Looking for Chet Baker

by Bill Moody

“The police? So it is serious, then.”

  “I don’t know. It’s not like him to just leave like that with no word at all. I think he might have gotten in over his head. He’s kind of naive when it comes to the jazz scene.”

  “Yes, Fletcher told me he met him briefly. Amsterdam is a beautiful city, but it has its dark side like everywhere else. Somebody told me the Zeedijk area used to be called the black hole of the city.”

  I turn and look at her now. “What do you know about it?”

  She shrugs. “Not much. Lot of drug trafficking, users, criminal types, like parts of London, I guess.” When I don’t say anything, she continues, “Well, it’s no secret that Chet Baker was an addict. You think your friend might have gone there, to Zeedijk, hoping to get background material?”

  I drop my cigarette on the ground and step on it. “Are you being Elaine Blakemore, filmmaker, or reporter?”

  She blushes slightly. “Sorry. Reporter instincts, I guess. I wrote for the Melody Maker in London for a while.”

  “I’m just having fun again. I’m not sure what he was up to. I’d just like to know he’s okay and not in trouble.” I stand up and look at my watch. “Anyway, he’s probably fine and already left town. I worry too much, I guess.”

  She looks at me closely. “No, I don’t think you do.”

  ***

  “Is Inspector Dekker in?” The officer on the desk is the same one as the first day I was here, but I’m not sure he recognizes me.

  “A moment, please.” He picks up the phone and dials an extension. All I can catch is Dekker’s name. He hangs up and says, “Inspector Dekker is coming.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dekker comes out and almost sighs when he sees it’s me. He has the world-weary look of every big-city cop, and I’m adding to his irritation. “Mr. Horne. I wish I could say I was glad to see you. How can I help you?”

  “Sorry, I know you’re busy. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”

  Dekker does sigh now. “Very well, but I don’t have much time. Come with me.” We go back to his office and sit down. “Now, what is it, please?”

  “What can you tell me about the Zeedijk area of the city?”

  Dekker leans back in his chair and studies me for a moment, shakes his head. “Most people coming to Holland at this time of year would be more interested in the bulb fields. They are quite spectacular. Tulips of every color as far as the eye can see. But here you are inquiring about a far less attractive area, where drug trafficking took place. Why am I not surprised?”

  “Took place? Not anymore?”

  Dekker launches into what sounds like a prepared speech for civic leaders. “The entire area has been cleaned up these past few years. Correct me if I’m wrong, but hasn’t the same thing happened to Times Square in New York? New developments, restaurants, shops?” Dekker pauses, looks at me, and gives up the rhetoric. “Very well, there is still some of that element in Zeedijk, but the restructuring and the new reforms in Amsterdam’s drug policy have minimized it. No, Mr. Horne, it is no longer the black hole it was once called.”

  “And what is this new drug policy?”

  Dekker sighs again, digs in his desk, and comes out with a slim blue pamphlet. “It’s all in here, Mr. Horne, in English. Not very interesting reading, but full of information.”

  I take the pamphlet from him. “Thanks,” I say.

  “Now,” Dekker asks, “anything else?”

  “Just one thing. Was there any one major drug dealer active in Zeedijk, say ten years ago or so?”

  He leans back in his chair and smiles wryly. “Ah, now I see where you are headed. That would be when Mr. Chet Baker died, the famous musician?”

  “Yes, although I wasn’t thinking just of Chet Baker.”

  “No? You seem as much interested in him as in your elusive friend. There were many at that time, I believe, some foreign—Cuban, Colombian, African. Very dangerous, very vicious, but most have been put out of business.” Dekker reaches across and taps the pamphlet. “I have no specific name, nor can I imagine why you would want to know.”

  “Just curious. The Zeedijk area was mentioned in those articles in my friend’s portfolio.”

  “Oh course.” He stands up, but I get the feeling there’s something he’s not telling me.

  “Has something else happened, Inspector?”

  He sits down again and looks at me. “You’re so persistent, Mr. Horne.” He sees I’m not going anywhere. “Very well. The prostitute, the one who turned in the portfolio, was severely beaten.”

  “What? Do you know who did it? Can I see her?”

  “No, Mr. Horne, you cannot. She’s in the hospital recovering, and she is very frightened. She refuses to talk to me about it, other than to say it was the man who left the portfolio in the first place. She doesn’t believe we can protect her.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Carmen is her working name. She’s from the Caribbean.” Dekker leans back and cautions me again. “These people you are stirring up are dangerous, Mr. Horne.”

  “I know that, and I’m not trying to stir anybody up. I’m just trying to find out what happened to my friend. Whoever stole the portfolio from my room is probably the same one who beat up Carmen.”

  “I’m well aware of that, and we will take care of it. This is a police matter, so please respect that.”

  Now it is getting out of hand. This girl Carmen could have been killed. Why? Because she informed the police. There has to be more to it than that, but it’s obvious Dekker is not going to let me in on the loop.

  “Now, I have many things to do. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Sure. I’m sorry to bother you again.” I start for the door. “Oh, by the way, I’m going to be in Amsterdam a little while longer. I’m starting a new job tomorrow night. It’s a place called Baby Grand. Stop by and hear some music. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t think so.”

  “Well, if you change your mind.” As I go, Dekker gives me a look that says, Don’t call me, I’ll call you.

  ***

  Finding a café along Rokin, near the C&A department store, that has outside tables, I sit down with coffee and watch the throng of shoppers, tourists, trolleys, buses, bicycles, and cars that is Amsterdam in midafternoon.

  I flip through the pamphlet Dekker gave me. A lot of it is statistics, but there are some nuggets. The coffee bars that sell cannabis, hashish, and marijuana legally are not allowed to sell alcohol, and they have to have special licenses. Despite Amsterdam’s freewheeling reputation, soft and hard drugs are strictly regulated, much like the legal prostitution, but the pamphlet stresses that this does not make Amsterdam a “junkies’ heaven,” and that, what’s more, Amsterdam’s approach is more effective than the aggressive War on Drugs strategy applied in other countries. They don’t say USA, but they might as well. There are a lot of tables and graphs, information about treatment clinics, methadone centers, and hypodermic exchange programs, highlighting Amsterdam’s pragmatic approach to drugs, but there is no mention of Zeedijk anywhere in the pamphlet, so Dekker must be right about the cleanup.

  I sit, smoking, drinking coffee, just people-watching, for an hour or so. The pamphlet was interesting but not much help. This is now. I’m more interested in then—the 1980s, when, also according to the pamphlet, Amsterdam was a magnet for foreign drug users, Chet Baker among them.

  I’m convinced now it was a dealer, Chet’s dealer, that Ace stumbled onto. Knowing Ace, he jumped in with both feet and is finding it difficult to get out once he is in. I know I have to resolve this, and soon, both for Ace’s sake and my own. I should know my pattern by now. I get distracted from music, then have to resolve the distraction to get back to music. Same old circle, like the cycle of fifths chord progressions. Time now for the turnaround chords.

  I don’t really have much faith in Darren turning up anything. Nobody, even Fletcher, s
eems to know exactly what Darren does. For more definite information, I’ll have to call somebody else, and he probably won’t be any happier to hear from me than Dekker was.

  ***

  Detective Engels is at home when I call from the American Express office, but when I ask him about Zeedijk, he sounds like a travel brochure.

  “It’s Chinatown, Mr. Horne. There is even a Buddhist Temple. Restored buidings, shops, restaurants, and one of two timbered houses left in the city.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Engels, but I’m more interested in how it was in, let’s say, 1988.”

  “Yes, I thought so. I imagine our Mr. Baker was a frequent visitor then.”

  “I’m sure. Was there one particular well-known dealer, someone the police were familiar with? Maybe he had a nickname, you know, a special name.”

  “There were many, and most are gone now, thankfully. I don’t recall any name, and they were not all Dutch. Some were Moroccan or from the Caribbean or South America. Why do you ask?”

  I pause to think of an appropriate answer. “Oh, someone I just met is doing a documentary film. She heard of it and asked me if I knew. No other reason really.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”

  So am I, I think. Finding Chet’s connection, even if he was owed money, is going to be trickier than I thought.

  “Go carefully, Mr. Horne. Zeedijk has improved considerably, but there are still places and people just as dangerous as before.”

  ***

  Back at the flat, I find Fletcher and Darren at the computer, arguing about something.

  “What’s happening?”

  Fletcher glances at Darren. “Shaft here thinks he knows about computers. I’m trying to look up something, and he’s trying to tell me how to do it.”

  “Well, I do,” Darren says. The jacket and glasses are off now. “Just let me try, okay?”

  Fletcher rolls his eyes and stands up. “Okay, but if you fuck up my computer, you’re going to pay for it.”

  “Step aside,” Darren says. He sits down and looks at the screen, then begins typing. “Got to find another search engine for what you want,” he says. He types some more, clicks the mouse a few times, and Fletcher and I both watch openmouthed as Darren makes the screen change faster than we can keep up. Finally, he arrives on a jazz site home page. “There,” he says, standing up. “You should bookmark places you go back to a lot. It’s much easier.”

  Fletcher stares at the screen for a minute, then at Darren, then at me. “How’d you learn to do that?” he asks Darren.

  Darren grins, enjoying the moment. “Just something I picked up,” he says.

  Fletcher looks at Darren as if he’s somebody he doesn’t know. He sits down and clicks the menu button.

  “What are you looking for, anyway?” I ask.

  “I heard Art Farmer was sick,” he says. “Just wanted to check to see if there was anything on it.”

  Fletcher clicks on the news button, and I read over his shoulder. There are some items about upcoming jazz festivals, some new CD releases, and a couple of reviews, but nothing about Art Farmer.

  “Whew,” Fletcher says. “We’re old friends, but I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “Do me a favor, will you,” I say. “Send an e-mail to Margo. Ask her if Ace has been there.”

  He closes the screen and opens his mail site. Typing slowly with two fingers, he writes a brief message to Margo, then closes down everything and stands up.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Go to San Francisco. I’ll try to get a flight out Monday morning.”

  “Could be tough,” Darren says. “Let me try it online, might find something.”

  “Great, please do.”

  Darren nods. “No problem. I’ll do it at home.” He looks at Fletcher. Something passes between them I can’t read.

  “Come on, Darren,” Fletcher says. “I want to talk to you.”

  It’s the first time he hasn’t called him Shaft.

  ***

  The Baby Grand is already crowded when we arrive. There’s a poster in the front window that reads, “Fletcher Paige & Evan Horne, 8–11.” There’s some other printing with dates and times and a short paragraph in quotes—some reviewer’s words, I imagine.

  The restaurant itself is upscale. White tablecloths, silver, glassware, and waiters in white shirts and bow ties. The piano is at one end of the room, and in front, in the curve of the piano, is a stool for Fletcher. No microphones or sound system. This will be acoustic all the way.

  I sit down at the piano and run through some chords. The sound is beautiful, and true to his word, the owner has had it tuned. Elaine must have persuaded him to let her film; Kevin is already set up at a front table with his camera and microphone, doing light meter readings with Elaine hovering nearby.

  “This is exciting,” she says as I come up. “We won’t get in your way, I promise.”

  “I’m sure you won’t,” I say and let her get back to prepping for the filming. I join Fletcher at the bar, where he’s sipping a cognac. He looks thoughtful but not nervous. He’s played too many gigs for that. It’s something else that’s got him quiet, just looking into his glass.

  “Hey, man,” he says. “Nice setup, huh?”

  “Uh-huh. I think we’re going to enjoy this. You okay?”

  “What? Oh yeah, just thinking.” He looks at me. “I haven’t told you everything about Darren.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s not the grandson of a friend. He’s my grandson.”

  “Whoa. Does he know?” This is starting to make sense now.

  “He does now. He pretty much had it figured out.” Fletcher sips his drink and stares at himself in the mirror behind the bar.

  “That shit he did on the computer today just blew me away. We had a long talk—turns out he works part-time for a computer company here. Can you believe that? Anyway, we talked; I told him the whole story, he broke down and cried. I want to get him off the street, all this Shaft actin’ bullshit. Trying to get him to go back home, get established, before he gets in some real trouble.” Fletcher shakes his head. “I should have done this a long time ago.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t ready for it then.”

  “I should have made him ready. This little errand for you is going to be the last of these street deals. Damn, the way he handles himself on the computer, he could really do something.”

  Eric, the owner, comes over. “So you are both ready?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Fletcher says. “Let’s do it.”

  We follow him to the piano. I sit down and noodle a bit while Fletcher gets his horn ready and Eric makes an opening announcement. I get a quick smile from Elaine as she bends low behind Kevin.

  “So,” Eric says to the audience, “Fletcher Paige and Evan Horne.”

  We’d already decided the opening number would be “It Could Happen to You.” There’s no count. Fletcher simply glances at me and raises his horn, then we’re off on an easy medium tempo, playing counterpoint on the melody. Fletcher takes the first solo, moving through the changes smoothly while I feed him chords and marvel at his tone and ideas. I take two choruses. Fletcher, perched on the stool, listens with his horn across his lap.

  On the last eight bars, he stands and waits for the next chorus, then begins playing lines against my own. It quickly becomes a question-and-answer, call-and-response, for two more choruses, then we take it out. The Baby Grand has been initiated.

  ***

  We’re just about to have a post-set drink with the owner when Darren comes in. He nods to Fletcher, even takes off his dark glasses, and beams at Elaine. He catches my eye, comes over, and leans in to speak in my ear.

  “Okay,” I say. Fletcher watches as Darren goes outside, then turns a questioning face to me.

  “Got a little errand to do,” I say. Fletcher looks away and sips his drink.
Elaine looks at both of us, trying to read things.

  “Can I help? You want some company?” she asks.

  “No, thanks,” I say quickly. “I’ll catch up with you guys tomorrow.” I turn to Fletcher. “You’re going home now, right?” He knows it’s not a question and nods.

  I head for the door then before anyone can stop me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Van Gogh?” I find Darren standing in front of the Baby Grand, hands in his pockets, looking at the poster in the window. The traffic has lightened now, and the warm afternoon and evening has become only slightly cooler.

  He shrugs as if he doesn’t believe it either, but doesn’t look at me, just continues to watch cars cruising by. “Old dude, long hair. Draws pictures in charcoal for the tourists. Not very good either, but got that name hung on him.” When I just look at Darren and don’t say anything, he adds, “Hey, it’s Amsterdam. Art and all that shit.”

  “Okay. And he’s a musician too?”

  “Yeah, was, a drummer. Guess he used to be okay, but the dope fucked him up too bad. Missed gigs, nodded out. People stopped calling him. Now he just, you know, lives.”

  Darren sees that I want more. He’s uncomfortable about the whole thing, but he’s going along with it, mainly, I know, because of Fletcher’s insistence. “Look, man, I’m tellin’ you what I’m tellin’ you. I was told he had the same connection as Chet back then. That and where he lives is all I could get out of him.”

  “Okay.” I didn’t really expect Darren to have a direct line to Chet’s connection, or to know if he is even still around, so this will have to do for now, and I can’t afford not to see where it goes. “You didn’t scare him?”

  “Nah, man. Just told him somebody, an old friend of Chet’s, wanted to talk to him. He wasn’t scared of me.”

  That relieves and surprises me. I don’t want van Gogh to go underground. Darren can look intimidating until you get behind those dark glasses. “Okay, show me.”

  Darren looks pained. “Go with you, you mean?” He glances over his shoulder, as if he’s checking to see if someone is watching us. He gives a resigned shrug and sigh. “We need a taxi.” He steps off the curb to flag one down and mumbles, “Get this shit over with.”