Looking for Chet Baker (22 page)

“Long enough to have things out with Ace. I’ve got a job to go back to in Amsterdam. Then I don’t know.”

She doesn’t comment on that, just nods and asks if I want coffee.

“Sure, and someplace to smoke.”

“Right out there, although I’m tempted to let you smoke anywhere you want.”

I go out on the small patio. There’s a table and chairs. She brings coffee out, and we sit down.

She shifts in her chair, stands up, walks to the railing, then turns around. “I can’t stand this, Evan. I want to tell you so much. If I had known where you were, I would have called, even come over there if I thought we had half a chance. I grilled Cooper, but he either didn’t know or wouldn’t say.”

“Well, don’t be too hard on him. He gave me your number.”

“Yes,” she says. “And you did call me.” The same look is there that I remember the day we sat in a car staking out Gillian’s brother, the day we talked about timing.

“It’s much better now,” I say.

“What?”

“The timing.”

“Is it? God, I want to believe that.”

“Just let it happen, Andie. Just let it happen.”

Later, I look over at Andie asleep, her hair tousled on the pillow. I get up, slip on my jeans, and go out on the patio to smoke. I hear the door slide open behind me and Andie’s voice.

“This isn’t where you slip away, is it, leave me a note or something?”

I turn and look at her and smile. She has her robe wrapped around her. “No, wasn’t planning on it.”

“No regrets?”

“None.”

She shivers and pulls the robe tighter. “God, you smokers will endure anything. Hurry up and finish.”

“What’s the rush?”

“We need to work on that timing some more.”

Chapter Sixteen

Andie won’t hear of me renting a car. “Take mine,” she says. “I’ve got some time off coming and I don’t need it. And besides,” she says, “this way I’ll get to see you again for sure.”

I don’t protest too much, probably for the same reason. I cancel the rental car and promise to call Andie. By late afternoon, I’m ready to go. Andie stands in the driveway waving as I pull away.

From her place, I get back on 280, heading for the city, and remember how to exit on Nineteenth Avenue, then follow the signs for the Golden Gate Bridge. I’ve missed most of the rush-hour traffic, but the jet lag is getting to me as I cross the bridge and continue north on 101. I see the first sign for Santa Rosa. Nearly fifty miles, and according to the map on the seat beside me, a few miles beyond that to the River Road exit.

I punch up the radio and get a San Francisco talk show for a while—anything to make the miles go faster. Then, closer to Santa Rosa, something called KJAZ, but it’s all smooth—Kenny G and clones. I turn the radio off and think about what I’m going to say to Ace. As Andie said, we’ve been friends a long time. How do you confront a friend when you know he’s lied but want to believe him?

For one brief moment, I almost hope he’s already gone, but even if he were, I know my next trip would be to Las Vegas. This can only be done in person. Plus, I want to talk to Margo as well and close the book on Chet Baker, at least for me. Something else I have to do.

There’s some slowing in Santa Rosa, but finally I break free of the jam, take the River Road exit, and head west for Guerneville and the Russian River resorts. The road winds through open country, vineyards, farms, redwood groves, and past the Korbel winery as I get closer to the Russian River. The sun in my eyes fades quickly, and finally the lights of Guerneville come into view. Monte Rio is four miles farther.

I crawl through Guerneville in the slow traffic. Everything seems to be on three blocks. When I stop at a crosswalk, I look to my right, and my eye catches a “LIVE JAZZ” sign in the window of a pizza place called Main Street Station. Through the glass I can see musicians on a small stage and a singer in front of them. I think I recognize her.

I circle the block, find a parking place, and walk back. There’s only a few people inside. I don’t recognize any of the musicians. I go in and stand by the door, listening for a minute. Margo Highland, backed by bass, drums, and guitar, is finding her way through “Body and Soul.” Fletcher was right. She does sound like a little girl who once saw something or experienced something she shouldn’t have, and she does it all without a microphone. I notice then there’s no bass amp, and the guitarist is playing a classical instrument. They take their acoustic music seriously at Main Street Station.

Margo finishes to light applause. The tall, white-haired drummer stands up and says, “Margo Highland, a beautiful girl for many years. She’ll be back again, so I hope you stay around.” He sits back down, and the trio launches into “The Peacocks.” I watch Margo walk to the back and take a seat at the bar.

I follow and sit down next to her. She turns and gives me a friendly smile. I remember the pictures at her place in Amsterdam. It’s easy to see she was once a model and quite beautiful. It’s still there. “Margo?”

“Yes, do I know you?” Her voice is light and there’s a slight accent or drawl. She leans away slightly and looks at me.

“No, but Fletcher Paige in Amsterdam told me to look you up.” Her smile gets bigger.

“No way. You know Fletcher?” She stares at me for a moment. “Oh, my God, you’re Evan.”

“Yes, and I’ve been sleeping in your bed. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Well, sure. Glass of red,” she says to the bartender when he comes over. “Hell, I haven’t had anyone as young as you in my bed in a long time, even if I wasn’t there.” She laughs. “Hey, don’t mind me, I’m just a crazy old Texas gal.”

“I’ll have a draft beer.” I turn to Margo. “I’m looking for a friend of mine.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize that may not be for long. “Fletch asked you about him in the e-mail. I guess he’s already been here and talked with you, about Chet.”

Her smile fades, and she looks around at the band. “He’s a friend of yours, you say?”

“Yes, I’ve been trying to track him down. Is he still here?”

We both turn at a loud crash of cymbals. The drummer stands up and addresses the audience again. “Steve Weber on bass, Randy Vincent on guitar, and yours truly, Benny Barth. I hope we’ve enjoyed playing for you as much as you’ve enjoyed listening to us.” Nobody really gets it, but he continues. “We’re going to recharge our batteries and come back for another set.”

“Benny is insane,” Margo says, laughing. Then she turns back to me. “Been here? Your friend has been driving me insane, asking me about Chet. He didn’t mention you much, though. Hell, I might have talked to him more then.”

“No, I’m not surprised,” I say.

“You want me to call him?” Margo says “I’ve got his number. I know he’d want to come down. He’s just up in Monte Rio.”

“No, I want to surprise him,” I say quickly. I don’t know if Margo really buys it, but she gives me directions to Ace’s hotel.

“Just turn left by the movie theater, over the bridge, and left again at the first street. It’s about halfway down on the river side.”

“Thanks,” I say, and start to go. “Hey, you sing good.”

Margo smiles and nods. “Thank you, that’s sweet. Come back and sit in. That old piano has a few tunes left in it.”

“Thanks, I just might do that.”

***

I pass the Northwood golf course and start looking for the bridge turnoff. The road winds along the river for another mile or so; then I see the lights of Monte Rio. There’s not much to it—a nursery, a hardware store, an old church, and a convenience store that used to sell gas. The pumps are still there but obviously inoperative.

At the stop sign, I see the movie theater on my left. It’s an old Quonset hut of corrugated metal with a mural painted on the side. I cross over 116 and turn left over the bridge, crossing the Russian River for the third time. After the bridge, I make another left and find the hotel at the bottom of a slight grade, redwoods towering around it. I park opposite the hotel, turn off the engine, sit quietly for a moment, and light a cigarette.

Now that I’m here, my anger at Ace rekindled, I also dread this meeting. In the back of my mind is the faint hope that he’ll have some logical explanation, something I can rationalize and forgive. But I know in reality that’s not going to happen. Ace lied, sent me chasing around Amsterdam, and delivered me to a drug dealer to get himself out of trouble. Survivor instincts? Fear? Yes, but it could have all been avoided.

I finish my cigarette, get out of the car, and walk across the street. It’s dark now, and the redwoods loom high, black silhouettes in the star-filled night sky, the almost full moon peeking through. There’s nobody at the front desk, but there is a small sign next to a bell: Ring for Service. I do and hear footsteps almost immediately.

“Yes, can I help you?” The clerk is late twenties, short hair, and an earring in his left ear. “I’m afraid we’re full up.”

“Oh, no, I don’t want a room. Friend of mine is here, I think. Just want to surprise him. Charles Buffington.”

He opens a small ledger and runs his finger down a list. “Yes, he’s in number five.” He points to the river side. “Just out that door and along the walkway.”

“Thanks, I’ll find it.”

The walkway connects the two buildings and takes me along the side of the inn. I can see the lights of the bridge I just crossed up ahead. I don’t have to go much farther. Outside what must be number five, I see Ace, his back to me, sitting in a deck chair, his feet propped up on the railing. He doesn’t hear me or is lost in thought. When I get a little closer, I stop, look at him for a moment, then toss the portfolio. It lands with a loud smack on the wooden deck right behind his chair.

Ace jumps up as if he’s been jerked by a wire.

“Hello, Ace.”

He falls back in the chair, grabs the arms, then struggles to his feet again. “Evan? How did…what are you doing here?” He doesn’t even look like the Ace I’ve known for years. There’s an outside light, and in the shadows that play across his face, I see panic, shock, even fear.

“Surprised you, huh? I guess you thought I was still in Amsterdam. Too bad we never connected, but then you left kind of suddenly, didn’t you?”

“Evan, I didn’t know you’d come here, I…I don’t know what to say. How did you know I was here?”

“Margo Highland told me. I just saw her.”

He looks around, as if he’s searching for an escape route, but then he shrugs, pulls up another chair. There’s resignation in his movements now. “The people in these two rooms are out, so we might as well stay out here.” I ignore the chair and lean against the rail. “Evan, I know it must seem—” He leans forward, runs his hands over his face, and risks a glance at me. “God, where do I start? If you’re here, you know—”

“Know what, Ace?”

“Evan, I know you’re probably angry. Things just…got out of hand. I don’t even know how, really.”

“No kidding. They just happened, huh? Got out of control?”

He looks at me again. His face is awash with guilt and embarrassment. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Any reason why I should?” I try to restrain the impulse to grab Ace and throw him over the rail into the Russian River. Instead I light a cigarette and glare as darkness settles over the river. “You really had me going, Ace. I got involved with the police and ran all over Amsterdam looking for you. Man, don’t you get it? I thought you were missing, really in trouble. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, yes, I do,” Ace says. “And I was in trouble.” His voice is quiet, but it sounds loud in the stillness of the river and the redwoods. A beautiful setting wasted on this ugly confrontation.

“I want to know why, Ace.”

“First, you have to know how disappointed I was when you turned me down in London.”

“I had good reason. You know that.”

“I know, I know. But when I got to Amsterdam, I ran into problems almost immediately. I didn’t have any contact for musicians. I had this portfolio full of notes and ideas but no way to follow through on them. I got lucky in getting the room Baker stayed in, I visited the Jazz Archives, saw that film. Then…” His voice trails off.

“Yeah? Then what?”

“I don’t know, I still thought, hoped, there was a chance you might change your mind, become intrigued yourself.” I look away, at the river, see cars crossing the bridge, and realize I’m looking for a canal. “I didn’t know you’d be staying at the same hotel. When you did, I knew you’d at least see the plaque, maybe even stay in that room yourself.”

“That was sheer accident. The promoter booked me there. I didn’t connect it as your hotel until I got there. When they told me you’d checked out and didn’t leave any word, yes, I was intrigued and puzzled. I looked in the room, found your portfolio—but you were counting on that, weren’t you?”

Ace shrugs. He pushes back in the chair, scraping it on the deck, trying to put more distance between us. “A joke that got out of hand. If you didn’t find it, well, I was just going to go back and get it.”

“But I did find it, and you knew I’d think it even more strange that you’d left it. You knew I wouldn’t think it was an accident.”

“Yes, it kind of backfired, the whole thing. I decided to play it out, leave that note at the archives, see if you followed up, and of course you did.”

I lean in closer, see his eyes darting everywhere. “You used me, Ace, to do your research for you by making me think something had happened to you. You knew I’d go looking for you, and to do that I’d have to retrace your steps. Looking for Chet Baker to find you.”

“No, it wasn’t like that. I checked back with the archives—that girl, Helen, she told me you’d picked up the note. After that de Hass went in my place. I know I should have just stopped it right then, but I didn’t know how I could just show up at your room and say, Hi, wasn’t that a funny one? I tried to get in your room while the maid was cleaning, but she caught me, wouldn’t let me look around. I’d already copied all the articles and notes, so I wasn’t worried about this.” He picks up the portfolio. “After I saw the film, I decided to just follow the chronology of Chet’s last days. You know, go to Rotterdam, those other clubs, try to account for the missing time.” He pauses and shakes his head. “I guess I talked too much, asked too many questions, and that’s when I met the guy de Hass. After that, well, he ran everything. Checked me into that other hotel and—”

I snatch the portfolio out of his hands. “In the meantime, I reported you missing to the police and got into trouble with them for withholding the information that I had the portfolio, at least for a while.” I throw it down on the deck again. The sound is like a shot, and Ace jumps. “I called UNLV, your house. I even had Danny Cooper checking on you.”

“I know, I know, it just…escalated until I couldn’t stop it. I thought I had an in to talk with Chet’s dealer, something I could use for the book, and then—”

“Before that, Ace, you could have stopped it anytime you wanted. All you had to do was show up and tell me you were not missing. Jesus, what else did you think I’d do?” I walk away a few steps, then turn around. “The police found your jacket, the portfolio. I was expecting them to find your body next.” I drop my cigarette on the deck and step on it.

Ace shakes his head. “I know, that was the stupid part. You know, I’ve never smoked pot in my life, and here was a chance to really satisfy my curiosity. God, it hit me hard. I got out of there, left the jacket in the booth, I guess. I had no idea anybody would turn it in. I didn’t even remember leaving it there.”

“No, Ace, that wasn’t the stupid part. Letting me think you were missing was the stupid part.”

He takes another deep breath. “You think I don’t know that? I don’t have any logical explanation that would make you understand or satisfy you. All the advance research I did, and I still didn’t have anything good enough to interest a book editor. I needed more. I didn’t want to go home empty-handed.” He looks up at me. “I’m sorry, Evan, I’m really sorry.”