by Bill Moody
I close my eyes, squeezing them shut, then blink them open, but he’s still there. Oh, my God, this stuff is strong, whatever it is. I’ve never hallucinated like this, but I’m seeing him, that smooth young face, hair falling over his forehead.
The lips curl up slightly, and Chet Baker smiles at me.
I close my eyes again, try to erase the vision, but he’s still there, gazing now up at the drainpipe running up the building toward the room he fell from. He looks at me again, smiles. I want to say something, but I can’t speak. He raises his hand now, points to the drainpipe, smiles again, then looks at me questioningly.
Is that it? Is that how it happened after all? No, no, I’m not seeing Chet Baker. I’m very high, stoned out of control, but I’m leaning against a building. There’s no one there, I tell myself. Now I look at the drainpipe, then back to the figure. His head moves slightly in a nod, then he turns and walks away. I call out, hear my own voice say, “Chet, wait.” But he’s gone, faded away. There’s no one there.
What did he want me to see? What did he want me to do? I make my way across the alleyway till I’m right in front of the drainpipe. I reach out and touch it. It’s very solid, securely fastened to the building. I grip it with both hands, the metal cold, slightly damp to my touch. Yes, it could be done, couldn’t it? Chet, where did you go? I need you to tell me. The spinning has decreased somewhat, and I feel good holding on to the pipe, secure, letting it be my anchor. I slide my hands up the pipe until they’re over my head and start to pull myself up.
I get my feet on the building, feeling for traction on the bricks, and begin to shinny up the pipe, but looking up, it seems a long way to the second floor. I hang on tightly, try to lock my knees around it, like a sailor on a mast. Don’t look down. I try a few more inches, but my hands keep slipping. I look down, and now the street seems a long way away. The spinning starts again, and I cling to the pipe. How will I get down? I can’t move either way. My hands slip more, then slide off entirely. I feel myself falling backward. How far? Only a few feet? It seems to take forever, like slow motion.
Finally my feet hit the cobblestones. My body is so limp I just crumple and topple over backward, feel my head hitting the stone with what feels like an explosion going off. I close my eyes again, but the spinning continues. When I open them, I look up at the night sky, hear sounds, but I can’t move, just want to lie there till everything stops. I turn my head to the right, and he’s there again.
Chet Baker, gazing at me, nodding, a slight smile on his lips. All I can think is, Where’s his trumpet?
I close my eyes once again and give in to the feeling of restfulness and peace.
April 29, 1988
Chet is racing through Germany, racing through time, on the autobahn, loving it, driving the Alfa as fast as he wants. He likes it, driving alone. He smiles, suddenly flashing on Russ Freeman riding with him in L.A., not even looking out the window as he careened around corners, pushed the car and Russ’ patience to their limits. Russ, getting out of the car, saying he would take a taxi back. All those years ago.
Racing through time. His mind wanders back to an earlier time in Los Angeles, summer of 1952. Just out of the army on a general discharge, gigging with Vido Musso for a while, then with Stan Getz. Arriving home one day, he finds a telegram from Dick Bock of Pacific Jazz Records. Charlie Parker is auditioning trumpet players for some dates in California. He has to be there at three o’clock.
Rushing over, a little late, but he hears Bird even as he gets out of his car. In the darkened Tiffany club, he can barely see after the glare from the sun. Eventually he makes out Bird on the bandstand, racing through a blues. Finally, when his eyes become accustomed to the dark interior, he looks around, sees nearly every trumpet player in Los Angeles, some he knows have more experience, some can read anything.
Then there’s a break. Someone goes to the bandstand, whispers to Bird. He steps to the microphone. Charlie Parker calls his name. “Is Chet Baker here?”
“I’m here, Bird.”
“Would you come up and play something with me, please?”
Chet, feeling self-conscious, gets to the bandstand, taking out his horn, fingering the valves, everybody in the club watching. Twenty-two years old, looking at Bird, Charlie Parker. They play two tunes: “The Song Is You,” and then a blues of Bird’s called “Cheryl.” Chet’s relieved that he knows both tunes.
He doesn’t have to wonder for long how he played. As soon as they finish, Bird leans into the mike again. “Thank you all for coming,” he says. “The auditions are over.”
They do two weeks at the Tiffany—every night with Bird, but after the breakneck tempo of the first tune each set, the rest is easy, and Bird treats Chet like a son, putting down anybody and everybody who tries to offer him drugs.
Between sets, Chet drives Bird to a taco stand, watches him wolf down taquitos with green chili sauce. During the day, they drive out to the beach. Bird stands on a cliff, staring out to sea, watching the waves break on the rocks. Chet wonders what Bird is thinking about.
More gigs follow. For Billy Berg at the 54 Ballroom on Central Avenue. Then on to San Francisco, Seattle, and Vancouver, a tour that includes Dave Brubeck and Ella Fitzgerald. Then back to San Francisco at the Say When club. Bird, falling asleep with a cigarette in his hotel room, sets his mattress on fire. Chet, waking up, sees somebody throw it out on the street, and the band gets fired, not for that, but because Bird tries to collect money for muscular dystrophy without the owner’s approval. Then Bird is gone, back to New York. Long after, Chet would hear Bird bragged about him to Miles and Dizzy.
Chet smiling now, shaking his head, remembering, racing through time.
He downshifts going into a curve, then floors the accelerator, feeling the power of the Alfa push him back in his seat. Paris not far now. Then he can relax for a while, play in one of the cave clubs.
Just cool out till the next gig and spend some of this money, take a run up to Amsterdam, get the feeling back.
Chapter Eight
“Man, you are one crazy motherfucker!”
I hear the voice, but it doesn’t sound like Chet Baker now. I open my eyes. I’m still lying down, but it’s not a cold, hard cobblestone alleyway I feel under me. It’s soft, a bed, and the voice is not Chet Baker. It’s Fletcher Paige.
The spinning has stopped now, and gradually Fletcher’s face comes into focus. He’s staring at me hard. Another man, all in white, is just behind him. A doctor? There’s white everywhere, and a pale green curtain surrounding the bed.
“You with it now, man?” Fletcher says.
I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again. “Yeah, I think so.” I try to sit up, but I’m still shaky.
“What the fuck were you trying to do? You been wailing about Chet Baker for over an hour. I don’t know what you smoked, but whatever it was, fucked you up good. Damn!” Fletcher wheels around, then turns back, looks down at me again.
I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. So far, so good. “I did see Chet Baker,” I say, then know immediately how silly that sounds. It’s all coming back now, finding my way back to the hotel, the alleyway, trying to climb up the drainpipe, falling.
“You didn’t see shit,” Fletcher says, like he’s angry. The doctor puts his hand on Fletcher’s arm to calm him down. Fletcher looks at him and nods, lowers his voice. “You tried to climb up that drainpipe at your hotel, believin’ that dumb story that Chet tried that, fell, and killed himself.”
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was, I don’t know, weird, like a bad dream.”
Fletcher laughs, and now I see the anger dissolve to relief on his face. “Yeah, you got that right. You were out cold on the street. You’re lucky Darren prowls around down there. He found you, brought you here, and called me. That boy finally did something right. He ain’t telling me everything. There’s something else going down, but I’ll find out what it is, you can believe that.”
“Yes.”
“It appears you are not seriously injured, but I will need you to complete some paperwork before we release you.” He glances at Fletcher. “You have ingested a great deal of a very strong drug. It is very dangerous in such amounts.”
I touch the back of my head then, feel a bandage and a bump underneath it.
“A small head wound,” the doctor says. “Not serious.”
I feel the doctor’s scrutiny and disapproval, the concern on his face; to him, I’m just some dumb American tourist, getting off on smoking dope legally in a foreign country.
“Yes, I guess I did.”
“You must be more cautious,” he says. “Hashish is very potent.”
I look at Fletcher and shake my head. “Yes, I will be. Thank you, doctor.”
He pulls the curtain aside, and I can see the rest of the ward, with some of the other beds occupied. Some people are asleep, some are awake, watching, stirring around.
“Come on, man,” Fletcher says. “Let’s get you out of here. I’ll take care of him,” he says to the doctor. “Here, man, get your shoes on.”
I am still dressed. I get into my shoes and test my balance when I stand up. A little shaky, but I’m able to navigate. My stomach muscles are sore, feel like I’ve been punched hard.
“Yeah, you lost it all,” Fletcher says. “Best thing.” I lean on Fletcher and walk to the reception desk.
I don’t even remember that. I stop at the desk of the small clinic, complete the forms, and then go with Fletcher outside to his car.
“Hey, thanks for coming over,” I say. “I can make it now.” I get in the car and put my head back on the seat. Fletcher comes around, gets in, and starts the car.
“Uh-huh,” Fletcher says. “Well, you comin’ home with me, not to that hotel. Don’t want you seein’ Chet again.”
I’m too tired, too weak, and too shaky to argue.
***
When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is Chet Baker again, but this time in a photo. There’s a woman with him. Both of them are smiling, sitting on a wall of some kind. It’s black and white and not very good quality—taken several years before his death, by the look of it. This is the older Chet, the youthful good looks already gone now.
The clock on the nightstand tells me I’ve been asleep for several hours. I swing my legs over and sit on the edge of the bed. How could I have been so stupid? I get out of bed, pull on my clothes, and look around. Fletcher’s place, but this is a woman’s bedroom. There are other photos, combs, brushes, perfume bottles on the dresser, and the open closet is filled with dresses.
I go in the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and look in the mirror. Not so good, but I do feel better than I look. My stomach muscles are still sore, but if that’s all, I can count myself lucky. How far did I climb up that drainpipe? I must have been totally out of it to do that. And hallucinating, thinking I saw Chet Baker. Or maybe it was that impersonator I’d seen. I certainly hope so. I’ve got Chet Baker on the brain.
I hear music coming from somewhere in the house—a tenor saxophone down the hall, some old recording. I listen for a moment, then follow the sound. Fletcher is sitting at a table, reading a paperback book with a bright yellow cover. New Hope for the Dead. He looks up, puts the book aside. “Well, finally,” he says.
“Lester Young?” That smooth, breathy tenor sound is unmistakable.
“Yep, my daily dose of Prez,” he says. He holds up the book. “And Hoke Moseley. A good pair to start the day with. You back with us now?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I sit down opposite him at a large table in front of the window.
Fletcher looks at me and chuckles, shaking his head from side to side. “First time I smoked shit, in Kansas City, I’d just joined Basie—hit me hard too, but nothing like that. Man, you were out!”
“Tell me. It was really weird.” I fumble for my cigarettes.
“You can smoke. Just open the window, okay? Margo don’t allow smoking in here.”
“Margo?”
“Yeah, Margo Highland. This is her place. I rent from her, watch it, take care of shit when she’s gone.”
“Who is she?”
Fletcher studies me. “Let me get us some coffee, then I’ll tell you all about her, and you can fill me in on last night. You do want to talk about it, right?”
“Yeah, maybe I better, to make sure it was a dream.”
“Oh, it was a dream all right, a smoke dream. I’ll be right back.” Fletcher is laughing as he heads for the kitchen. I hear him mumble, “Shit, the boy had reefer madness.”
I look around the large living room, furnished with overstuffed chairs, bookcases, and some smaller tables, probably oak. Some prints dot the walls, and over a shelf unit with the television and sound system is a collection of photos. Even from where I sit, I can see Fletcher is in one with the same woman as the photo in the bedroom.
The view from the window is a narrow street on a canal with cars parked diagonally on the canal side. At the end, there’s bridge curving up over the canal, and more bicycles chained to the guardrails. Across the street, on the other side of the canal, are some small shops and a bakery. People are going in and out, carrying loaves of bread wrapped in white paper. Suddenly I’m very hungry.
Fletcher comes back with a French press coffeepot and a plate of croissants. There’s butter and a pot of thick jam. “I know you need these,” he says, putting them on the table. He pours us both coffee and watches me wolf down two of the croissants and half a cup of coffee. He refills my cup and leans back, watching me with a sly smile.
“Is that Margo in the photo, with Chet in the bedroom?”
“Uh-huh. They were good friends, and she recorded with him once, I think.”
“How come you never told me about her? Where is she now?”
Fletcher shrugs. “It never came up. She’s got a place in California, north of San Francisco. When Chet was out there, he used to stay with her.” Fletcher gazes out the window. “She probably knows more about Chet than anybody.” He turns back to me. “Anyway, let’s hear about your night of reefer madness.” He laughs again. “I’m sorry, man, I can’t help it.”
Margo Highland. The name rings a bell. From one of the pages in Ace’s portfolio. I tell Fletcher about going to the Old Quarter, to the coffee shop, and ordering the smoke.
“You remember the name of the place?”
“No, but I think I’d know it if I saw it again.”
“Okay. Then what?”
“I remember feeling so dizzy after just a couple of hits, everything was spinning.”
“What’d you do, order the strongest shit they got?”
“No, I don’t think so. I know it was supposed to be medium strength.”
Fletcher looks away for a moment. “Okay, we’ll come back to that. Then what?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to get out of there, back to the hotel, where I could lie down, stop the spinning. I made it to the street behind the hotel, and that’s when—”
“You saw Chet Baker.” Fletcher rolls his eyes.
“Okay, I know it sounds crazy.”
“Well, shit, it is crazy! Motherfucker’s been dead eleven years. It was probably that kid impersonator you saw.”
“Yeah, must have been. I wasn’t thinking at the time.” I hope it was. I’d feel a lot better than if it was a full-blown hallucination. “It just seemed so real. He was standing there in the alleyway, smiling at me, pointing to the window of his room, the drainpipe.”
Fletcher shakes his head. “And you thought you’d try it out, that he, whoever the fuck that was, wanted you to.”
“Yes. I know, I know, I was loaded.”
“Man, you must have been flying.”
“Yeah, I guess I was. I’ve never smoked anything lik
e that, never experienced that kind of…being so disoriented.”
“Uh-huh, and I know you bought that story that Chet forgot his key, tried to climb up that drainpipe, fell off, cracked his crazy head, and died right there in the street.”
“That seems to be a theory.”
“Did they talk about it in that film?”
“No. It wasn’t even mentioned.”
“Uh-huh. Did it ever occur to you that the reason they didn’t is for that to be true, somebody had to see it happen, see him trying to climb up?”
That stops me. No, it hadn’t, now that I think about it. It just sounded like a workable theory.
“And if that’s true,” Fletcher continues, “wouldn’t whoever saw it go to him, get him some help?”
“Yeah, of course they would.” But I stop then, thinking of something else. “Unless.”
“Unless what?”
“Unless whoever saw it happen didn’t want to help him. Or maybe got scared and ran off.”
“Oh, man.” Fletcher rolls his eyes, but the phone rings before he can say anything else. He goes into another room to answer it, and I think about what he said. My next comment would have been, Unless somebody made it happen.
Fletcher comes back and sits down again. “That was Darren, said to ask you if you remembered the name of the place. He could check it out.”
“No, I don’t. I remember green curtains on the windows, but that’s about all.”
“Yeah, that’s what I told Darren. He’s got some connections, maybe take you around, see if you can find it.”
“Why?”
“Because what you had in you wasn’t what you ordered.”
“But why—”
Fletcher puts his hand up. “That’s what we want to know, and maybe Darren can find out. I told you he wants to be a PI. He’ll love it.”
I shrug. “Okay.”
“I got another idea too,” Fletcher says. “Your hotel runs out when the Bimhuis gig ends Saturday, right?”