by Bill Moody
“How?”
“The Web, man, the Internet. My brother’s a computer geek. On his last visit he got me a computer, hooked me up. Wanted a way for me to stay in touch easier. I have to admit it’s cool, hear that voice say, ‘You’ve got mail.’”
“I’m on the Internet?”
“All over, baby. Sherlock Holmes got nothin’ on you. I read about Wardell Gray—I knew him slightly—those tapes of Clifford Brown you proved were bogus, and that serial killer thing in L.A. You had your hands full on that. What was she like, that Gillian character?”
I spend a lot of time putting cream and sugar in my coffee, stirring slowly. “Not something I really want to think or talk about, if you don’t mind.”
“That’s cool, I can dig it.” Fletcher watches me for a moment. “Maybe sometime, though. Might be good to talk about it.”
I smile at him. “You a counselor too?”
“I’m a man of many talents,” he says, grinning.
Fletcher Paige is one of those kind of people you like instantly, and I know we’re going to hit it off. “So you’ve never been back?”
“Oh yeah, short visits, recorded a few times, but mostly I stay here. I can work all the jazz festivals, club dates, recordings, but I think about going back once in a while, when I remember Ben Webster dying here, living in a room with that woman who took care of him. Ben was lonely and depressed at the end. I don’t want to end up like that, but shit…” He spreads his hands and shrugs. “Gotta be where the work is, man. Maybe I’ll get lucky, get in a movie like Dexter Gordon and go back for the Academy Awards.” He laughs out loud then.
After fifteen years in Europe, Dexter Gordon had starred in Round Midnight and been nominated for best actor. His career took off all over again—gigs, records, discovered by America from Europe.
“Chet Baker died here too,” Fletcher says. “Course, you know that already. Walter got you in that hotel down by the station?”
“Uh-huh. Nice plaque they put up for him.”
“Another one nobody is going to figure out, but it ain’t no mystery. Motherfucker just nodded out, went out that window. Probably thought he could fly.”
“Has anybody been around asking about that? I have a friend who was supposed to be coming here. They told me at the hotel he’d already checked out. Not like him to just disappear like that.”
“Big tall professor dude? Yeah, he was around asking a lot of questions. Only saw him one time.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Little. Cat made me nervous, almost like an interrogation. Got out his tape recorder and shit.”
I could imagine Ace being thrown by Fletcher, trying to be respectful but wanting to quote him accurately and thrilled to have found a genuine jazz hero.
Fletcher looks at his watch. “Come on, man, it’s almost show time.” He pulls some money out. “I got this one. Welcome to Amsterdam.”
***
The Bimhuis is full when we get back. Even the bar is crowded as we push our way through to the stage. The drummer and bassist are already there, talking, laughing with friends, ready to play. Fletcher introduces us, and we talk briefly about tunes. I sit down at the piano and flex my fingers, feeling the anticipation as Walter Offen appears and makes the introductions in a flurry of Dutch. All I can make out is Fletcher’s name and my own, then we’re off, on a blues line of Fletcher’s.
I feed him the changes for half a dozen choruses, then he bows and steps back to a round of applause while I start my exploration. Drums and bass are right with us, and during the bass solo I have to marvel at the bassist’s chops. Nothing stiff about the drummer either. We do a couple of choruses of eight-bar exchanges—Fletcher and I alternating—then bring it on home. Fletcher beams at me and steps to the microphone. “How about a warm Amsterdam welcome for Evan Horne.”
This part at least does feel like home. The rest of the night goes equally well. Nobody asks me about being a detective or calls me Sam Spade. Walter is pleased, and so apparently is the Bimhuis owner. We’re a hit.
“You want to come by my place?” Fletcher asks as he packs up his horn. A lot of the audience is still lingering, not wanting to give it up yet.
“I don’t think so tonight. I’m kind of tired, but yeah, some other time, sure.”
“Cool,” Fletcher says. “Hey, you play chess?”
“Not in years.”
“Okay, well, we’ll get you brushed up. I’m going home to read my e-mail.” He laughs hard. “Wonder what Prez would have thought of e-mail. Later, man.”
That would have been something. Lester Young online.
Walter drops me at the hotel. I have that wired feeling after a gig—tired but not ready for sleep. I check at the front desk for messages, but there are none. I feel a slight twinge of apprehension that there’s nothing from Ace. It isn’t like him at all to just take off, but maybe he finally got the message and is hot on the trail of his research. Chet Baker lived all over Europe, so Ace could be anywhere. Or maybe Ace didn’t like it that I’d turned him down, and now he is going to show me he can do it on his own. More power to him. Trying to put it out of my mind, I decide to go for a walk.
I leave the hotel and head around the corner, through a maze of cobblestone alleyways that lead into the Old Quarter—bars, restaurants, sex shops, snack bars with food smells wafting into the street, and lots of people, even at this hour. Turning one corner, I come across a short street of the red-light district.
It’s impossible not to look at the girls on display in the windows. That’s the only way to describe them. Clad mostly in bras and panties, they smile and beckon from their perches on high stools. Some of them are quite beautiful. I pass a number of coffeehouses, which I know are venues for marijuana smoking, complete with menus, so I’d heard—but not tonight. I head back and come out behind the hotel. I look up toward my room, count over a couple of windows to the room where Chet Baker fell from, the same room Ace stayed in.
There’s a drainpipe running up the side of the building just past that room. It looks big enough to hold a man’s weight and goes right past Chet’s room. Nobody saw him fall? To my left, the alleyway opens onto a canal, but if it was late at night, nobody would probably have noticed a body, and…I shake it off. One day in Amsterdam, and I’m already seduced by the mystery. Enough. I go around to the front entrance and glance once again at the plaque for Chet Baker.
Hope you’re having some luck, Ace.
Chapter Four
The train trip from London, the first night of the gig, it’s all caught up with me, but still I’m surprised to see sunlight streaming through the windows. I lie still for a few minutes, listening to the morning sounds of Amsterdam filter through the open window—cars, voices, footsteps on the cobblestone, traffic noise from the end of the street. How many times have I done this in how many cities? In chain hotels, it’s easy to forget where you are, and sometimes I can’t even remember on long road trips.
I get out of bed and take a look outside. I don’t see any windmills or people in wooden clogs, but those voices are Dutch. Must be Amsterdam. I don’t even look at the cigarettes on the nightstand but just head for the shower. Coffee and some breakfast is much on my mind as I get dressed in jeans, a sweater, and some well-worn running shoes.
I pull my door shut and see the maid’s cart outside a room a couple of doors down—the Chet Baker room. The door is open, but I don’t see the maid. I glance in and see the room is all made up, with no sign of luggage, so its occupant must have checked out early. I can’t resist walking over to the open window and looking out. I can almost touch the drainpipe running along the side of the building. The view of the canal is even better from here. Was Chet looking out, trying to get a better look at a woman, waving at her or something else? Maybe just sitting there, heroin coursing through his veins, nodding off, oblivious to the danger.
“This is your room?” The maid is standing in the doorway, holding
an armful of towels, looking at me.
“Oh no, sorry. I’m down the hall. I think my friend was staying here a few nights ago. Do you remember a very tall American with a beard?”
She shakes her head. “I have been on holiday,” she says. “To London. My friend Maria might know.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll find him. Thank you.” She nods and goes to get something from her cart, then turns back to me. “I can do your room now?”
“Oh yes, sure. I’m going to breakfast.” I follow her out into the hall. She nods again and pushes the cart down to my room, opens the door, and goes inside. She peeks out again, seeing me still standing in the hallway. “You can shut the door, please?”
“Sure.” But when she goes in my room, I duck back inside Ace’s room and close the door behind me. I want another look around.
There’s nothing out of place, and no reason there should be. It’s simply a hotel room, cleaned and ready for its next occupant. No plaque that says “Chet Baker Slept Here” either. I open the drawers of the nightstand, check in the closet, the bathroom. If Ace or anybody was here, there’s no evidence of it. I walk over to the window and look out again. A metal heater runs along the wall just under the window. It’s early spring, but the nights are still cool, and so is the heater when I touch it. I glance down, and something catches my eye. Something white, a piece of paper or something stuck behind the radiator. I slide my hand down to see if I can reach and drag it up, and I feel something else wedged between the wall and the heater.
I manage to get hold of the edge and pull. It’s a flat leather portfolio with a zipper around three sides. I’d know it anywhere; Ace always had it with him. He couldn’t have forgotten it—but what’s it doing here, shoved down behind the radiator? And who put it here? Inside are file folders, typed pages, handwritten notes, newspaper clippings, photos—all of Chet Baker. Ace’s research.
I zip it up quickly, open the door, and check the hallway. The maid is still busy in my room. Closing the door quietly, I slip down the stairs, Ace’s portfolio under my arm.
***
There are several coffee bars near the hotel. I choose the least crowded one and order a tall cappuccino and some kind of sweet roll. Grabbing one of the large ashtrays off the bar, I sit at a back table and open the case, turning over the pages one at a time as I wolf down the roll and sip the hot coffee. Ace has assembled quite a file on Chet Baker—news stories from American and foreign newspapers, Downbeat, Jazz Times, Gene Lees’ Jazzletter, which is available only by subscription, a number of photos, and lots of typed pages with handwritten notes, phone numbers, and names added in the margins, all in Ace’s neat printing. One is for the Dutch National Jazz Archives in Amsterdam.
In the pocket in the back are also a couple of snapshots of Ace himself, smiling almost smugly, standing in front of the Chet Baker plaque in front of the hotel. I wonder who took those. Maybe the front desk clerk?
I put everything back in the case, zip it up, and carry it with me to the bar to get another coffee. I sit down again, light a cigarette, and listen to the voices around me, take in the smells of cooking and coffee brewing, and wonder what the hell is going on.
There’s no way Ace would leave all this stuff behind. It is all his research, and even if there’s some logical reason—and I can’t think of any—he certainly wouldn’t stuff it behind the radiator and just forget it when he checked out. And he did check out, according to the desk clerk. He didn’t just leave one morning and not come back. His clothes were gone, so what’s the deal? It just doesn’t add up.
I finish my coffee and walk back to the hotel. It’s quite sunny now, but there’s still a nip in the air, and the streets are crowded. Across the way at Central Station, people are streaming in and out past the hundreds of bicycles. At the hotel, I check for messages and find one from Fletcher Paige for me to call him. I go back to my room, stash Ace’s portfolio in my own bag, and dial the number Fletcher has left for me.
“Lo.”
“Fletcher? It’s Evan Horne.”
“Hey. Got any plans this afternoon?”
“No, not really. What’s up?”
“Thought I’d show you around your neighborhood, get some lunch if that’s cool.”
“Sounds good. You want me to meet you someplace?”
“Yeah, there’s a place near your hotel, not far from the police station. Just ask anybody. The New Orleans Café. ’Bout noon?”
“Okay. See you then.”
I hang up and take out the portfolio again, looking through every sheet of paper in there, even in the side pockets, but there’s nothing there to tell me anything. That familiar rumbling starts in my stomach as I sift through the clippings and photos and typed pages, remembering how I looked at a similar file in Las Vegas on Wardell Gray. Even that made more sense than this does. At least then, Ace was sitting across from me in the UNLV Student Union.
***
Fletcher is already there when I get to the New Orleans Café. It’s dark inside, and there’s taped jazz coming from somewhere in the back. Fletcher sits in a booth by the window, drinking coffee and reading USA Today. He waves me over, and I slide in opposite him. He folds the paper neatly and takes off a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
“Hey, man, you found it.” He replaces them with another pair. “Gettin’ old, man. It ain’t fun. One pair to read, another one just to see. But shit, I can still play.”
“Just like you said.”
Fletcher glances at his watch. “Wanna take a walk? We’re early yet for lunch. We can come back, and I can show you around the Old Quarter.”
“Sure.” We get up, and Fletcher tells the bartender to hold the table, that we’ll be back later.
We wind through the narrow streets. Within a couple of minutes I’m totally turned around in the maze of bars, shops, and coffeehouses, but Fletcher seems to have a destination in mind.
“You do any smoke, man?”
“Not for a long time, since I worked with Lonnie Cole. He grew his own. Always gave me a bad reaction.”
“Uh-huh,” Fletcher says. “Well, if you’re so inclined, this is the place to do it. Any of these coffee bars, it’s legal. Just go in, and they’ll give you a menu. Shit from all over. One of the advantages of Amsterdam is their liberal attitude on a lot of things.” We turn a corner and come into a narrow alleyway with tall windows, glass doors, and the reddish-tinged lights. It could be where I walked last night, but it’s hard to tell. “Here’s another one.”
The girls are out in full force, perched on stools or pacing in front of the windows. In some, the drapes are drawn across. “That means they with a customer, probably some businessman on his lunch hour.” Fletcher waves to a couple of the girls. They seem to know him, waving back and smiling. Seeing my look, Fletcher says, “Different kind of window shopping, huh? No, I don’t do this scene, but I been around so long lot of folks know me. Hey, look here.”
Right next to one of the girls’ windows is a brick building. “Take a look,” Fletcher says. Inside I can see a group of small children sitting on the floor. A woman is seated before them, a book in her hand, obviously reading a story. A little farther on, more kids are working on some art project and a teacher is roaming around the room commenting on their work.
“Hookers’ kids?” I ask.
Fletcher smiles. “Nope, just a regular preschool.”
“Here? In this area?”
“Yep, part of the city’s urban renewal. It’s mostly bars, the red-light district—you’ve seen that—but they want to have some normalcy too, so they put in a preschool. Ain’t that a bitch.” He laughs and claps his hands.
“But don’t the parents object?”
“No, they know it up front. The girls were here first. They can be liberal too.”
I glance at the window next to the school. A tall, willowy black girl is seated on a stool. Her hair is almost red, and she’s clad in only bra and panties. She catch
es my eye, cups her very full breasts, and smiles. Fletcher waves and blows her a kiss.
We walk on past a beautiful old church, and Fletcher tells me it’s the oldest in Amsterdam. “Some place, huh? The Old Quarter. You can get drunk, get high, get laid, and save your soul, all in walking distance.” He laughs again. “This sure ain’t California, man.”
We continue turning corners till suddenly we’re back at the New Orleans. Fletcher’s booth is still vacant, his newspaper right where he left it, and menus are waiting on the table. “Now we eat,” he says, sliding into the booth.
I join him. “You must be a good customer here.”
Fletcher smiles slyly. “Yeah, one of the perks of living here for a while. Shit, Dexter Gordon was a write-in candidate for mayor when he lived in Copenhagen. They got a good stew you might try.”
I follow Fletcher’s lead. He catches the waiter’s eye and signals him, putting two fingers up. The waiter nods and heads for the kitchen. The bartender brings us two draft beers. Fletcher takes a long pull of his and looks at me.
“So, what’s on your mind? I can see you want to talk about something. You’ve been preoccupied all morning.”
I nod and wonder how much to tell him, but there’s nothing to lose. “How well did you know Chet Baker?”
“Uh-oh, here we go. Sam Spade on the case.” He laughs. “No pun intended.”
“You’re a mystery fan?”
“Oh yeah, got a collection of paperbacks. Raymond Chandler, Ross MacDonald, Walter Mosley, Elmore Leonard, and some new cat, Gary Phillips. I like him because his character is named Monk. But my main man is Charles Willeford. Writes about a Miami cop named Hoke Moseley. Gotta love a guy named Hoke,” Fletcher says. “Ain’t got his own teeth, always owes his ex-wife money. But he’s cool.”
“Well, I’m not on any case, but there are a couple of things. Remember I asked you about my friend Buffington, the professor? Well, there’s no sign of him. The hotel says he just checked out, and that’s not like him.”
