Looking for Chet Baker

by Bill Moody

  The traffic is heavy, and we get stuck in Dam Square in a gridlock of pedestrians, cars, and trolleys. Then, as the light turns green, something catches my eye. Fletcher is halfway across the intersection, behind a bus belching black smoke.

  “Stop the car!” I yell.

  “What?”

  “Stop the car!” Fletcher brakes. I throw open the door and start running across the wide boulevard, dodging cars and people still trying to cross against the light. I try to keep my eye on the trolley just pulling out. I’m running, pushing people aside, but I know I’m not going to catch it. The trolley is halfway down the block when I get to the stop and feel the stares of people waiting for the next one.

  I turn and see Fletcher pull to the curb. He jumps out of the car and runs over. “What the fuck is wrong with you? What are you doing?”

  I shake my head. “I think I saw Ace on that trolley.”

  ***

  “Inspector Dekker, please.” I wait a minute while I’m switched around, then Dekker comes on the line.

  “Inspector, it’s Evan Horne.”

  “Ah, Mr. Horne. How was Rotterdam?” He’s almost cheerful. No ominous tone as if he’s about to tell me some bad news. I almost slip and tell him, Not very helpful, but I think he knows I was there looking for more than work.

  “Fine. What’s the news about my friend?”

  He catches the concern in my voice. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s nothing like that, but it is very strange. In fact, it’s good news.”

  I grip the phone in frustration. “What?”

  “We canvassed some hotels that cater to or advertise for tourists.”

  “Yes?”

  “It seems your friend Mr. Buffington stayed at another hotel. The Canal House. Very nice and very expensive.”

  “What? When? Is he still there?”

  “No, no, it was just for a few days. He checked out already.”

  “Well, what did the hotel say? Did they have any information?”

  “No, other than he was a quiet guest, paid his bill, checked out, and left.”

  “And they’re sure it was Ace?”

  “Yes, quite sure. I sent someone over with his photo. They identified him positively.” I hold the phone for a moment, thinking. “Mr. Horne?”

  “Yes, sorry. So what does this mean?”

  “I’m afraid it simply means your friend is not missing. As I mentioned before, he apparently just doesn’t want to be found.”

  “So you’re not going to do anything else?”

  “What would you like me to do, Mr. Horne?”

  Good question, but I can’t think of a thing. “Look, can we talk about this some more? I can come down to the station.”

  Dekker’s sigh is audible. I can picture him frowning in exasperation. “If you wish, but I don’t see what that would accomplish. I cannot devote any more time or personnel to this matter.”

  “Yes, I understand. I’ll be down in the morning.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Horne.”

  I hang up and turn to Fletcher.

  “He says Ace has been around all the time. At another hotel.”

  Fletcher frowns. “Well, man, you know him. Maybe there’s something going on he doesn’t want you to know about. Hell, maybe he’s got a woman. You’ve done all you can.”

  Before I can answer, the phone rings. Fletcher picks it up. From his smile and tone, it’s obviously for him. I go into the bedroom, put away my things, and sit down on the bed to think about everything. Ace is making me angry now. No matter what he’s into, he could have let me know. He must have known I’d be looking for him. I fall back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, going over things. It’s not that I don’t believe Dekker. I just want to see for myself. I turn and see Fletcher in the doorway, all smiles now.

  “Remember the documentary film I told you I was going to be in?”

  “Yeah, it’s still on?”

  “That was the woman running it. They’re here in town. They want to shoot some of it tomorrow. Okay with you?”

  “Hey, it’s your film.”

  “Yeah, but they want to have some of me playing. I told them about our duo gig. They can shoot us right here, if you’re okay with that.”

  “Sure, Fletch. Whatever you want is fine with me.”

  “Cool. Well, I’m going to do some practicing and pick out some clothes for my film debut. What’s up with you?”

  “I think I’m going to check out a hotel.”

  ***

  The Canal House Hotel is a restored eighteenth-century building on one of those cobblestone streets facing a canal. At least that’s what it says on the postcard as I wait in reception for the owner. As it turns out, she’s American. She’s pleasant enough but can offer me no more than Dekker already found out.

  “No, Mr. Buffington stayed three nights. He checked out yesterday.”

  I show her the photo. “And this was him?”

  She looks quickly. “Yes. I told the police the same. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “No—well, he may be when I catch up with him,” I say, smiling. “We just got some wires crossed, I guess. Anyway, thanks for your trouble.”

  “No problem.”

  I go outside in the bright sunlight that glints off the water and stand on the front steps, watching small boats float by on the canal. It still doesn’t sit right with me; that unsettled feeling won’t go away. Unless I hear it from Ace himself, I know I can’t let go of it. Then I think of something else, walk up to the corner, and grab a taxi.

  “Do you know the American consulate?”

  “Yes,” the driver says, pushing down the flag on the meter.

  The ride takes us across town, and he drops me long Meuseumplein and points to a building nestled in among some large Gothic buildings. “That way,” he says, pointing across the street.

  I pay him and get out to walk over. This part of town reminds me I haven’t done much sightseeing since I’ve been in Amsterdam. I’ve never been much for museums, but maybe it’s time to let go and explore van Gogh’s hometown.

  The consulate is not much help. No one named Buffington has checked in with them in the past week or two, or asked for any help. “Sometimes tourists lose their passport or traveler’s checks, that kind of thing. We recommend that people check in with us, but most don’t do it until it’s too late,” a clerk tells me.

  “Well, thanks anyway.”

  “I hope you find your friend,” she says.

  So that’s it. Again I find myself wondering why I’m going through all this. Nothing left now but to talk one more time with Dekker in the morning. Do it early and get it over with. Back at the flat, I find a note from Fletcher that he’s gone to dinner with the film crew. I grab something to eat at a small family restaurant nearby and go for a long walk along the canals.

  I stop for coffee at a small café and take a window table. Across the street is a bookstore with the name Alibi in neon lights. They’re about to close, but the friendly owner helps me find a Charles Willeford book. A used copy in good condition.

  “I’ll take it,” I say, and hope Fletcher doesn’t already have it.

  I take a long hot shower, listen to some music, and by ten I’ve exhausted myself. I fall into bed with my Hoke Moseley purchase. I get far enough into the story to read about Hoke getting beaten up and having his badge, gun, even his false teeth, stolen. Even that didn’t happen to Chet Baker.

  That’s when I fall asleep.

  ***

  Dekker isn’t too happy to see me; his expression betrays that he had hoped I wouldn’t show up. I tell him about visiting the consulate and the Canal House Hotel.

  “I have to admire your persistence. It would seem to me, Mr. Horne, that you’ve done everything possible, and I’m afraid I have also. With your friend at another hotel, he is obviously not a missing person.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. I just think
it’s strange he changed hotels, and I’m still concerned about the jacket and the portfolio.”

  “I think it’s easily explained. If you do find your friend, tell him we will hold them here for him. We have no reason to keep them.”

  “But what about your Hemingway’s suitcase theory? Don’t you find it odd that he would copy everything in the portfolio?”

  Dekker smiles. “Mr. Horne, I’m sure you know the expression ‘absentminded professor.’ Perhaps your friend foresaw just such a loss and made the copies for that reason. Perhaps after he lost his jacket.”

  I sigh and shrug. “Yes, I’d thought of that. I guess you’re right.”

  “Well, I’m very busy this morning. Enjoy the rest of your stay in Amsterdam.” Dekker is already on his feet, ushering me toward the door.

  “Thanks again, Inspector. Sorry to bother you so much.”

  Okay, Ace, you’re on your own after this one last errand. I check my watch. Still time to drop by the archives before getting back for Fletcher’s film. I swing by the Prinz Hendrik Hotel and take another look at the Chet Baker plaque, the list of donors, looking for the answer to one more question.

  ***

  At the Jazz Archives, Helen is at her desk as usual. She smiles at me when I walk in, much happier to see me than Dekker was. “Ah,” she says. “Hello. Come to see the film again?”

  “No, but I do want to ask you about something else.”

  “Of course.”

  “The plaque over at the hotel. Is there some kind of official list of the donors and how much they contributed?”

  Helen looks troubled and doesn’t answer right away. She glances around nervously. “The donor list is right there with the plaque, but the contributions…I don’t know. That’s confidential information. Some were made in cash, some in certified checks. Some were bank transfers.”

  “Bank transfers?”

  “Yes.”

  I lower my voice. “Helen, this is very important. A friend of mine is possibly in trouble, and I’m trying to find him. I don’t want to get you in trouble, and I’ll understand if you don’t want to help, but—”

  “Oh.” She puts her hand over her mouth and looks around again.

  “Please, I need to see that list. One of the names might help a great deal.”

  She glances toward a file cabinet near her desk.

  I follow her gaze and take a shot. “Can I suggest something? If that file happened to be on your desk, it wouldn’t be your fault if I happened to see it, would it?”

  She considers for a moment and looks around again. “No, I suppose not.” She smiles then. “This is kind of exciting, isn’t it?”

  “Well, it could be, I guess. What do you say?”

  Her answer is to go to the file cabinet and open a drawer. She flips through some folders, then takes one out and places it on her desk. When she speaks, I realize how quietly our voices have been when she suddenly raises hers.

  “If you’ll wait here, I’ll see if I can find that book you requested.”

  “Oh, thank you very much,” I say just as loudly. I sit down as soon as she leaves the room and open the file.

  The contributions range from individuals for as small as $100 to much more from some record companies. I run my finger down the list, noting the names and the amounts, and then stop. One entry might as well be in bold type. The amount sticks out beyond the rest, but there is no name, just a notation that it was a bank transfer and the words “See attached file.” I look through the rest of the folder, but there is nothing but receipts for the cash donations and canceled checks. No attached file. I close the folder and sit back, waiting for Helen to return. No need to push her further. I’m beginning to think I know who that anonymous donor is.

  Helen returns then and hands me a book. “I think this is what you were looking for,” she says. It’s a copy of Duke Ellington’s book Music Is My Mistress.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll leave it in the reading room when I’m finished. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I hope you found what you want,” she says, her voice quieter now.

  “Yes, thank you.” I start to leave, then on impulse, something else occurs to me, something Fletcher remarked on earlier. “Just one more question.” I take out the photo of Ace to show her. “This is the man you talked to? Professor Buffington?”

  She takes the photo from me and looks at it, but her face clouds over. “Yes, but later, there was a different man. He was Dutch.”

  All the alarms go off then. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Helen says. She holds the photo. “Your friend only came once.”

  ***

  Instinct, gut feeling, whatever it is, I know something isn’t right. My mind is racing as I walk back to the flat, going over the description Helen gave me of the man who claimed to be Ace. As I cross a street, I stop suddenly, remembering why the description sounded familiar. I hear a bell just in time to jump out of the way of a bicycle and get a litany of curses in Dutch for my carelessness.

  The man at the train station, with the umbrella and raincoat, who was so helpful. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but now it was connecting. He didn’t have a raincoat at the coffee shop, but now I’m sure he was the one I saw there too. Helen had said he’d presented a letter of introduction to use the archives, and she’d said it hadn’t been necessary. The archives were open to anyone, but this guy, whoever he was, wasn’t taking any chances.

  Why impersonate Ace? What did he want? Just to see the Chet Baker film? Why? I think I know now, and it’s still running through my mind when I get back to the flat.

  In the living room Fletcher is sitting in one of the easy chairs, a bright light shining on him and a reflector on a stand to the side. Opposite him is a young woman with dark short hair and large eyes. She has a pad and pen on her lap. Behind her a large burly man in jeans and plaid shirt points a camera at the two of them.

  Fletcher looks at me and smiles. “Here’s my man,” he says. “We’re just doing some sound and light checking. Say hello to Elaine Blakemore.” Elaine is also in jeans and a pink T-shirt. She has a light meter around her neck. She’s maybe thirty and very pretty.

  “Hi,” I say. “Evan Horne. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Not at all,” she says, getting up to shake hands. The accent is very British. “Fletcher has been telling me about you, your collaboration.” She looks at me closely, as if she’s trying to place me, then suddenly her face brightens into a smile. “Hang on, I heard you interviewed on Colin Mansfield’s show in London. Mike Bailey did a piece on you. You’re that Evan Horne?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “I meant to get down to Ronnie Scott’s to hear you. Could we talk? I have several questions for you myself.”

  “Well, maybe later. I don’t want to be in the way here.”

  “Oh, yes. We do want to get some footage of you playing with Fletcher. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Sure, whatever you need. I’ll just watch for now.”

  “Okay.” She turns to the cameraman. “Are we okay, Kevin?”

  “Yeah, luv,” Kevin says. “I’ll shoot over your shoulder for now. We can do some reaction shots later.”

  Elaine checks her light meter and looks at her pad. “Right, shall we have a go then?”

  I mime I’ll be back to Fletcher. He nods and turns his attention to Elaine as she begins her questions. I want to talk to Fletcher, but it’ll have to wait.

  I go into my room and dig out the list of donors for the plaque, reading them again, trying to unstick that thing in my mind, but it doesn’t come to me. When I go back to the living room, they’re deep into it. Elaine has done her homework. She leads Fletcher through the questions with ease, and he’s very relaxed. I sit down out of camera range and just watch the proceedings unfold.

  “I’m going to ask you some other questions,” she says. “You just talk. I’ll add them i
n with voice-over later, okay?”

  “Sure,” Fletcher says.

  “First, then. Tell me about your decision to make Amsterdam your home.”

  Fletcher looks every bit the part of an expatriate artist. He’s in tan slacks, a dark sports coat over a light turtleneck sweater. “I came over on a tour with Count Basie, and like a lot of the guys over the years, I just stayed. I liked the way I was treated here. I liked the people, the lifestyle, getting away from all that hustling in New York. I already had friends here—Art Farmer, Kenny Drew, Kenny Clarke—you know, they were all here, scattered around Europe and doing fine. I guess I was drawn to Amsterdam because of Ben Webster. Johnny Griffin had been here a while too.”

  “Was some part of your decision racially motivated?” Elaine asks.

  “I think there were a variety of reasons, but yes, that’s part of it. There’s a better acceptance of your talent as a jazz musician. Europeans look at jazz as an art form. There’s less pressure in terms of competition, and people here are serious listeners. They exchange tapes with friends, talk about the music. Hell, they know more about me than I do. They’re really involved. I can go anywhere in the world, play jazz, and not be a stranger. I thought, Hey, why not live here?

  “But yes, there is a racial factor, too. I’ve been here seventeen years and never had a bad racial experience. No one has been rude, no one has ignored me as people will do in America if they don’t want to serve you or sell you a ticket. There has never been the slightest trouble with hotels or restaurants, except maybe some slight surliness in London.” Fletcher laughs then. “Guess you’ll have to cut that, huh?”

  “No,” Elaine says. “Go on, please.”

  “A couple of times I’ve been through small villages or towns. People tend to stare then, but not in a bad way. Maybe like you would if it’s a car you’ve never seen before. It’s always something of a shock to go home—and I’ve been back a few times—because nothing has really changed. The same hang-ups are there. The way it is now, I can play at some small club in Europe and be recognized. In a similar American town, nobody outside the jazz world would know me.”