by Bill Moody
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.”
I don’t say anything for a moment. I just stare at him. I want to forgive, say everything is okay, but I can’t. “I’m sure you are, Ace, but that’s not good enough.”
“I know it’s not, but it’s like when you haven’t called someone for a long time. The more time passes, the more embarrassed you are to call, and it just goes on. Then de Hass and that other guy were pushing, threatening me.” He looks up at me, his eyes pleading. “I was scared, Evan. I didn’t know what they were going to do.”
“They wouldn’t have known about me unless you told them.” My voice is louder now, echoing in the quiet of the river. “Where did you get the idea there was money, anyway?”
He shrugs again. “I don’t know. There were rumors that Chet had opened bank accounts and forgotten about them.”
“You told de Hass that?”
“Yes, what else was I going to do? I was scared, I just wanted to get out of there then. Can you understand that?”
“Yes. Thanks to you, I met Navarro and de Hass. Those aren’t people to play around with. So what did you think was going to happen to me once you’d given me up?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think, I guess.”
“No, you didn’t. The moron who stole the portfolio back from my room stopped on the way to visit one of the prostitutes. He left it there, and she turned it in to the police. When he want back for it, he beat her up.”
A kind of moan comes out of Ace. “Oh, God,” he says, wringing his hands, shaking his head. He gets up, walks to the railing, and leans over. For a minute I think he’s going to be sick. “I didn’t know, Evan, I really didn’t. Is she all right?”
“She got it pretty bad, Ace,” I said quietly.
His face is full of anguish now; the words spill out faster and faster. “I didn’t know what to do. By then the police were involved, and I got nowhere on my own. De Hass forced me to keep track of you until he was finally convinced I didn’t know anything about money. They let me go then, thank God. I didn’t know, well, I should have known, I guess, you’d track them down. I admit it, Evan, I was damn scared. Coming here was a last resort. I was going to talk to Margo, piece things together, and hope I could get enough to satisfy the publisher.”
“Go
ddammit, what were you going to tell me? Jesus, I can’t believe you’re still thinking about a publisher.” I walk away for a minute, clenching and unclenching my fists. When I turn back, Ace is still standing there, staring out at the river.
Then we hear footsteps coming along the walkway. It’s the desk clerk. “Everything all right here?” he asks. I know what he sees. Me standing in front of Ace, tensed. Ace cowering against the railing.
“Yeah, we’re fine,” I say, to the clerk. “Don’t worry about it.”
He’s not sure, but he retreats back to the office. I lower my voice and move closer to Ace till I can almost hear his breathing. “Margo doesn’t know that much, Ace. Nobody does.”
He looks up at me. “But you do.”
“You really want to know?”
“I’m ashamed to say it, but yes, I do.”
“Chet Baker just fell out of that window. No, he was pushed. No, I’m just kidding. He was depressed and killed himself. Don’t you get it, Ace? Nobody knows. That cop in the film was right. The only person who knows what happened is Chet Baker, and he’s dead.”
Ace watches me for a moment. “But you know, don’t you?” His eyes are bright now, like a cat’s in the darkness that envelope the river.
“No, Ace, I don’t.”
“But you must. You talked with musicians, friends, you went to Rotterdam.”
“Yes, I did. I did everything I would have done if I’d agreed to help you and more. I also looked for you. But I didn’t come here to tell you that. I came hoping you’d say something to make me believe you didn’t betray our friendship, but you haven’t, Ace.”
He puts his hands up, then holds them together. “Evan, is there any way—”
I put up my hand to stop him. I take a deep breath and look away. It’s like kicking a puppy. I have what I came for, but there’s no satisfaction, just hollowness. “I don’t know, Ace. It’s going to take a long time.” I walk over to the railing. “I told you in London I didn’t want anything to do with your book, and I’m telling you again now. I don’t want my name mentioned in any way. I want to be clear about that.” Ace nods silently, keeps his head down. “But you were right about one thing. I did get intrigued. Not to help you with any book, but to satisfy my own curiosity. You knew that and used it, Ace. That’s what I can’t forgive.”
He doesn’t look at me now, but sits, shoulders hunched, head down. Suddenly, I’ve had enough. I just want to get away. “I hope it was worth it, Ace. I really do.”
He sits down again, and his voice is quiet now. “You’re not so different from me,” he says.
“What?”
“You want to know just as badly as I do. It’s not about a book for you, but you’re just as obsessed.” He looks up at me then. I feel myself tense again. It’s all I can do not to slap him across the face. I see him steel himself and I know I have to get out of here.
“Maybe you’re right, Ace. Maybe I am. But there’s one difference between you and me. I wouldn’t want to know at your expense. You talk to Margo if you want, but I don’t think she’s going to be much help.”
His head drops again. He doesn’t even look up when I turn around and walk away. I glance back once. He’s still slumped in the chair, staring out at the river.
***
I sit in the car for a few minutes, thinking about what Ace said. Maybe he was right. Maybe we are no different. If Ace was wrong, then I would simply drive back to San Francisco, but I know even as the thought crosses my mind that I’m not going to do that, leave this unfinished. I can’t still this feeling until I know. I looked for Ace, and now I’m looking for Chet Baker, the answer to one last little nagging question. The money.
Fletcher’s guess was a good one, and when I’d checked the list of donors who contributed to the plaque and sculpture, I was sure of it. Helen at the archives said the biggest amount came from an anonymous source, someone who adamantly stipulated that as a condition of their contribution. I know who it is now, but I want to hear it directly from the source too.
I drive back to Main Street Station just as things are breaking up. Margo Highland, a stack of music under her arm, is just getting to her car when I pull up.
“Margo, wait a minute.”
She turns toward me. “Oh, hi. Did you find your friend?”
“Yes, I did.”
She laughs. “I bet he was surprised.”
“Margo, I need to talk to you about Chet.”
Her face darkens for a moment. She shifts the music from one arm to another, and I see her car keys in her hand. “Chet?”
“Yes, it won’t take long, but I need to talk.”
Her head drops for a moment, then she looks up at me. “You know, don’t you?”
“Yes, I think I do.”
She sighs as if a weight has been lifted off her shoulders. “All right, I guess it’s time I told somebody. We’ll go to my place. It’s not far—you can follow me.”
We drive back the way I’ve just come, through Monte Rio and over the bridge again, but this time we go to the right, past a small market and opposite the Pink Elephant bar. There’s a group outside that looks like they’ve moved straight from Haight-Ashbury to Monte Rio, several men and a couple of women standing outside the bar, talking, smoking, joking loudly with each other while loud music streams out onto the street.
At the corner, Margo slows. I follow her as she turns right and goes down a mile or so, then takes a turn off and down another smaller road to her house, nestled in the trees with other similar dwellings. Three or four cats stir on the porch, and inside we’re greeted by a small white dog and two more cats. “Hello, darlin’,” she says, leaning down to pet the dog.
The living room is carpeted in a dark burgundy color, and there are heavy drapes to match. Dark wood paneling covers the walls, and the room is crowded with heavy furniture, not unlike her place in Amsterdam. She drops her things on a chair. “Make yourself at home. I’m going to make some tea. Would you like some, or a drink?”
“A drink sounds good.”
“I’ve got some brandy, I think.”
“That would be fine.”
She goes off to the kitchen, and I look around the room. There’s a fireplace on one wall, and on the mantel is a duplicate of the photo I’d seen in Amsterdam—Margo and Chet, sitting on a wall, probably taken right here in her backyard. She sees me looking at it when she comes back with my drink. “I can’t believe that was taken almost twenty years ago,” she says. She holds it up and looks at it with a sad smile, then returns it to the mantel.
“I saw it in Amsterdam,” I say. “By the way, thanks again for your hospitality.”
She smiles. “Oh, that was nothing. You did me a favor keeping Fletcher company. How is that old rascal?”
“He’s fine, playing better than ever. We’re going to do a duo gig when I get back.”
“All right,” she says. “You must be damn good. Fletcher is particular about piano players.”
“Well, I’ve learned a lot from him already.” There’s a whistle from the kitchen.
“Oh, there’s my tea. I’ll be right back.”
I look around some more. There’s an old upright piano. I touch the keys and wonder if Chet ever played it. There’s a stereo system, soft comfortable chairs, and a large sofa. I look through the CDs. On the top of the stack is one in a plain white cover with Chet’s name in marker pen.
“He did that right here,” Margo says from behind me. “I had a little studio in the basement then. God, what a night that was.” She hands me the brandy, and I sit down on the sofa. She sits opposite me and absently strokes her dog.
“It had been raining for three days, Monte Rio was flooding, and there were a few inches of water in the studio. It’s a wonder we didn’t all get electrocuted. Chet could hardly stand up, but God, did he play beautifully, as always.” She picks up the CD and looks at it. “I had a few copies made from the master tape. I probabl
y should do something with it, but…You want to hear a little of it?”
“Yes, please.” I sip the brandy and watch her at the stereo.
“Just don’t pay any attention to the singer.” She laughs.
The recording quality is not that good, but Chet’s horn oozes feeling on “My Foolish Heart.” He plays the melody line so mournfully, hearing it makes me think he believed it was the last time he would play it. Then, backing Margo, her voice younger and fuller than I’d heard at the club, he sways behind her, gently easing, nudging her through the tune. The second track is “The Thrill Is Gone,” and just as haunting.
I watch Margo listen, remembering that rainy night in Monte Rio. Her eyes well up, and she tries to cover it by patting her dog.
“He stayed right in that room,” she says, pointing to a door in one corner. “He spent a lot of time up here. We had a gig at a place—it’s not there anymore, just some little dive—nobody would have believed Chet Baker was playing there. But when the word got out, a lot of people came around. It was just insane. You should talk to the piano player too. Terry Henry. He was good friends with Chet.”
“Did he know about the sculpture?”
“You know, I’m not sure,” she says, continuing her confession, not even trying to hide anything now. She blinks her eyes, trying to clear away the tears. “Your friend told me you were something of a detective. I guess he was right. I promised I’d talk with him tomorrow. You think I should?”
“That’s up to you, Margo. He’s trying to write a book about Chet.”
She has a faraway look in her eyes. “Nobody will be able to do that, not the real Chet, because nobody really knew him.”
“But you did.”
“Yes, I knew him, but…what he was really like I mean. Nobody will capture that.”
“What about the sculpture, Margo, the money?”
She leans back in the chair and closes her eyes. “Chet got paid in cash whenever he could. Everybody knew that, but I kept telling him it was dangerous, given the people he ran with when he was trying to score. Drug dealers are drug dealers. Gawd, don’t forget he nearly got killed right here in San Francisco. That was insane. Anyway, I finally got him to let me hold his money when he went to cop. He took enough to pay for whatever he needed. You know, he did get off for a while. He was in a methadone program.” She shrugs. “But, when he went back to Europe, well…” Her voice trails off, as if she’s thinking about what might have been.
