Looking for Chet Baker

by Bill Moody

  “Speedball,” I say.

  “What?”

  “That’s the slang for heroin and cocaine mix.” My imagination spins off. Chet had his fix; maybe playing a little, he decides to sit on the windowsill, check out the scene. Or did someone knock on the door? Did he lay down his trumpet on the floor to answer? The conspiracy theories won’t go away.

  Engels continues. “Someone, I forget who, contacted his agent, and he came over. He didn’t even know Mr. Baker was in Amsterdam. Apparently he had arrived in the afternoon, and the hotels he had stayed in before were all full. The agent, Peter Huijits, explained to me who Mr. Baker was.” Engels looks back at me. “They had been expecting him. He was scheduled to play that evening, in a concert.”

  “Yes, with Archie Shepp.”

  “I’m sorry,” Engels says. “I don’t know the name.”

  The woman returns with our order, two bowls of steaming lentil soup and meat and cheese sandwiches on toasted bread. When she leaves, I say, “Another famous musician.”

  “Yes,” Engels says. “I assume so. Forgive me, I am not such a big jazz fan.”

  We eat in silence for a few minutes, then Engels continues. “A shame about Baker,” he says. “Not just his death but his addiction. When I checked with Interpol, he had a history in Europe. Sixteen months’ imprisonment in Italy, many other arrests.”

  I nod as I finish half of the sandwich. “Yes, his drug problems were as well known as his music. But as many people have said, he did it to himself.”

  I know Engels’ memory couldn’t be this good if Ace hadn’t reminded him.

  “So, about my friend, Professor Buffington. You also talked with him?”

  “Yes, but not here. I was in Amsterdam and suggested we meet there to save him a trip. We had coffee. He took many notes.” Engels smiles, remembering. “He is, I believe, intense? Yes?”

  “Very. And when was that? Last week?”

  “Yes, Thursday, I think. We talked for about an hour.”

  The day before I arrived in Amsterdam. “Did he say what his plans were? Where he was going next? Anything like that?”

  “No, I don’t recall. Just that he was continuing to research Mrs. Baker’s time here.”

  “Did he mention my name at all?”

  Engels looks surprised. “No. I had not heard of you until Inspector Dekker called.”

  That also strikes me as strange. But to talk to a cop, Ace didn’t need me. “Do you remember if he had a leather case with him, like a portfolio, zipper on three sides?”

  “Yes,” Engels says, nodding. “He had it open when we talked, referred to some papers. Why do you ask?”

  I finish my sandwich, push the plate aside, and take out my cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

  “No, please.”

  I light a cigarette and look at Engels. “Can I tell you something in confidence? I mean, I know you’re retired now.”

  “What? There is something else to our visit, yes?”

  I lay it all out for him then, about Ace and our tentative plans to meet, the bar turning over his jacket, the business cards, and what I consider very unlikely behavior for Ace. I also tell him about talking with Dekker. Then I sit back and watch Engels’ reaction.

  He’s quiet for a few minutes. He has his policeman face on now, digesting what I’ve told him, sorting through it. He holds my gaze then.

  “But,” he says, “you have left something out.”

  I nod and smile. “I guess you were a good detective.”

  Engels shrugs but isn’t distracted by the compliment. “Your friend’s actions probably have some logical explanation, but on the other hand…” His voice trails off, and his scrutiny is more intense now. He likes answers too.

  I jump in with both feet then, thinking worst case is I’ll have to tell Dekker as well. I tell Engels about finding the portfolio and the way it seems to have been hidden.

  Quiet again, he gazes out the window, then turns back to me. “You did not tell Inspector Dekker about this discovery?”

  “No.”

  He nods again. “Very well, if Dekker asks me anything, I shall have to tell him. If he does not…” He spreads his hands in front of him.

  “Thank you, but I plan to tell Dekker about finding the case.”

  “Good,” Engels says. “I think it is necessary. There is something obviously strange about your friend leaving the portfolio behind, hidden, as you say. Policemen are suspicious by nature,” Engels adds, “but here there is cause, I think.”

  It’s a relief to hear him say that, that I’m not imagining things. Something is very wrong.

  “Yes, I think you’re right. I just don’t know what to do from this point.”

  Engels looks at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I do have to go.” He signals the woman for the bill, and when she comes, he helps me sort out the necessary money to pay it.

  “My advice is to tell Dekker everything so the police can make an official missing person case. I think there is grounds, from what you tell me. Leave it to them, Mr. Horne.”

  We get up and walk outside to my car. “Well, thank you for your time,” I say. We shake hands. “And I appreciate your advice.”

  “You can find your way back?”

  “Yes, I think so.” I get into the car. Engels stands there for a moment and looks up at the sky.

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  “No,” Engels says, “I was thinking. It is nice to be not a policeman any longer.”

  ***

  Driving back to Amsterdam, I’m so lost in thought I almost miss the exit for city center. I follow the signs for Central Station and manage to squeeze into a parking place near the hotel. The parking meters are at the end of the block. I put in enough coins for two hours, get a ticket, then go back to the car and leave it on the dashboard. Only one message at the front desk. The clerk hands it to me. “I did not understand,” he says.

  I look at the slip of paper. “No Ace,” it says. “Coop.”

  “Oh, this is fine. Thank you,” I tell the clerk. I go up to my room and call Fletcher, tell him about my visit with Engels.

  “Damn,” he says. “I wanted to go too.”

  “I know, just wasn’t time to set it up. He’s going out of town tomorrow. Anything new?”

  “Just had an e-mail from Margo, told her about you, that you were going to stay awhile. Everything is cool,” Fletcher says.

  “Good. I’ve had enough of hotels for a while.”

  “Well, Mister Nappy is knockin’ on my door,” Fletcher says. I can hear him yawning. “I’ll see you tonight. The guy with the duo gig is coming by, so we might talk after we play pretty for him.”

  “All right, Fletch, see you then.”

  I hang up, open the closet to get out the portfolio to take to the police. I stop and look again, moving things aside, but I come up empty.

  The portfolio is gone.

  I stand there for a few moments, thinking I’ve put it someplace but knowing I’m not going to find it. It’s not here.

  I look around the room but don’t see that anything has been disturbed.

  Now I do have to talk to Dekker.

  ***

  “We go to my office, Mr. Horne, please.” He seems agitated, which I interpret to mean he’s already talked to Engels. I follow him down the hall, dreading this conversation. Dekker has been patient with me and tried to be helpful. Now I am going to have to confess I’ve been withholding information and lying to him. He isn’t going to like it.

  We go into his office, and he motions me to sit down as he takes his seat behind his cluttered desk. “I’m glad you called. I was going to contact you,” he says. His expression is a grim frown, not angry but like he’s got bad news. I try to play it out.

  “Oh? I’ve been gone most of the day, visiting with Detective Engels.”

  “It’s not about that,” Dekker says curtly. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” H
e’s no longer a patient policeman, humoring a tourist’s concerns about a missing friend. I know he’ll be studying my every reaction.

  “What?”

  He opens one of the large file drawers near his desk and reaches inside. And there it is—Ace’s leather portfolio. Dekker holds it out, drops it on his desk, and looks at me. I don’t have to feign surprise as it lands with a thud.

  “This is your friend’s case, is it not? The one you described to me?” I nod and reach for it. I unzip it and look inside. None of the papers or files seem missing at first glance. I set it back down and risk a glance at Dekker.

  “I don’t understand. Where—”

  Dekker cuts me off. “It was found last night and delivered to me.”

  “Not another coffee shop. Who found it?”

  I lean back in the chair. He doesn’t have to tell me a thing. He can just say it’s not my concern, go back to my piano playing, he’ll take it from here, and no matter how much I argue the point, he would be adamant that it’s police business now. I sit back, waiting for his answer, but he surprises me.

  Dekker studies me for a moment, rubbing his hand along his cheek, feeling the stubble that’s clearly visible. “I’ve worked the Old Quarter for many years, Mr. Horne. I know many of the red-light girls. Sometimes they provide information and favors. The girls are strictly regulated, and most don’t do anything to jeopardize their permits, so they cooperate with the police whenever they can.”

  “It wasn’t my friend, I take it.”

  “No,” Dekker says. “Unlike you, the women of the Quarter do not withhold information. The man she described who might have left it was not your friend. She was sure of that. It could have been one of several customers. She found it later, under the bed, so she can’t say for sure who it was.”

  Dekker leans forward. “I’m afraid now this is more serious than we initially thought. Your friend checks out of his hotel without leaving word; we find his jacket, his business cards, and now his portfolio, which I take to be much more important than a jacket.”

  “Yes, absolutely. I can’t imagine Ace letting it out of his sight.”

  “Exactly,” Dekker says. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Is there anything else you can tell me? We have to treat this now officially as a missing person case, and consider the possibility that something has happened to your friend.”

  I’m dying to light a cigarette, my mind racing. I promised Engels I’d tell Dekker I had the case, and now there’s no way out. “Yes, there is something you’re not going to like.”

  Dekker leans back, waiting, as if he already expects something. I tell him about finding the portfolio in Ace’s room, keeping it, but assuring him I had come to tell him just that after my promise to Engels.

  “That’s why I came over now,” I say.

  Dekker is frowning at me. He looks up, shakes his head, and sighs. “I knew there was something the other day when I showed you the jacket. I asked you then, and you seemed to hesitate. My partner thought so too, but I didn’t persist. Perhaps I should have.…Now,” he spreads his hands, “you may have delayed finding out what has happened to your friend, and something certainly has.”

  “Yes, I know, and I apologize for not telling you sooner. I just didn’t think it would come to this.”

  “Yes, well, it has,” Dekker says. “I’m sure you’ve speculated considerably as to why the portfolio was in his room after he’d checked out. What about your room? Was anything else missing?”

  “No. I didn’t realize it was gone until just before I came here. Whoever took it was obviously looking for the case and nothing else. They must have had a key. The room was locked when I got back.”

  “Do you have any idea?”

  I shake my head. “None. I just don’t understand what’s going on.”

  “It would seem that whoever was in your room expected it to be there, no?” Dekker’s head snaps up. “Perhaps because it was not in the room where your friend stayed. Was that not also the room Mr. Baker fell from?”

  “Yes, it was.” I lapse into silence, spinning out possibilities. Who else knew I was there?

  “Mr. Horne, have you considered that this has something to do with Mr. Baker’s death? Your friend was here to do research. He’s missing; his portfolio is missing, then found. I’ve looked through it. There’s nothing in there but newspaper clippings, photos, and notes on Chet Baker.”

  “Yes, I know, I read through most of it.”

  Dekker looks like he wishes he’d never heard of me or Chet Baker or Ace. He leans forward again and clasps his hands in front of him on the desk. “I want to be very clear about this, Mr. Horne. If you think of anything else, I want to know. We’re going to have to work together to find out what happened to your friend.”

  He shuffles through some papers and comes up with the photo of Ace taken in front of the hotel. “This was also in the portfolio, as you obviously know. This is your friend, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s him. The owner of the hotel took it. I talked to him the other day.”

  Dekker nods. “Remember what I said, Mr. Horne.”

  “Understood.” I stand up to go. “And again, I’m sorry for not telling you about the case before.”

  “Not nearly so sorry as I am,” Dekker says. “That’s what you need to think about, Mr. Horne. How and why it got there in the first place. When we know that, perhaps we will know where your friend is and what happened to him.”

  ***

  The Bimhuis is overflowing for our last night. I can hear the bar chatter even as I mount the stairs. It’s three deep with people calling out drink orders, laughing, talking, and I have to push through a horde of people blocking the entrance to the main area of the club. Here too, the tiers of seats are full, and on the walkway around the top, people are talking in groups, occasionally glancing down at the stage, looking at their watches.

  I find Fletcher at the piano bench on the unlit stage, his horn around his neck, playing some chords.

  “A new arrangement?”

  “Hey,” he says and flashes me a smile. “No, just working something out. How ya doin’?”

  “Okay.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I’ll hear about that later. The guy I told you about, Eric Hagen, will be in tonight to check us out, so we’re going to play a couple of extra duo things, okay?”

  “Sure. I’m getting to like it.” It’s been a new experience for me, playing without the net of bass and drums, but Fletcher has made it easy. His timing is so good. I’m not sure it would work with anyone else, but Fletcher and I have a connection I can’t quite explain, like we’re reading each other’s minds. I flash to the film again.

  There was a brief segment of Chet and Stan Getz, on an otherwise empty stage, just the two of them playing, the drum kit and bass, lying on its side, clearly visible in the background, as if the other two musicians had been sent home early. Chet and Stan, playing, listening, responding, each commenting on the other’s lines. Matching phrases, repeating them, countering them. A musical conversation on Gerry Mulligan’s tune “Line for Lyons.” I understand it better now and realize that’s the level Fletcher and I are approaching.

  “Cool,” he says. “Let’s open with the whole band for a couple, settle these restless natives down.” He stands up and adjusts the horn on the chain around his neck. “And don’t forget, you checking out of the ghost hotel tomorrow.”

  I laugh. “No, I haven’t forgotten.”

  I look around the club. The audience is settling in now, saving seats for friends, getting drinks, and the whole place is blue with smoke. Ah, the jazz clubs of old are alive and well in Europe.

  Walter Offen appears out of the crowd as the houselights go down and the stage is suddenly bathed in a warm red glow. “It is time, yes?” he says.

  “Hey, we’re just waiting for you. Let’s do it,” Fletcher says.

  I want to say something to the bassist and drummer but dec
ide to wait for now. Walter makes the introductory announcement, and we go to work on a medium blues. Fletcher eases into it teasingly, hinting at what’s to come. He leans back as the spot hits him, the horn, held a little to the side, gleaming in the light. I can picture him back with Count Basie, standing in front of that roaring band at Newport, taking chorus after chorus before nodding his head toward me, and slowly backing away.

  My entire first chorus is lost in the shouts of the audience. I cruise through two more and think about Wynton Kelly with Miles, swaggering through “Freddie Freeloader,” or Victor Fieldman on “Basin Street Blues,” with Ron Carter and Frank Butler right behind him like a pair of bodyguards. Swing hard, and nobody gets hurt. I let it build gradually, feel the bass and drums catch my mood, comping with my left hand and stringing out single-note runs. On the last two, I start with two-handed block chords and feel Fletcher rocking beside me until I turn it over to the bassist.

  Fletcher grins at the audience and points at me as if to say, Well? What about that? He leans in next to me and says, “You keep playin’ that good, I’m gonna quit letting you solo.” It’s better than any review I could ever get.

  We come back and trade choruses several times around, let the drummer have his say for a couple of choruses, then finally take it out. We could stop right there for the night, and it would be fine with me. We’re a hard act to follow.

  The audience breathes a collective sigh of satisfaction and quiets down. “My man is here,” Fletcher says. “How about ‘Sophisticated Lady’?”

  I nod and play an intro, then listen to Fletcher breathe life into the verse. When he begins the melody, I stay out of his way and just feed him the richest, fattest chords I can find. He takes my breath away with his lines, and my only regret is I have to follow him. I give a nod to Duke Ellington and realize again how much I love playing ballads. We continue with a line Fletcher wrote, another blues we play almost entirely in counterpoint, and end the set with “My Foolish Heart,” which makes me wonder how Bill Evans and Chet Baker would have sounded together.