by Bill Moody
“He told you that?”
He nods, but even before he does, I know he’s telling the truth. Now it all suddenly starts to make sense—Ace’s disappearance, the missing portfolio, his avoiding me, the impersonator at the archives. This was the man Helen thought was Ace. Ace and I were the puppets, and de Hass pulled the strings. Only, I had been the main puppet.
“You thought there was some money, that my friend knew something about it?”
“His words were, I believe, ‘If it’s there, Evan Horne will find it.’ We had no other interest in Chet Baker or you or your friend.” He seems amused by the notion. “I don’t even like his music. He was simply someone who owed a debt, an old one but a debt nevertheless. Your friend was sure this money existed somewhere and that you would find it.”
I listen to this man, talking dispassionately about Chet’s death, his addiction, how his needs were provided for, how he didn’t even like his music, and feel anger boiling up inside me. If it suited them, they would coldly order someone beaten or killed without a second thought for not paying. I want to dive across the table and smash his face, and Navarro’s. No, they didn’t lure Chet Baker into a life of drugs—he’d done that himself—but they could be talking about anyone. That voice in my head is screaming, This is Chet Baker we’re talking about, you idiot, one of the great trumpet players of jazz! Futile thoughts, I know, but I can’t get them out of my mind, and Chet has no one to speak for him.
“There is no money, at least none that I know anything about. You also know Chet Baker spent his money freely, and a lot of it went to your ugly boss.”
He studies me, his jaw muscles tightening, and for a moment I think I’ve gone too far. “I won’t translate that remark, Mr. Horne. As for the money, we are not convinced it doesn’t exist, and Mr. Navarro wants to close the books on Chet Baker.”
“Suppose I go to the police. Tell them you forced my friend to cooperate with you, that you—”
“You are not listening, Mr. Horne. Tell them what? That your friend, in his eagerness to get a scoop—isn’t that what you call it?—for his book, miscalculated? Anyway, your friend is no longer here to corroborate any such story you might tell the police, and I doubt that he will be back in Amsterdam anytime soon.”
That is no doubt also true. Ace was probably “persuaded” that leaving Amsterdam was a good idea. He is probably on a plane to California or already there. I sit back and digest all this, my mind turning over de Hass’ words. I have an even better reason to find Ace now than when I thought he had disappeared and was in trouble—and I know where he is.
The man takes my silence for agreement. “Yes, I think you realize the truth, Mr. Horne.” He speaks to Navarro briefly, then turns back to me. “We must go. I’ll expect to hear from you regarding the money.”
“And if you don’t?”
He carefully reaches into an inside pocket for his glasses, puts them on, then leans forward, folding his hands in front of him on the table. “I’m not one to make idle threats, Mr. Horne. The man who brought you here…it’s not only because he draws pictures for tourists that he’s called van Gogh.” He pauses, continues to stare at me, until he sees that I know what he means. “You have until Monday to make the money available to me or convince me that there is none. Otherwise…” His voice trails off. He holds up his hands and gives me another cold smile. My imagination can do the rest.
The two of them slide out of the booth and stand up. They straighten their clothes, but before they go, the man leans over and taps his fingers on the table. “According to some of the articles in your friend’s portfolio, Chet Baker made a great deal of money the last two years before he died. He owed Mr. Navarro $23,000. That’s the amount we expect. No more, no less.”
He turns then, and the two men simply walk out, right past Fletcher and Darren, without so much as a backward glance.
They watch them go, then come over and join me in the booth. “Well?” Fletcher says. “What did you find out?”
“More than I wanted.”
I tell Fletch and Darren what de Hass wants, what he’s told me. They listen quietly. Fletcher shakes his head; Darren’s features harden into defiance.
“They’re bluffing,” he says.
“Darren, shut up,” Fletcher says.
Darren leans back and shakes his head. “Well, they are. What are they going to do?”
Fletcher and I both stare at Darren. I find myself clenching my right hand, thinking about a rubber ball I once used as therapy.
“What?” Darren says.
Fletcher puts his head back, closes his eyes, and sighs. “Did they threaten you? Say anything you could go to the police with?”
“No, not in so many words.” But the threat was there nonetheless. I have no doubt Navarro would have had Chet killed if he felt like it, and I’d seen for myself what he’d done to van Gogh for not cooperating—even if I hadn’t seen under his long hair except in my mind now.
I could run, get out of Amsterdam—and then what? Leave Fletcher to deal with de Hass? Stay, and look over my shoulder until one night in some dark street they catch up with me?
I get up slowly, suddenly very tired and washed out, as the impact of what I’ve been told slowly seeps into my mind. I can’t decide yet what bothers me more—the threats, the demands, or that Ace sold me out.
We walk to Fletcher’s car and say good-bye to Darren there. He’s relaxed now, back to his old cocky self, and doesn’t really understand what’s just gone down.
“Thanks for calling Fletch and being here, Darren,” I say.
“Nothin’, man. We could have handled those dudes,” he says. “That old guy wouldn’t give nobody no trouble.”
“There was nothing to handle, Darren,” I say.
Fletcher glares at him. “Darren, shut the fuck up and get out of here. We gotta think.”
Darren takes several steps backward, his hands over his head like Fletcher has a gun pointed at him.
“Okay, man, that’s cool, that’s cool. No problem. I’ll be in touch.”
Fletcher watches him go and shakes his head. “I got to do something about him, get him out of here and back to the States.”
“He came through, Fletch.”
On the drive home, I don’t have much to say. I try to wrap my mind around what Ace has done, searching for some valid, reasonable explanation, but there is none. Fear? Had they actually done something to Ace? The threat of violence would have been enough for Ace. I think back to London, turning Ace down flat. If I’d agreed to help, we might still have run up against Navarro. Maybe, but it could have been avoided. I would have handled things differently. But now there’s no turning back.
Fletcher lets me alone till we’re almost home. “You could just leave, you know. Get on the next plane out of here.”
“Yeah, I could, but then what? They might come after you. And what about the gig?”
Fletcher stops for a red light and turns to look at me. “The gig? I know Dexter Gordon said playing bebop was a life-or-death thing, but he didn’t mean something like this.” He drives on. “Maybe Darren is right. Maybe they are bluffing.”
Who could I call and ask to wire me $23,000? I don’t want to pay them twenty-three cents. Then I flash on something else—bank inquiries. “I could call their bluff.”
“Huh?” Fletcher turns into a parking lot near the waterfront and turns off the engine. “Man, we got to talk about this shit.” We get out of the car and walk to the edge of the pier. We both light cigarettes and watch two cargo ships docked and a crew of longshoremen busy unloading with cranes and dollies. The work lights cast long shadows over the dock.
What had de Hass said? For obvious reasons, I can’t make inquiries about bank records. “You have any banker friends here?”
Fletcher looks at me and squints. “I got a couple of accounts, I have some money wired back to a bank in the States occasionally. Why?”
“Anybody
at the bank owe you a favor, or would do you one?”
Fletcher considers. “Maybe, long as it wasn’t illegal. One guy is a big fan, kind of took a liking to me. Why?”
“It’s not exactly illegal, just sort of stretching things.” I lay it out for Fletcher then, improvising as I go, thoughts, possibilities, choices coming fast, flooding my mind. “What do you think?”
Fletcher takes it all in and grins. “Hell, it just might work. They might buy it. I’ll call him in the morning.”
“If it does, then I have to make a quick trip back to the States.”
“Well, make it fast. The man told me tonight, we got a weekend off, then we’re good for three months at the Baby Grand if we want it.” Fletcher turns and grins at me and holds out his palm. I slap it.
Three months. Not many jazz gigs like that. “I’ll be ready,” I say.
Fletcher’s smile fades then. “Hey, man, I’m sorry about your friend.”
“You know?”
“I guessed, from what you told me about him.”
“It’s just something I have to do, Fletch, but I’ll be back.”
Fletcher grins again. “Hey, I’m not worried. You ain’t going to pass up a chance to play again with Fletcher Paige.”
“No, I’m not.”
We get back in the car and continue home. Fletcher turns into the parking place by the canal, but neither of us makes any move to get out of the car. We watch a small boat, its running lights reflected in the canal, move by slowly under the bridge.
It’s a long time before he says anything. “You know how Chet died too, don’t you?”
“Yes, I think I do.”
Wednesday, May 10, 1988, Rotterdam
The Alfa Romeo, lost again. Wandering around in the night, his teeth hurting, his heart hurting, thinking maybe it’s time to go home for a while, to Oklahoma, see his family, his friends. Diane is gone too. At the police station again, he calls his agent.
“Stay there, Chet,” he says. “I’ll have someone pick you up. I have a place for you to stay until the concert Friday.”
“Okay,” Chet says. He hangs up and waits outside, pacing, feeling the itch, thinking he’d like to play. When the car comes, the agent’s friend introduces himself, asks Chet what he wants to do.
“I need something,” Chet says.
“I will try,” the man says. They go to the house. There’s another man there Chet thinks he knows. They talk, but Chet is restless, craving, waiting for some word, but none comes. Chet wants to play, so they all go down to the Dizzy Jazz Café and go inside. Nobody notices as he walks in, his horn under his arm.
Bad Circuits is playing, a kind of fusion group, but the pianist is good, Chet decides after listening for a few minutes. Chet floats to the bandstand like an apparition, unaware of how bad he looks. He suddenly appears next to the pianist but doesn’t register the surprise on the young musician’s face as he recognizes Chet. “Do you mind?” Chet asks.
The pianist says, “No, please.” He glances at the bassist and drummer, who have also become aware of Chet’s quiet presence.
They play two tunes. On the second, “Green Dolphin Street,” the pianist is nervous—this is Chet Baker—but devotes himself to comping for Chet. It doesn’t help—Chet has no strength. The notes he tries for elude him, and he plays so quietly, the drummer strains to hear. The saxophonist is unimpressed. It just isn’t happening. He takes the horn from his lips, smiles his thanks to the pianist, and disappears as quickly as he came, shaking his head, stuffing the horn back in its bag. He knows the tune so well, but tonight it’s like a stranger.
“I’ll see you back at the house,” he tells his two companions. They know it’s useless to try to talk him out of it. Outside again, he stands quietly, unsure of what to do next. He wanders some more, then finds himself in a coffeehouse, thinking he must get back to Amsterdam, score, get straight, get ready for the concert with—did the agent say Archie Shepp?
Thursday, May 12, 1988, Amsterdam
It’s late afternoon when he gets off the train and makes his way through Central Station. He’d slept through most of the day in Rotterdam, but he can’t make it anymore. Tonight with Archie Shepp—but he has to find a connection first, then a hotel. He heads for Zeedijk, makes a buy, then hears that someone is looking for him, someone he should avoid unless he has money. He can’t remember who it is. All he cares about now is to get to a hotel and fix.
He tries the usual haunts, but it’s busy everywhere—some holiday, he’s told—and all the hotels are full. Finally, near Central Station, traffic whizzing by, trams bearing down on him, he tries the Prins Hendrik. Yes, there is a room available, on the second floor.
He checks in, fixes; finally there is relief on this very warm evening, the mix of cocaine and heroin taking away the awful craving. He makes some calls and leaves for the Old Quarter, wanders around the Dam Square, feeling the warmth of the drugs as the sun sets on Amsterdam.
Back in the room, he smokes, dials numbers, turns on the television, and watches darkness settle over the city. He plays a little, gets the window open after a struggle and sits on the ledge, watching below, leans out to glimpse the canal, smiling and waving at a young girl on a bicycle, but she doesn’t wave back, doesn’t see him. Seeing the girl makes him think about Diane, all the hurt he’s feeling, wondering how much longer he can play with the dentures.
He should call the promoter, let them know where he is. There’s the concert with Archie Shepp. They’ll be waiting, but it’s slipped his mind, and there’s time. There’s always time, but it’s so dark now, way after midnight.
He’s lost all track of time, and now it’s Friday the thirteenth. He hears nothing, but then he’s leaning more, starting to nod off. It isn’t supposed to be like this.
Did he hear something behind him, feel something pushing him, a voice, or was it all in his mind?
Then, suddenly, it makes no difference. He’s flying, the cobblestone alleyway rushing up to meet him.
Chapter Fifteen
I’m up early, way too early for Fletcher. I slip out the door and just walk until I find a café, sit down outside with a large mug of coffee, and think about going to San Francisco. I could write Ace a letter, tell him that I know everything, end it like that, save myself money and the trouble of a trip, but I know I won’t. This is something I have to do in person. I want to see his face, hear what he says when I confront him.
I sit there for nearly an hour, going over conversations in my mind, trying to rationalize, make excuses, come up with some acceptable explanation, but none of them work. There is only one way to do this, one way to close it down for me, answer all the questions I have, including the big one. I have to hear Ace Buffington say why. I pay my check and head for the Old Quarter. There are other things to do first.
***
I don’t expect to find Inspector Dekker at the police station on Saturday, so I’m surprised to catch him coming out of the station in casual civilian clothes as I round the corner. He’s carrying some file folders under his arm and seems in a hurry, like a man on a mission.
I call to him from across the street. “Inspector Dekker.”
He wheels around, and his face drops as he sees it’s me. “Ah, my favorite visitor to Amsterdam. Please tell me this meeting is an accident.”
“Well, not quite,” I say. “If I hadn’t caught you, I would have tried to find you at home. Let me buy you breakfast. It’s important. Please.”
Dekker sighs, sees there is no escape. “When is it not with you, Mr. Horne? Very well, but I’ve promised my wife a day in the country, so I haven’t much time.”
“Great, thanks.” I point to a nearby café. “How about there?”
“Fine,” Dekker says, and walks along with me.
We order coffee and breakfast. While we’re waiting, I give Dekker a short, heavily edited version of my meeting with van Gogh and the two drug dealers and what I’ve found
out. I leave out de Hass’ demand and threat if I don’t come through.
Dekker is incredulous. “But how?” he says. He leans back in his chair and studies me. “No, never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“Let’s just say I made some contacts. The older man’s name is Navarro. He didn’t actually talk to me, but his partner did. His name is de Hass.”
“Navarro…Navarro.” Dekker stares out the window, trying to dredge up the name. “Yes, I know the name, but he’s been inactive for a long time. We have a file on him. De Hass I certainly know. He stays in the background for the most part. He is right, however. It’s impossible to make any charges against him, since your friend has left Amsterdam.”
“I know. I’m not concerned with that now. What I want is to confirm that my friend has really left Amsterdam. I’d feel better if I knew for sure.”
The waiter brings our order, and Dekker dives into toast and eggs. “I see,” he says. “Let me guess. You want me to make an official inquiry with the airlines to confirm that your friend was on a flight to America.”
I smile at Dekker. “You’ve a very good detective. I’d appreciate it. They wouldn’t tell me. Otherwise I wouldn’t bother you.”
Dekker just mumbles and wolfs down the toast and eggs. He puts his plate aside and studies me as if I’m an abstract painting he’s trying to decipher.
“Mr. Horne, you are truly quite amazing.”
“No, not really. Just persistent and sometimes lucky.”
“I won’t argue with that,” Dekker says. “I think you missed your calling. Very well. Anything else?”
“Well, actually, yes. I’m sure de Hass is responsible for the prostitute’s beating.”
“Yes?” Dekker says, his interest intent now.
“How is she?”
“Her friends tell me she will be fine. She’s going home tomorrow.”
“Good. I’m not the only one who’ll be relieved to hear that. I’m meeting with de Hass again.” Dekker starts to protest, but I push on. “In broad daylight, in a very public place. If you were to be there as well, it might discourage him, perhaps make him a little more wary, bring him out of the background.” It would also make me a lot more comfortable to have Dekker along. I can’t risk telling him everything—he’d stop me in a second—but this he might go for.