by Bill Moody
There’s nothing I can say to that. I just nod. “Yeah, but Dexter Gordon found it different when he went back, didn’t he?”
“Well, I ain’t Dexter Gordon.” He breaks into a smile then. “Shit, I play better than Dex anyway. C’mon, man, let’s get off this and get something to eat.”
We go in Fletcher’s car, an old VW that nonetheless runs well. He crosses canals, winds around the back streets of Amsterdam until we pull up in front of a small coffeehouse nowhere near the Old Quarter. Fletcher gets out of the car. “Not here,” he says, as I start for the coffeehouse. “Around the corner.”
I follow him inside, where we’re greeted by a striking Indonesian woman who smiles broadly when she sees Fletcher. She has straight black hair that almost reaches her waist, large eyes, and smooth dark skin. “Fletcher, you’re a bad boy,” she says. “Haven’t come here in a long time.” She hugs him and glances at me.
“Maria, say hello to my friend Evan,” Fletcher says. “We’re playing at the Bimhuis, and Evan is one fine piano player. And you haven’t been to see me, either.” He playfully shakes his finger in her face.
“Okay, okay,” she says. “Too busy. You going to eat?”
“What else?” Fletcher says. “You know what I like. Same for my man too.” He looks at me. “Okay with you?”
I nod. “Sure, bring it on.”
“Well, you heard the man,” Fletcher says. “Get those pots on.”
She shows us to a back table. Despite the hour, the restaurant is busy. I catch a mix of languages from tourists and locals alike, and take in the smells of spicy food. We settle in, and Maria brings us two beers. “You’ll like this, man. Best Indonesian food in Amsterdam.”
The table is soon covered with an array of small dishes, saucers of condiments, stainless steel trays kept hot with a candle, and more food than both of us can get through.
“Wow,” Fletcher says. “I’d almost forgotten how good this is.” He raises his beer to Maria across the room, and she nods a smile back. Over coffee, we light cigarettes, and before long I catch Fletcher studying me. “Well?”
“What?”
“What have you done? You look like you got caught doing something. You didn’t turn in that portfolio, did you?”
“No. I spent the morning going all through it.”
“And?”
“It’s a dossier on Chet Baker, all of Ace’s notes. Very thorough, as I would expect of Ace, and vital to his research.” I signal a waiter for some more coffee and look at Fletcher. “Look, let me try something out on you. You already think I’m going overboard on this, so I might as well go all the way.”
“Go. Just don’t expect me to agree with you,” Fletcher says.
“Fair enough.” I gather my thoughts and start again. “Suppose Ace decided to keep that case where I found it, just to keep it out of anybody’s hands—the maid even, when he left the room. People do that, don’t they? If they don’t take it with them, most people wouldn’t leave an expensive camera just lying around in plain sight. They’d put it in their suitcase or in a drawer under some clothes.”
“Maybe,” Fletcher says. “Least it’s not immediately visible.”
“Right, what I thought. Now here’s the jump. Suppose somebody wanted Ace to go with them, maybe even forcibly, and went with him to the room to supervise his packing and checking out.”
“Uh-oh.” Fletcher stubs out his cigarette. “Go on.”
“Well, that would explain why when Ace checked out, the portfolio was still there. Maybe he hoped somebody would find it—okay, maybe me—and raise the alarm, report it to the hotel, and then maybe the police if he was really in trouble.” But even as I’m talking, I realize how much of a stretch I’m trying to make. Maybe Fletcher and Inspector Dekker are both right. I’m letting my imagination get away from me.
Fletcher thinks hard for a minute. “I see where you’re going with this, but you’re making a big jump, aren’t you? ’Course, you know this Ace guy better than I do.”
“I don’t know, Fletcher. It just doesn’t make any sense. I’m just sure Ace would never consciously leave without that portfolio, much less just forget it.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right about that. Have you been to the police?”
“Yep, told them about everything but finding the case. I also called the university and Ace’s home. Just got his answering machine, and the English department says he’s on sabbatical. Nothing funny there. Also called up a cop friend in L.A. Didn’t tell him all of it, but asked him to let me know if he hears from Ace.”
Fletcher’s eyebrows go up. “What did the police say?”
I shrug. “Nothing other than they would be alert, whatever that means. The guy I talked to is also checking on the guy who investigated Chet Baker’s death. He’s retired now, living in the country somewhere. I’m sure Ace would have looked him up.”
“Uh-huh,” Fletcher mumbles. “So what’s your next move?”
“Hell, I don’t know. I feel funny checking hospitals, again with the police. The cop told me to check with the American consulate. I suppose that might not be a bad idea, although I doubt that Ace would check in with them.”
“No, probably not,” Fletcher says. “All the time I’ve been here I’ve never done that.”
“Tomorrow I’m going to check out the Dutch Jazz Archives. It’s not far from the hotel. Maybe Ace has been there, somebody talked with him.”
Fletcher nods. “Well, I can see this is bothering you. You’re not going to quit till you find some answers, and in a way, I don’t blame you. He is your friend. But…you might also find some trouble. You’ve found it before.”
“I know, I know. Last thing I want now, but I just can’t help feeling something has happened to Ace.” I can’t tell if Fletcher is just humoring me or really thinks I’m way off base. He considers some more, then his lips curl into a smile.
“Tell you what,” Fletcher says. “You find that detective on Chet Baker’s case, I’ll go with you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’d like to hear the real story on that myself.” Fletcher laughs. “Maybe I’ll write a book of my own.”
We drive back to the hotel, and as I get out of the car, Fletcher stops me. I lean back in the window. “Listen, man, maybe I shouldn’t say this, but…” He looks away for a moment. “Find your friend. Maybe you’ll find yourself.”
Then he pulls away, leaving me to wonder what he meant.
***
In the morning I make my way down the Prins Hendrikkade after breakfast, about a fifteen-minute walk. It’s cool, but spring is definitely here. Across the way I can see ships docked and unloading, and the usual plethora of bicycles I have to watch for at every crossing. They seem more dangerous than cars or trolleys crammed with riders. Los Angeles is such a car city, the trolleys by comparison are fascinating, crisscrossing the city, seemingly always full.
In a row of gray buildings, I check the address and find the Dutch National Jazz Archives sign. It’s a few steps down, below street level. Inside, through a small room on my left, I see hundreds of books on gray metal shelves. I find a larger room and some offices off to the side. At the far end of the room, three men are sitting around a table discussing some Duke Ellington recordings. Their voices, in English, carry to my end of the room, and the discussion seems rather heated. I catch Johnny Hodges’ name, then hear a voice behind me.
“Can I help you?”
I turn around. A young woman, maybe late twenties, early thirties, with short dark hair and a friendly smile, is standing behind me. Once again I’m thankful English is a second language here. “Well, I hope so. A friend of mine might have been here to do some research, on Chet Baker. An American. His name is Buffington, Charles Buffington.”
She thinks for a moment. “Ah, yes. He was in a few days ago, looking through our clipping library. He had written from America for permission. It was very polite but not really
necessary.” She smiles again. “We’re not so formal here.”
“Oh, I guess Chet Baker is a pretty popular subject here.”
“Yes, many people have come to visit Amsterdam because of his death here. Did you want to see something? Are you doing research also?”
“Well, no, actually I’m a musician. I’m working at the Bimhuis, with Fletcher Paige.”
“Ah, yes, he is one of our well-known citizens. Amsterdam has adopted him. And what is your instrument?”
“Piano. I came here hoping to find out something about my friend. We were supposed to meet, but he checked out of the hotel and didn’t leave a forwarding address.”
Her expression suddenly changes. “Are you Evan Horne?”
“Yes, why? How did you know?”
“Pleased to meet you. My name is Helen.” We shake hands briefly. “A moment, please.” She goes back into the office for a minute, then comes back with an envelope. “This is for you, then. Mr. Buffington left it. He said you might visit here.”
I take the envelope from her, start to open it. “Did you talk to him? Did he give you this?”
“Yes. He spent the day looking at clippings and one or two videos we have, but I didn’t talk to him much. He gave me the envelope when he left and said to give it to you if you came here.”
This is getting more spooky by the moment. “And if I didn’t come here?”
She shakes her head. “He didn’t say. I’m sorry, that’s all I know.”
“Well, thank you anyway, Helen.”
“Excuse me, please. I have some work to do, but if you want to see something, please let me know.”
“Sure, thanks.” I sit down at one of the tables and open the envelope. It’s a handwritten note, and definitely in Ace’s writing.
Dear Evan,
Well, if you’re here, you’re hot on the trail as I am. I didn’t think you could resist. Wonderful facility here and they treat you well. Have the girl show you the other sculpture. It’s really something. Sorry I missed you at the hotel, but the search is on.
Best, Ace
I read it several times, but nothing hits me. Was this after he checked out of the hotel? And how or why did he think I’d come here looking for him unless he knew I’d find the portfolio and see his notes. I sit for a few minutes rereading his note, thinking, wondering about the trail Ace has left, but I’m just more puzzled. I am curious as to what Ace looked at, though, so I go looking for Helen in her office.
“Sorry to bother you again. Could I see the material my friend looked at? And he mentioned another sculpture—is it different from the one at the hotel?”
She gets up from her desk and smiles again. “Yes. Come, I’ll show you.” She takes me around the corner, and there in the hallway is a human figure made from what looks like tree branches. There’s an old trumpet wedged in as well. “That’s Chet Baker’s trumpet,” she says.
“You’re kidding.” The shine has faded, and it’s all oxidized. “His family never claimed it?”
“No, no one did. This was outside for a while, behind the hotel, but it couldn’t be secured, and the hotel thought it was not appropriate to be displayed.”
“Yes, I can imagine they wouldn’t.” I can’t take my eyes off it. It wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in New York. I keep looking back as she takes me into another room crowded with gray metal shelves—books, cardboard holders for file folders and magazines, and several shelves of videotapes.
She pulls one holder out and two videotapes. “He looked at this collection of files, but I’m afraid most are in Dutch. He also looked at these two videos.”
I look at the titles. One is a commercial copy of Bruce Weber’s film on Chet, Let’s Get Lost. I’d seen it many times at video stores. On the other box, the title Chet Baker: The Final Days is written with a black marker pen.
“And this one?”
“It was done by a Dutch documentary filmmaker. The interviews are in English or translated. There’s also an interview with the policeman who investigated his death.”
I don’t remember hearing about any such film. “I would like to take a look if it’s possible.”
“Certainly.” She takes the tape off the shelf and shows me to a small room set up with a VCR and a television. “Take your time. I’ll be in my office if you need something.” She puts the video in the player and turns on the television.
“Thanks.”
I sit down at the machine and hit the play button. The narrator’s voice—it’s a woman—startles me at first. It’s very cold, objective, even harsh.
“Chet Baker, trumpet player and singer, died in Amsterdam, the thirteenth of May, 1988. His death was caused by falling or jumping from a hotel window. Chet Baker was fifty-eight.”
I rewind and watch it again. Cold, hard facts, nothing else. Then there’s a black-and-white photo of Chet, lying on his side in the alleyway, as the narrator continues.
“His face was covered with blood. At first, the police think it is a drug addict aged about thirty. In the hotel room, the papers of a fifty-eight-year-old American named C. H. Baker are found, so they assume it is a junkie who has robbed a tourist.”
I press the pause button on the black-and-white photo, freezing the frame, and feel those familiar stirrings, looking over the edge of a dark, deep hole, but not quite able to step back. For a moment I’m right there, in that photo, looking at Chet’s body, glancing up to the window of his room. But there are no clues, nothing to tell the real story. Not Chetty or Chet of the golden-tone horn. Just a dead junkie, his face covered in blood, discovered in an alley in a foreign country.
The rest of the film is fascinating, and I wonder why it’s never been shown in the States. Seems like a natural for PBS. There are interviews with, among others, Russ Freeman, Chet’s longtime pianist, the photographer William Claxton, record producers, friends, and a Rotterdam pianist, recounting a night when Chet just wandered in a club and asked to sit in. There’s also a segment with Chet and bassist Red Mitchell sitting at a piano together, talking, reminiscing, playing a couple of tunes: Red friendly, smiling; Chet holding his trumpet, watching Red warily play the chords on “My Romance.”
The story is told chronologically from May 7, five days before Chet died. The interview with a policeman who describes the scene and gives his opinion in no uncertain terms still leaves it very vague and inconclusive.
“We believe,” the detective says, “that Mr. Baker, under the influence of drugs, simply fell out of the window of his hotel. He was found at approximately three in the morning. There was no conspiracy, no sign of foul play, and his room was locked from the inside. Perhaps he thought he could fly,” the sergeant says, but he isn’t smiling. There’s even a brief glimpse of an Interpol memo, recounting, I suppose, Chet’s scrapes with the law in various countries.
I fast-forward through the tape, skipping over the many musical segments at various points in Chet’s career, seeing the physical changes that occurred over the years. I stop now and then for some of the interviews. When I have more time, I’d like to watch the entire film. I stop the tape and lean back, thinking about the detective’s comments. I’d have to check the locks on the doors again at the hotel, but if the door was self-locking, anyone could just close it behind them—or, if they were really worried about being seen, lock the door, then shinny down that infamous drainpipe—but it’s not even mentioned. None of this, I remind myself, tells me anything about Ace’s whereabouts. And even though I said I wouldn’t help Ace, here I am, already speculating, getting hooked on the story.
I rewind the tape, hit the eject button, and put it back in its box. Flipping through the file of clips, I find only two in English. I take those out and go back to the office. I knock and stick my head in.
“Helen?” She’s on the phone. She looks up, holds up one finger, talks for a minute or so, then hangs up.
“Thanks for your time,” I say. “Just one more thing. C
an I get copies of these two articles?”
“Of course.” She takes them from me and goes off to another room. She comes back in a few minutes and hands me the copies. “I’ll refile these,” she says. “I hope you found what you were looking for.”
“We’ll see,” I say. “I don’t suppose I could borrow that tape, check it out for a couple of days?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “That is not permitted. You can see it anytime, but we don’t let material out of the building.”
“I understand. Well, thanks, Helen. You’ve been very helpful.” I start for the door, then turn back. “You can do me one last favor.”
“Yes?”
“If my friend comes back, tell him I was here.”
***
I walk back to the hotel, replaying those film images in my mind. The interview with the detective sticks out the most. He seemed emphatic that Chet Baker’s death was an accident, a fall from the window, possibly under the influence of drugs. Given Chet’s history, that seems more than possible. But Chet thinking he could fly? I don’t think so. Chet could fly, but only with a trumpet to his lips.
At the hotel I pause for a moment, looking again at the sculpture. Only you know for sure, Chet. And you’re not talking. When I go inside, two men at the front desk turn toward me. One is the policeman I talked to at the station, Inspector Dekker. “Ah, Mr. Horne,” he says. “We were just looking for you.”
I notice then that the other man is carrying a plastic bag. “Yes. Anything wrong?”
“This is Sergeant Vledder.” He nods toward the other man. “I’m not sure.” He pauses and looks around. “Perhaps we could go to your room and talk?”
“Yes, sure.” I don’t like the sound of this, and I’m already starting to regret my visit to the police station. As we ride up in the elevator to my room, I keep eyeing the bag in the other policeman’s hand. I unlock my door and invite them in. The maid has already done the room. I glance at the closet, thinking about Ace’s portfolio in there.
