Looking for Chet Baker

by Bill Moody

  “Yeah, I know, but if the dealer was that upset, he’d want to make sure. I’m betting this dealer held a grudge for a long time. There is something else, though. Two things actually.”

  “What?”

  “I went back to the archives, showed the girl there Ace’s photo. She said there was a second man. She described a man that I met at the train station the day I arrived. He was very helpful in finding the Prins Hendrik Hotel. Too helpful. It was almost like he knew I was coming.”

  Fletcher is shaking his head, not believing what he’s hearing.

  “And on that plaque at the hotel, there’s a list of donors. One of the biggest contributors was anonymous. I checked that at the archives. Now, it might have been just some major fan who preferred not to be listed. But what if it was someone who had access to Chet’s money, somebody he really trusted, somebody who held money for him till he needed it, and—”

  “Oh, Lord,” Fletcher says. He rubs his hands over his face.

  “What?”

  “I forgot to tell you. I got hold of that trumpet player that sold Chet a car, the one Chet stayed with a lot when he was in Amsterdam. He didn’t talk to Ace, but he told me once, Chet came by and left a shopping bag with over $15,000 in it. Just wanted him to hold it for a few days.” I sit down and watch Fletcher, see there’s something else. “I know somebody else like that.”

  “Who, Fletcher?”

  “You’re sitting in her apartment.”

  ***

  For the next two hours I pump Fletcher about Margo Highland. According to what she told Fletcher, she was never romantically involved with Chet, but they went way back, to Margo’s time as a singer. She might have made it big, but she got into booze, and by the time that was over, so was her chance. Chet had helped her, encouraged her, even recorded with her once. She had a small studio in her home in California, but that’s one recording that had never turned up anywhere. A number of times when Chet was in the Bay Area, playing the major jazz spots, or visiting his mother in San Jose, he’d roam north of San Francisco, stay at Margo’s, and work small clubs near Guerneville, or play the Russian River Jazz Festival.

  When Margo came to Europe and settled in Amsterdam, they renewed their friendship. “Margo kind of took care of him sometimes,” Fletcher tells me. He shakes his head. “At least that’s what she said. She was another one who tried to save him, but he didn’t want to be saved. She took his death very hard, but it was more than just a grieving friend, now that I think about it. She wouldn’t talk about it, though. All she said was, ‘If only I’d been there,’ like she could have done something about it. She was out of town when it happened, called me, asked me all about it. She didn’t come back, though, just stayed in California. I think she might have even gone to the funeral.”

  I remember Russ Freeman talking about the service in the film, and there was another account in Gene Lee’s Jazzletter. It was held in Inglewood, where Chet had spent so much time. I wonder if Margo Highland was among the mourners.

  “When did you meet Margo?”

  “Oh, couple of years before Chet died. She had some money, did some traveling after a bad marriage. You know how that shit goes. She liked Amsterdam and just decided to make it a second home, took on this place. She’s a very cool lady. Helped me a lot. First time I stayed here, I was just kind of house-sitting for her while she took care of some business in California.” Fletcher looks up at me. “Nothing was going on with us. We were and are just friends, in case you’re wondering.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Okay, I just want to be straight about that.”

  “You think it’s possible she kept money for Chet? Opened a bank account for him, or invested it, and nobody knows about it?”

  “Hell, man, anything is possible where Chet is concerned. Margo knows about money, knows what to do with it, and Chet wasn’t big on paperwork, from what I hear.”

  I nod, flashing on another scene from the film, a record producer trying to get Chet to sign a contract. He said Chet didn’t think it was necessary—a handshake would do fine—but finally agreed to a signature. When the producer tried to give Chet a copy, Chet brushed it off, saying there wasn’t any point, he’d just lose it somewhere.

  I feel Fletcher watching me. “I’m afraid to ask, but what are you thinking about doing?”

  “We have to find this van Gogh guy we heard about in Rotterdam.”

  “Yeah, I knew that was coming, but how are you going to do that?”

  “I’m going to need to talk to Darren.”

  ***

  I know I’m now standing on the edge of that chasm I talked about with Rosemary Hammond, looking over the edge, contemplating one more step, maybe one too many. I can’t see to the bottom. It’s dark down there, but I can’t help moving closer, like somebody looking off the top of a tall building and feeling the impulse to jump.

  Fletcher and I argue for almost an hour. He gives me a lot of reasons for dropping things right where they are, and some of them are good ones. But in the end, he sees it’s no use and finally gives up. “All right, man, I’ll call Darren, but you talk to any drug dealers, you on your own,” he says.

  “Fair enough. I wouldn’t want it any other way.” He looks at me as if he’s been trying to get me to give up drugs and failed. He sighs, then gets up to call Darren and tracks him down on his cell phone.

  Fletch makes some coffee while we wait, but it doesn’t take Darren long to arrive. I don’t think he’s been invited here much, if ever, and I wonder about their relationship, whether there’s more to it than Fletcher’s told me. Darren saunters in with his usual ultracool demeanor, but I sense something else under that façade, as if he feels privileged and honored to have been summoned by Fletcher.

  “All right, fellas,” he says. “I’m on the case.” In his requisite leather jacket and dark glasses, he glances around casually.

  “Sit down, Darren. Take off those stupid glasses and drop that Shaft routine,” Fletcher says. “We got some serious shit to talk about.” Darren does as he’s told. He drops into a chair and flicks a glance at me. “This is between the three of us, understand?”

  Darren nods and suddenly looks like he wishes he hadn’t come.

  “Evan needs to connect with a dealer.”

  I have to give him credit. Darren looks genuinely astounded. He looks from Fletcher to me and back again to see if we’re joking. When he sees we’re not, he says, “A drug dealer?”

  Fletcher sighs. “No, a used car dealer. Of course a drug dealer.”

  Darren stares at me again. “You into drugs, man? You look too cool for that. I never would have—”

  “Darren, shut the fuck up and listen. He is too cool for that, and so am I. He wants to talk to a drug dealer, that’s all, but not just any dealer, you dig?”

  Darren is totally confused now, and Fletcher’s attitude is making him nervous. “Fletch, let me talk to him,” I say. Fletcher gives me a whatever look and sits back. “I’m looking for a particular guy, Darren. He may not even be in business now. It’s been a long time, but it’s somebody who might have been Chet Baker’s connection.”

  Darren glances at Fletcher again and gets another glare that tells him he better tell the truth. He shifts in his chair. “Look, man, I do things for people, you know, just to keep things together. But I don’t deal no drugs, really.”

  “He didn’t ask you that,” Fletcher says. “But you and I both know you know what’s going on in the Quarter.”

  “Yeah, I hear things,” Darren admits. “These are bad dudes, man, bad. You don’t want to cross them.”

  Fletcher looks at me and doesn’t even have to say, What did I tell you?

  “You won’t have to, Darren. We have the name of someone who we think had the same connection. He’s called van Gogh.”

  Darren sits up straighter now. He drops the Shaft persona, as Fletcher calls it. He looks back and forth between us, trying to decide
if I’m putting him on. “You serious? Van Gogh? Man, somebody is takin’ you down, man.” He shakes his head and laughs, but drops it when he sees Fletcher’s expression.

  “That’s the name, Darren, and yes we are very serious.”

  He pauses, sees Fletcher is waiting for more. “Hey, I could ask around.”

  “You do that,” Fletcher says.

  “And then what if he is?”

  “Don’t worry,” Fletcher says. “We’ll tell you. You find him, you let us know.”

  Darren looks at us both, realizes that’s it. He’s been dismissed. He gets up but doesn’t put the glasses back on. “Cool,” he says. “I’ll be in touch.”

  After Darren leaves, Fletcher pours us both a brandy. “Man, I must be crazy,” he says.

  We sit in silence for a few minutes while I think about what I’ve put into motion, and how slim the chances are that van Gogh is still around or that Darren can find him. “You’re kind of hard on Darren, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I’d just like to see him doing something else. He’s a good kid really.”

  “Did you know him before or something?”

  Fletcher shakes his head. “No, but he’s related in a way. Darren is the grandson of a good friend of mine. She knew I was over here and asked me to keep an eye on him when he got it in his head to come to Europe. He had it kind of rough. His daddy left home when he was little. His mother died not long after that, and he just got kind of lost.”

  “He respects you. You know that, don’t you? It’s easy to see.”

  “Yeah, I guess. I just haven’t done a very good job of looking out for him. Really struck me tonight when he was here. I just don’t know what else to do.”

  “He’s going through a phase, maybe. You said he was kind of lost, and with losing both parents, it’s understandable.”

  “Yeah, I guess. I have to do something about him, though.” Fletcher stands up and downs his brandy. “Well, that’s it for me tonight, man.” Before he leaves the room he looks at me again. “You are going to do that gig, aren’t you? Whatever happens.”

  “Oh yeah, Fletch. Don’t worry. Whatever happens, I’ll be there.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It’s midmorning when Elaine Blakemore calls me. “Evan? It’s Elaine. Are you busy?”

  “Hi. No, not really.” Fletcher and I spent an hour or so going over some tunes, but my mind wasn’t really on the music, and Fletcher knew it. He gave up and retired to his room to practice. I can hear the sound of his muffled horn now.

  “Good. Sorry you couldn’t make dinner with us last night.” The lilt in her voice is only slightly dampened by the phone line.

  “Well, I wouldn’t have been very good company.”

  “Oh? Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “No, just in one of my minor-key moods.”

  “Well, let me cheer you up. I looked at the footage Kevin shot yesterday. Came out very well, the bit with you and Fletcher playing together. I think we’re going to have a good film here. Fletcher is a fascinating subject.”

  “That he is.”

  There’s a pause then, as if neither of us knows what to say next. Finally Elaine takes the reins. “Well, I need to get a little background on you, if you wouldn’t mind. I was thinking of lunch. If you’re busy, we can do it another time, but—”

  “No, lunch would be fine,” I say. “Sounds like a good idea. Just tell me when and where.”

  “Great. Let’s say one o’clock at the waterfront. There’s a place there Kevin told me about. It’s called Pier 10, behind Central Station.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll find it. See you at one, then.”

  “Great. Bye for now.”

  I hang up the phone and turn around to see Fletcher standing there, an impish grin on his face. I hadn’t even heard him come up. “Uh-huh,” he says, “uh-huh.” He does a little dance all the way to the kitchen, stops, and spins around like Sammy Davis Jr. on a good night.

  ***

  Pier 10 is just that, and the restaurant is perched right at the end of the pier. Water laps beneath the windows, and I imagine the harbor lights at night would be spectacular. I look around and find Elaine at the far end in a glass-enclosed area, sipping from a goblet of wine and looking out over the water.

  “Hi,” she says as I reach the table. “Sorry, not quite a deck, but we can walk on the pier after lunch.”

  “Hi yourself.” There’s a waiter right behind me as I sit down. I point at Elaine’s glass of white wine and say, “The same, please.”

  Elaine smiles and says, “I told him I was expecting someone, but I guess he didn’t believe me. He’s been hovering.” She hands me her menu. “I’ve already decided.”

  “On what?” I glance at the menu. When I look up at her, she’s slightly flushed.

  “Oh, I meant lunch.”

  “I know. So did I.”

  She looks at me, trying to read my expression, decide how serious I am. “Hmmm, Fletcher told me I should watch it with you. Two minutes, and you’re already flirting.”

  I hold up my hands. “Me? No, just having a little fun.” I can’t deny Elaine is interesting, attractive, but what she really makes me think about is Natalie and Andie Lawrence.

  She laughs then, or it’s almost a laugh. The sunlight coming in the windows does nothing to diffuse her clear, rosy complexion. “Well, just in case, I guess I should tell you. I’m kind of engaged.”

  “Kind of engaged? How does that work?”

  “Well, we’re pretty committed, David and I. He’s a BBC engineer. We just haven’t set a date or anything like that, but it’s sort of an understood proposition, if you know what I mean.”

  “I think so.” The waiter brings my wine and takes our order. Elaine goes for a Caesar salad. I decide to try the salmon. “So,” I say, “you mentioned background.”

  “Yes, who you played with, little personal history, what brought you to work in Amsterdam, that sort of thing.” She starts to take a drink of her wine, then stops and holds up her glass. “To making a good film?”

  I touch her glass with mine and nod. “You don’t need me for that. You have a very good subject in Fletcher.”

  “Oh, I know. I met him a couple of times at jazz festivals and once in London, but he always put me off. I was so glad when he finally agreed to do it. And you’re a bonus.”

  I nod. “Well, I don’t know about that, but just ten days with Fletcher has been an experience, and this duo thing we’re going to do should really be good.”

  “Yes,” Elaine says. “He told me about it. You start this weekend, right?”

  “Tomorrow night, as far as I know. We get a kind of trial outing, I take it, and then go from there.” I take a drink and look at her. “You coming?”

  “Of course. I’m going to see if they’ll let me film some, too.” She looks out at the harbor. “Fletcher Paige at work with the jazz pianist detective.”

  I give her a look that wipes the smile off her face.

  “Sorry. I was just having some fun too.”

  The waiter brings our order, and for a few minutes we get lost in eating and making small talk. When we finish, the air is cleared. We push our plates aside and order coffee. “That’s all I can manage,” Elaine says of her huge salad.

  I long for a cigarette but try to resist the impulse, even though smoking is obviously permitted. “So about this background,” I say.

  Elaine nods and takes out a pen and notebook from her bag. I give her a short thumbnail sketch, including the recording I did before coming to Europe.

  “Was that while the…serial killer thing was going on?” she wants to know.

  “Yes.” She waits, but when I don’t add any more, she doesn’t push it.

  “Hard to talk about, huh?”

  “I have talked about it, in depth, with an FBI shrink. It’s just not something I want to go over again, if you don’t mind.”

 
; “Not at all,” she says. “I understand. So where are you living now? And how long are you staying in Amsterdam?”

  Those are both good questions. Where do I live now? I’m staying with Fletcher for the moment, and I guess I’ll stay around as long as the gig goes and he’ll have me. But what about after that? I haven’t even considered future plans.

  “I’m crashing with Fletcher for now. Just see how it goes.”

  “The nomadic life of a jazz musician, huh.” She checks over her notes. “What I would like is to have you talk about Fletcher, on camera, maybe how it’s different working without a bass and drums.”

  “That I can do.”

  “It is different, right?”

  “Yes. Like walking a high wire without a net, but Fletcher is a hell of a catcher.”

  She smiles. “I like that image.” She writes it down and puts away her notebook. “How about a stroll on the pier? You can have one of those awful cigarettes in your pocket.”

  I start to pay, but she puts up her hands. “No, I said my treat. I’ll just add it to the budget.”

  We stroll lazily on the pier. There are more people out now, tourists and probably some locals too, judging by their clothes and absence of cameras, all enjoying the early spring. We stop and sit down on a wooden bench facing the water. Elaine is diplomatic, if nothing else. She doesn’t make any disapproving sounds when I light a cigarette.

  “I know you don’t want to go over old ground, the incident in Los Angeles, but I’m dying to know if you’re—looking into, is that the right phrase?—Chet Baker’s death.”

  “Are you now? Fletcher’s been talking, huh?”

  She smiles. “Well, he did mention something. He seems kind of excited about it.”

  “Fletcher is too big a fan of mystery novels, I think.” I look away for a moment. “It’s nothing, really. I was supposed to meet a friend of mine here. He’s the one researching Chet Baker, but he’s just kind of disappeared.”

  “And you think something might have happened to him?”

  “I’ve told several people that, including the police.”