, and I sit down at the piano, remembering the changes, playing through them quickly. Fletcher starts on the pickup melody notes, but before I can play the first chord, there’s a knock on the door.

“Damn,” he says, and goes to answer it.

I hear Darren’s voice, and Fletcher’s, but more friendly than I’ve ever heard him with the young black man. “Hey, man, come on in.”

They come back to the living room, joking around like old buddies. Darren nods at me and hands me a slip of paper with flight information. “Best I could do, man, on such short notice.”

I look at it. Amsterdam to San Francisco. Much less than I expected to pay, and sooner than I thought possible. Monday afternoon.

“Hey, thanks, Darren. This is great.”

“Nothin’, man. Now you do me a favor.”

“Sure. What?”

He glances at Fletch. “Show me how you knew what that song was—‘Oleo,’ you said it was—by just listening to van Gogh tap it out on that drum pad thing he was beating on.”

Fletcher looks at me. “What the hell is he talking about?”

I laugh. “The old drummer I told you about. He was tapping out rhythms, seeing if I knew what tune he was thinking of. Darren wants to know the secret.”

“Ah,” Fletcher says. He puts the horn in his mouth and blows the first eight bars of “Oleo” while I tap out the rhythm with my hands on top of the piano. It’s a very jagged, syncopated line that lends itself to catching the tune from just the rhythm, a jam session tune that most musicians know. Darren watches and listens to Fletch’s horn and my tapping, but still looks puzzled.

“You got that from just the rhythm?”

“Well, it was a lucky guess.”

“Oh, no,” Fletcher says to Darren. “This cat has some ears.”

“Dig it,” Darren says. He looks at Fletcher more seriously now. “Look here, okay if I listen to you rehearse?”

“Well, sure,” Fletcher says, a bit surprised. “I thought you liked that hip-hop rap shit.” He looks at me and raises his eyebrows. Might be hope for this boy yet, his expression says.

We go over two other ballads besides “Lament,” and one jump tune I don’t know, something Fletcher says he played with Basie called “Moten Swing.” I’d heard it, but never played it.

“Just lay waaay back,” Fletcher says. “Basie style, smack on the beat, almost behind, like you’re Benny Moten, just sauntering down Vine Street in Kansas City.”

I follow his lead but find it’s difficult. I play on the top of the beat, edgy, so it takes some adjusting. It almost feels like we’re dragging the tempo.

“There,” Fletcher says, “now you got it,” as we go through it for the third time. He laughs then. “We had a sub trombone player for a week once, cat from Maynard Ferguson’s band. Now, you know how frantic Maynard plays. This cat was already to letter C before we got out of the first eight bars. We had to cool him out.”

I laugh and think every time Fletcher tells a story like that, I’m reminded of who I’m playing with and how lucky I am to be with him. It’s like joining the Giants as a rookie and looking to your left and seeing Willie Mays giving you the thumbs-up sign.

Darren applauds our efforts and stands up to go. “I’ll be by tonight,” he says.

“All right,” says Fletcher. “I’ll be looking for you.”

When he goes, Fletcher says, “You know, he’s a good kid.”

We get some lunch then, and after we clean up the dishes, Fletcher checks his e-mail.

“Here we go,” he says. “Margo must be up late.” I read over his shoulder.

“Well, there’s your answer,” Fletcher says. “Ace has landed.” He closes the screen and shuts down the computer.

“Yeah, there’s my answer.”

***

I spent Sunday going over the bank scheme with Fletcher—bouncing ideas off him, trying to anticipate the unexpected—until we were both mentally exhausted. By the time Fletcher called the banker friend, I was having second thoughts and doubts about the whole thing. What if de Hass didn’t show up? What if he saw through the entire scheme or wasn’t satisfied I’d made enough of an effort? It could all blow up in my face.

I listened to Fletcher turn on the charm while I paced around the living room, wanting it all to be over. Finally, when I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, I went for a walk. When I came back, I could tell from Fletcher’s tired smile he’d pulled it off, but he looked totally wrung out. I heaved a great sigh of relief and listened to Fletcher recount his conversation. The banker friend had been reluctant at first, but in the end, he caved in under Fletcher’s persuasiveness, the promise of some rare records, and unlimited guest privileges for the length of our stay at the Baby Grand.

“This shit’s gonna cost me,” Fletcher said, “but Hoke Moseley would be proud.” He got up then and headed for his room. “Even if they do find Glenn Miller, don’t call me.”

As soon as his door shut, I punched the air and said, “Yes!” I made a quick trip to the coffee shop to leave word for de Hass with the bartender. I described him, but I really didn’t have to—the bartender knew who I was talking about.

“Just tell him Evan Horne said Credit Banc of Netherlands at ten tomorrow morning.”

He had just nodded and wiped down the bar like he didn’t want to know any more.

I called Dekker, left him the same message, grabbed some dinner, came back to the flat, and fell into bed, hoping my mind would turn off till morning.

***

But now, as I walk into the bank, the reality of the situation hits me, and all my doubts return. There’s no sign of Inspector Dekker yet, but the bank is already humming. People are in line for the teller windows, filling out forms; voices and footsteps echo on the marble floors up to high ceilings; and sunlight streams through the plate-glass windows of the old building.

When I ask for Mr. van Lier, I’m directed to a desk off to the side in a kind of bullpen area reserved for bank officers. Van Lier joins me and sits down. He has wavy gray hair and tortoiseshell glasses and is dressed in a three-piece suit, with a pocket watch on a chain, which he checks several times. He couldn’t look more respectable or official.

“Mr. Horne?”

“Evan, yes. Fletcher Paige said everything is in order.”

Van Lier looks around a bit nervously. “Yes, it’s very irregular, but I believe you will find this satisfactory.” He opens his desk drawer and hands me two sheets of paper. I look at them and see dates, amounts, some embossed bank stamps, and the magic name. Everything else is in Dutch, and it looks official as hell.

“All you have to do is just confirm what I say,” I tell van Lier. “I really appreciate this.”

“Is he coming soon?”

“Yes, any minute.”

Van Lier swallows and checks his watch again. He probably hasn’t had one of Amsterdam’s major drug dealers at his desk—at least, not that he knows. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

He gets up and goes to the back just as the doors swing open. De Hass strides in, dressed in a suit and tie, looking like any prosperous merchant, and Dekker is right behind him. They both spot me and come over, glancing at each other when they realize they’re headed for the same desk. They sit down on either side of me in front of van Lier’s desk.

“I don’t like to be summoned,” de Hass says to me, leaning closer. “Who is this?” He glances at Dekker, who looks back, but there’s no recognition in either of their faces.

“I’ll introduce you in a minute. How else was I supposed to contact you?”

Before he can answer, van Lier comes back, carrying two coffees. When he sees my companions, he almost drops them.

“Here you are,” he says, setting them on the desk. He pulls up his chair, and I lean forward slightly. Time to go to work.