by Bill Moody
There’s barely room for Dekker’s desk and the chair I sit down in opposite him. His desk is cluttered with papers and files that nearly hide a telephone. Peeking out from behind a stack of heavy binders is a framed photo of a woman and a teenage boy. I look at Dekker and wonder where to start, but he beats me to it. “May I see some identification, please? Your passport.”
“Oh, sure.” I take out my passport and show it to him. He looks it over and glances at me a time or two.
“And why are you in Amsterdam? Tourist?”
“No, I’m a musician. I’m playing at the Bimhuis.” I think I catch a slight smile, but I’m not sure. “This isn’t about me, it’s about my friend.”
“Yes, I understand. Your friend is in trouble? What is his name, please?”
“Charles Buffington.” I spell it out for him, and he writes it down. “Well, I don’t know if he’s in trouble or not.” I explain my concerns about Ace having checked out of the hotel without leaving a message for me. He listens patiently, letting me get it all out before asking any further questions. “So, that’s it. I just wondered if the police can check on it.”
He nods and glances at my passport again before handing it back. “Mr…Horne, is that how you pronounce it?”
“Yes.”
“Your friend is a tourist, yes?”
“Yes. Well, he’s doing some research here. About the musician who died in Amsterdam some years ago. Chet Baker.” There’s no recognition of the name in Dekker’s face.
“Do you have some reason to believe something has happened to your friend?”
“Well, no, I mean I don’t know. I’m just concerned.”
“I understand. But perhaps your friend just left.” He holds his hands up and shrugs.
“Well, I know that’s possible, but it doesn’t seem very like him to do something like that.” I wonder for a moment if I should tell him about the portfolio, but there’s nothing to wonder about. Of course I should, but I decide not to for now.
He glances at his watch. He’s obviously got more important things to do than listen to me. “Since he did leave the hotel, and he owes no money and left no message, I don’t see what we can do. I could perhaps suggest the American consulate. Unless your friend is officially missing, I’m afraid there’s nothing much we could do for you. I’m sorry.”
“What do you mean, officially missing?”
“I mean a report filed officially, but I suggest you exhaust other possibilities first.”
I nod and think for a minute. Do I really want to do that? File a missing person’s report? He’s right, of course. Ace could have just checked out and left. Were it not for the portfolio he left—no, hid—I’d have no problem with that beyond thinking it was kind of unusual. But it’s the portfolio that nags at me.
“All right. Well, thank you for your time. There are a couple of things I can check on.”
He stands up. “Not at all. Please let me know the results of your investigation.”
“My investigation?”
He does smile now. “The wrong word, perhaps. Pardon me.”
“Oh, okay.” I stand up to go. “There is one thing. The musician I mentioned that died here several years ago. Chet Baker. Do you know if the detective in charge of that case is still working here?”
“He died here in Amsterdam? When?”
“Nineteen-eighty-eight, I believe. He fell from a hotel window. At least, I think he did.”
He frowns for a moment. “Ah, the Prins Hendrik. The one with the—” He pauses for a moment, searching for the right word. “The memorial sculpture on the front of the hotel, yes?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“I was not here then, but I heard about it. The officer who investigated that case has retired now.”
“Oh. Do you know if he’s still in Amsterdam?”
“Yes, I believe so…but I would have to…do you wish to talk with him?”
“Well, I don’t know. I thought perhaps my friend might have contacted him.”
“Oh, yes, I see. I will make some inquiries. Where can I reach you?”
“I’m at the Prins Hendrik also.”
“Very well. I shall leave a message, then, if I find out anything.”
“Thank you.”
“Mr. Horne.” He gives me a thoughtful look.
“Yes?”
He seems to consider, measures his words carefully. “There’s a difference between disappearing and being missing. And, please, take no offense. You and your friend perhaps had a disagreement? Sometimes people simply don’t want to be found.” He shows me to the door. “Even friends do strange things at times.”
“Yes, I guess they do.”
I walk out past the desk again and stand on the front steps for a moment. Maybe Dekker was right. I guess you could call what happened in London a disagreement. Maybe Ace doesn’t want to be found—but when does not wanting to be found change to officially missing?
***
I find the American Express office on the Rokin Damrak, not far from the Central Station, opposite the church, amid some department stores and other travel offices. I want to change some money, and I can make a call from there. I push through the glass doors and follow the signs upstairs. There’s a bank of kiosks to change money, and two pay phone booths on one wall. Not much business this morning. Two students with backpacks are cashing traveler’s checks, and a family of four is studying a map and talking about sight-seeing.
I change some money at one of the windows and ask about the phones. “I need to call the States. Can I use one of those phones and charge the call to my card?”
“Yes.” The teller indicates the glass-enclosed booths without looking up.
I get in the booth and close the accordion door. There are signs in several languages for phone/credit card use. I start with international information for the number of UNLV in Las Vegas and copy the number down on my money change receipt. I take a deep breath and dial the number after inserting my card in the slot.
“University of Nevada, Las Vegas.”
“Yes, can you connect me with the English Department, please?”
“One moment.” I listen to the hums and clicks, then another voice.
“English department,” a female voice says. “How can I help you?”
“Yes, can I speak to Professor Buffington, please?”
“Professor Buffington is on sabbatical. He won’t be returning until next semester.”
“Oh right, he did mention that. I’m a friend of his. Do you know where I could contact him?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. Just a minute.” She puts her hand over the phone. I know she’s asking somebody something, but it’s too muffled for me to hear. Then she’s back.
“He’s in Europe, doing some research. That’s the only information we have.”
“Okay, well, thanks anyway.”
I hang up the phone. Strike one. I dial a second number, but I don’t need information for this one. At Ace’s home number, I get his answering machine with a brief message that he’s unavailable but to leave a message.
“Hi, Ace, it’s Evan, just on the off chance you’re back home. I’m in Amsterdam at the Prins Hendrik if you get this.”
I feel silly leaving it, but what the hell. Strike two.
One more call, and this one I know the number for too.
“Santa Monica Police,” a male voice says.
“Lieutenant Cooper, please.”
“Name?”
“Evan Horne.”
“One minute.”
For once, when Coop comes on the line, he sounds genuinely pleased to hear from me. “Hey, Evan, how’s it hanging?”
“Pretty good, Coop. How about you? How’s the shoulder?”
“Fine. Got me a lot of time off.” In my duet with Gillian, Cooper suffered a deep slash from her knife and was briefly hospitalized.
“Good, Coop, that
’s good. Glad to hear it.”
“Where are you calling from? How’s it going wherever you are?”
“Going good, Coop. I’m in Amsterdam.”
“Amsterdam, as in Holland?”
“The same.”
“Just a minute. I have to check and make sure you didn’t make this a collect call.”
I laugh. “No, I know you wouldn’t accept that.”
“So what are you doing over there?”
“Oh, it’s a long story, but I’m working a club here, might connect with some other gigs as well, but that’s not why I called.”
“Uh-oh. I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Relax, it’s no biggie.”
“Uh-huh. I never relax when I’m talking to you. What?”
“Well, I saw Ace when I was in London. He was on the way here to do some research, and we tentatively planned to get together. But now he’s already been, checked out, and gone. I just wondered if you’d heard anything from him.”
“Ace? No, not a word. Not since I saw him in Las Vegas when we…well, you remember.”
“Yes, I remember. Well, it’s probably nothing. Just not like Ace to disappear like that.” I hesitate again, wondering if I should tell Coop about the portfolio, but again decide against it. “He might have just ducked out somewhere. Maybe he’ll show up before I leave.”
“Yeah,” Coop says. “Anyway, you said the plans were tentative, right?”
“Right.” There are a few moments of silence. I know Coop is mulling it over. “I did hear from somebody else you know, though. Natalie.”
“Really? How’s she doing?”
“Seems fine. Said to tell you hello if I talked to you. Listen, man. I don’t know how long you’re going to be gone, but if I were you, I’d talk to her. We had a beer, kind of caught up, you know. She understands things a lot better now. Might be worth your while.”
“Yeah, I know, Coop, but not yet. I’m not ready for that.”
“Gotcha. Just wanted to let you know. Well, listen, you’re burning up charges here. Got somewhere I can call you if I hear anything from Ace?”
I give him the hotel number. “You can probably catch me mornings, my time. We’re eight hours ahead of California. Leave a message otherwise.”
“Will do. You take care, huh?”
“I will, Coop, I will.”
I hang up, but reluctantly. It was good to hear a familiar voice. If Ace has gone back to the States, maybe he will pass through L.A. and call Coop. Nothing would make me happier.
Otherwise, I’m going to have to tell Coop and Inspector Dekker about the portfolio Ace left behind and make it official.
***
Back at the hotel, I go through the portfolio again, looking through every article and piece of paper in there, trying to come up with a logical explanation as to why Ace would leave all this material behind. I don’t even want to go there, but had he come across something that had made him overcautious? Was he afraid someone would find it, know what he was up to? I run over another scenario in my mind, just to try it out, see how it plays.
What if Ace had been forced to check out, been taken somewhere, against his will? And maybe his abductors—was that too strong?—had supervised his packing. They wouldn’t have known about the portfolio, that it was hidden, and if that was the situation, Ace certainly wouldn’t have told them. No, he would have left it right where it was, hoping that eventually somebody—the maid, the next occupant—would find it, turn it in, and raise the alert. Or was he counting on me finding it? When I suggested the possibility to Fletcher, he was right to say that’s a little out there, but now I’m not so sure. In any case, I’m not prepared to give it up now. There might be a time for that later.
Looking through the material, it’s clear that Ace has certainly done his homework on Chet Baker. I knew of Chet, of course, had several of his records, and knew something about his legendary career in jazz. But that’s nothing like the dossier Ace has assembled. I read it all just to pass the time, hoping to find some clue that might tell me where Ace might be headed next and why he’s gone off in such a rush.
Chet Baker had crisscrossed Europe since the 1950s. He’d played in, recorded in, and been arrested, jailed, and deported from several countries in Europe. He’d spent jail time in Italy—sixteen months—and left a trail a researcher like Ace would drool over. His celebrity had followed him everywhere, helped along by run-ins with the law. Ace could be in Italy, France, Scandinavia, even Spain. Chet played all those places more than once, but he’d spent a lot of time in Amsterdam, from the sound of it—no doubt because heroin was readily available, and the attitude much more liberal than elsewhere.
Chet grew up in southern California and started right at the top, auditioning for Charlie Parker in L.A., beating out every trumpet player there to make some gigs with Bird. When Parker went back to New York, he told Dizzy and Miles, “There’s a little white cat on the coast who’s gonna eat you up.” Next to that quote is Ace’s handwritten reminder to check the quote.
By then, Chet was in the pianoless quartet with Gerry Mulligan and well on the road to fame and fortune. Unfortunately for Chet, the road was littered with heroin.
He had his own group after that with pianist Russ Freeman. That was the beginning of his singing career too. Young, talented, good-looking, he seemed destined for stardom. Hollywood was interested, but drugs always waylaid the ultimate arrival. In and out of methadone programs—some official, some self-made—Chet hit bottom in San Francisco, when he was beaten up on the street in 1969.
There were several versions of that incident, and from the clippings, it wasn’t clear whether it was a simple mugging or a payback by drug dealers he owed money to. Whatever the case, his teeth were damaged, and he had to learn how to play all over again with dentures. It took him over three years, but he did it, making his first comeback with a series of records that were more commercial than artistic. They didn’t work, so he retreated as always to Europe, and eventually, so the critics said, was playing better than ever.
More records, reunions with Gerry Mulligan, and the legend continued. So did the drug use. It was just a part of his life that he could never fully shake. Still, people always turned out to hear him play, buy his records, and hope for more. There was a string of women, wives, kids, but nothing, it seemed, kept Chet Baker from playing jazz. Music was indeed his life, but time turned against him.
There are several photos, which I spread out on the bed, ranging from some very early days to one not long before he died—Chet sitting on a stool onstage, his trumpet nearby. He seems to be thinking, What happened? It is Dorian Gray in reverse.
I look at the two photos of Ace again. On impulse, I take one of them and slip it in my passport wallet. I put everything back in the case and zip it up. I light a cigarette and try to put myself in Ace’s head. Chet’s last recording, with a big band in Germany, is in my own collection—My Favorite Songs: The Last Great Concert. I remember from the liner notes that he had driven off right after the recording session for another gig somewhere, then back to Amsterdam with a pocketful of cash. Two weeks later, he was dead.
On one of the sheets with phone numbers and addresses, I’d come across the Dutch Jazz Archives again. Logical place for Ace to start after the hotel, digging through articles. A research library, where he’d be at home and comfortable. Somebody besides Fletcher Paige and the hotel owner must have seen him, talked to him. Ace could also still be right here in Amsterdam too, running around, excitedly talking to anyone who knew Chet Baker. Maybe that was the key to everything.
Find Chet Baker, find Ace Buffington.
Chapter Six
Fletcher Paige is a wonder. He plays every night with the maturity of a wily old veteran and the enthusiasm of a young kid on his first gig. This is simply one I don’t want to end. The audiences are responsive, the band is cooking, and I’m learning what it’s like to play with a master of what so
me critics have called America’s classical music. And here we are, doing it in a foreign country—me, the new arrival fresh from the States, Fletcher in self-imposed exile for eighteen years.
Personally, the relationship couldn’t be better. We share the same sense of humor, tell stories, talk about music, politics, even race. Jim Crow, Crow Jim, all of it. “You’re too young to remember the sixties,” Fletcher says, “but it went both ways. When Bobby Timmons left Cannonball Adderly, Cannon wanted to hire Victor Feldman, the white English pianist, but he knew that wouldn’t go over with the other guys.”
“Yes, I’ve heard him on records, did one with Miles, before Herbie Hancock.”
“That’s the one. All that free-jazz shit was going on then, and the black militant movement. The Panthers, Black Power. Nothing wrong with that, but it got into the music. So Cannon played the rest of the band a record with Feldman, said this is who he wanted. They listened, said, yeah, he’s the one. Then he told them who it was.”
“Like Miles hiring Bill Evans.”
“Exactly. Ornery as he was, Miles never let anything interfere with the music.”
I listen to these and other stories from Fletcher’s days with Count Basie, and as is so often the case, they make me wish I’d been born earlier. It feels like I’ve known Fletcher all my life. But when I casually ask him if he’s ever thought about going back, he just shrugs it off, and my question obviously triggers old memories.
“Why should I, man?” We’re talking again, just after the gig. Some of the people are lingering over stale drinks, not wanting to give it up yet. I watch Fletcher’s face set as he packs up his horn. He snaps the case shut, then turns and looks sharply at me. “Why should I go back to scuffling for gigs, playing for people who don’t even know who I am? Who thought I was dead.” He sets the case down and lights a cigarette. Beneath that congenial exterior, the anger is still there, but this is the first time I’ve seen it surface.
“You know, I talked to Johnny Griffin once, asked him the same question you askin’ me. Griff told me he once played Carnegie Hall and the stagehands gave him shit, and we both know why. Carnegie Hall!” He shakes his head. “No thanks, I been there, man. Don’t need more of that. I like it here just fine.”
