Looking for Chet Baker

by Bill Moody

  “And what is this public place?”

  “A bank.”

  “A bank,” Dekker says. “I’m sure there is more to it than you’re telling me, but…” He shakes his head for a moment, thinking. “I must be out of my mind,” he says. “When?”

  “Monday morning, if it all works out. I’ll call you.”

  Dekker nods and pushes his plate aside.

  “There’s one other thing.”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear it,” Dekker says. “I’m an old man, Mr. Horne. My heart.”

  “Oh, this is easy. I’d like to have the portfolio. I want to return it to my friend in person.”

  Dekker frowns. “You’re going to see him? I can understand your feelings, but what will it accomplish? I know you have strong suspicions, but are you sure that—”

  “Yes, there’s no mistake. It may not accomplish anything, but it’s something I have to do.”

  Dekker’s expression changes then. “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Horne. As I told you the first time we met, friends sometimes do strange things.”

  “Yes, I guess you were right.” I look away and wonder why it had to be Ace.

  He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Well, I must go,” Dekker says. “What was the name of that place where you are performing?”

  “The Baby Grand.”

  “Yes. I have the portfolio at home. Suppose I bring it to you this evening. Frankly, I’ll be glad to see the back of it.”

  “Thank you, Inspector. I appreciate it. Then I’ll be out of your hair for good.”

  “No,” Dekker says. “That will only be when you leave Amsterdam.”

  ***

  Fletcher is just signing off on his computer when I get back to the flat. “I sent an e-mail to Margo,” he says. “If she’s around, she should answer soon. I’ll keep checking.” He picks up his horn and snaps it on the chain around his neck. “I want to try a couple of tunes if you’ve got time.”

  “Sure.”

  “I want to do ‘Lament.’ You know it?”

  Perfect for Fletch, I think. Beautiful tune by J. J. Johnson. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Well, let’s go find out.” We go into the living room, and I sit down at the piano, remembering the changes, playing through them quickly. Fletcher starts on the pickup melody notes, but before I can play the first chord, there’s a knock on the door.

  “Damn,” he says, and goes to answer it.

  I hear Darren’s voice, and Fletcher’s, but more friendly than I’ve ever heard him with the young black man. “Hey, man, come on in.”

  They come back to the living room, joking around like old buddies. Darren nods at me and hands me a slip of paper with flight information. “Best I could do, man, on such short notice.”

  I look at it. Amsterdam to San Francisco. Much less than I expected to pay, and sooner than I thought possible. Monday afternoon.

  “Hey, thanks, Darren. This is great.”

  “Nothin’, man. Now you do me a favor.”

  “Sure. What?”

  He glances at Fletch. “Show me how you knew what that song was—‘Oleo,’ you said it was—by just listening to van Gogh tap it out on that drum pad thing he was beating on.”

  Fletcher looks at me. “What the hell is he talking about?”

  I laugh. “The old drummer I told you about. He was tapping out rhythms, seeing if I knew what tune he was thinking of. Darren wants to know the secret.”

  “Ah,” Fletcher says. He puts the horn in his mouth and blows the first eight bars of “Oleo” while I tap out the rhythm with my hands on top of the piano. It’s a very jagged, syncopated line that lends itself to catching the tune from just the rhythm, a jam session tune that most musicians know. Darren watches and listens to Fletch’s horn and my tapping, but still looks puzzled.

  “You got that from just the rhythm?”

  “Well, it was a lucky guess.”

  “Oh, no,” Fletcher says to Darren. “This cat has some ears.”

  “Dig it,” Darren says. He looks at Fletcher more seriously now. “Look here, okay if I listen to you rehearse?”

  “Well, sure,” Fletcher says, a bit surprised. “I thought you liked that hip-hop rap shit.” He looks at me and raises his eyebrows. Might be hope for this boy yet, his expression says.

  We go over two other ballads besides “Lament,” and one jump tune I don’t know, something Fletcher says he played with Basie called “Moten Swing.” I’d heard it, but never played it.

  “Just lay waaay back,” Fletcher says. “Basie style, smack on the beat, almost behind, like you’re Benny Moten, just sauntering down Vine Street in Kansas City.”

  I follow his lead but find it’s difficult. I play on the top of the beat, edgy, so it takes some adjusting. It almost feels like we’re dragging the tempo.

  “There,” Fletcher says, “now you got it,” as we go through it for the third time. He laughs then. “We had a sub trombone player for a week once, cat from Maynard Ferguson’s band. Now, you know how frantic Maynard plays. This cat was already to letter C before we got out of the first eight bars. We had to cool him out.”

  I laugh and think every time Fletcher tells a story like that, I’m reminded of who I’m playing with and how lucky I am to be with him. It’s like joining the Giants as a rookie and looking to your left and seeing Willie Mays giving you the thumbs-up sign.

  Darren applauds our efforts and stands up to go. “I’ll be by tonight,” he says.

  “All right,” says Fletcher. “I’ll be looking for you.”

  When he goes, Fletcher says, “You know, he’s a good kid.”

  We get some lunch then, and after we clean up the dishes, Fletcher checks his e-mail.

  “Here we go,” he says. “Margo must be up late.” I read over his shoulder.

  Hi Darlin,

  I got a couple of nights at a pizza joint, and yes there’s some professor called me, trying to get me to sit down and talk about Chet. I put him off but guess I will talk to him. Seems like a nice guy. You know him? Hope your gig is going well and glad to hear you found a piano player you like. You are soooo picky.

  Bye Sugar.

  “Well, there’s your answer,” Fletcher says. “Ace has landed.” He closes the screen and shuts down the computer.

  “Yeah, there’s my answer.”

  ***

  I spent Sunday going over the bank scheme with Fletcher—bouncing ideas off him, trying to anticipate the unexpected—until we were both mentally exhausted. By the time Fletcher called the banker friend, I was having second thoughts and doubts about the whole thing. What if de Hass didn’t show up? What if he saw through the entire scheme or wasn’t satisfied I’d made enough of an effort? It could all blow up in my face.

  I listened to Fletcher turn on the charm while I paced around the living room, wanting it all to be over. Finally, when I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, I went for a walk. When I came back, I could tell from Fletcher’s tired smile he’d pulled it off, but he looked totally wrung out. I heaved a great sigh of relief and listened to Fletcher recount his conversation. The banker friend had been reluctant at first, but in the end, he caved in under Fletcher’s persuasiveness, the promise of some rare records, and unlimited guest privileges for the length of our stay at the Baby Grand.

  “This shit’s gonna cost me,” Fletcher said, “but Hoke Moseley would be proud.” He got up then and headed for his room. “Even if they do find Glenn Miller, don’t call me.”

  As soon as his door shut, I punched the air and said, “Yes!” I made a quick trip to the coffee shop to leave word for de Hass with the bartender. I described him, but I really didn’t have to—the bartender knew who I was talking about.

  “Just tell him Evan Horne said Credit Banc of Netherlands at ten tomorrow morning.”

  He had just nodded and wiped down the bar like he didn’t want to know any more.

  I called Dekker, left him
the same message, grabbed some dinner, came back to the flat, and fell into bed, hoping my mind would turn off till morning.

  ***

  But now, as I walk into the bank, the reality of the situation hits me, and all my doubts return. There’s no sign of Inspector Dekker yet, but the bank is already humming. People are in line for the teller windows, filling out forms; voices and footsteps echo on the marble floors up to high ceilings; and sunlight streams through the plate-glass windows of the old building.

  When I ask for Mr. van Lier, I’m directed to a desk off to the side in a kind of bullpen area reserved for bank officers. Van Lier joins me and sits down. He has wavy gray hair and tortoiseshell glasses and is dressed in a three-piece suit, with a pocket watch on a chain, which he checks several times. He couldn’t look more respectable or official.

  “Mr. Horne?”

  “Evan, yes. Fletcher Paige said everything is in order.”

  Van Lier looks around a bit nervously. “Yes, it’s very irregular, but I believe you will find this satisfactory.” He opens his desk drawer and hands me two sheets of paper. I look at them and see dates, amounts, some embossed bank stamps, and the magic name. Everything else is in Dutch, and it looks official as hell.

  “All you have to do is just confirm what I say,” I tell van Lier. “I really appreciate this.”

  “Is he coming soon?”

  “Yes, any minute.”

  Van Lier swallows and checks his watch again. He probably hasn’t had one of Amsterdam’s major drug dealers at his desk—at least, not that he knows. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He gets up and goes to the back just as the doors swing open. De Hass strides in, dressed in a suit and tie, looking like any prosperous merchant, and Dekker is right behind him. They both spot me and come over, glancing at each other when they realize they’re headed for the same desk. They sit down on either side of me in front of van Lier’s desk.

  “I don’t like to be summoned,” de Hass says to me, leaning closer. “Who is this?” He glances at Dekker, who looks back, but there’s no recognition in either of their faces.

  “I’ll introduce you in a minute. How else was I supposed to contact you?”

  Before he can answer, van Lier comes back, carrying two coffees. When he sees my companions, he almost drops them.

  “Here you are,” he says, setting them on the desk. He pulls up his chair, and I lean forward slightly. Time to go to work.

  “Mr. van Lier, this is Mr.…I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name,” I say for Dekker’s benefit.

  De Hass glares for a moment but recovers quickly. “De Hass. Edward de Hass.”

  “Yes, that’s it. And this,” I say, gesturing to my right, “is Inspector Dekker of the Amsterdam Police.”

  It’s almost worth all the trouble just to see the expression on de Hass’ face. He shifts in his chair and suddenly becomes fascinated with the floor. Dekker nods at van Lier and stares at de Hass while I press on.

  “I’ve explained to Mr. van Lier that I’m acting on behalf of the Baker family, and that we simply want to confirm that the account in question has been inactive for several years, and that any claim on that account, by any creditor, would have to be examined. I’ve cooperated fully with the police, since the account holder was not Dutch, and they have been very helpful in tracking down information.”

  “Yes,” de Hass says. “My company is appreciative of that.” He smiles at van Lier, one businessman to another, but avoids looking at Dekker.

  “Certainly,” van Lier says. He produces the two sheets and hands them to de Hass. “It’s a very old account, so I’ve taken the liberty of checking our records and made a printout of the last transactions.”

  De Hass takes the sheets. He reaches inside his coat for his glasses and examines the documents van Lier has created out of thin air. He’s close enough for me to see the papers. Van Lier has made it look good; Chesney Henry Baker’s name appears at the top, then a series of numbers, the account identification. The second sheet is a notice of some kind. De Hass examines and reads through each very carefully.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t read Dutch. What does it say?” I ask de Hass.

  He glances up at me. “The account has been closed due to inactivity. The balance was used for bank charges.”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” van Lier says. “As you can see, it’s been more than ten years.”

  De Hass looks up. “And there are no other accounts?”

  “No,” van Lier says. “I did a complete search of our records.” He steals a glance at me for approval of his improvising.

  “I see,” de Hass says. “This is very disappointing.”

  I hold up my hands and smile. “Sorry.”

  “May I keep these, for our company records?” de Hass says.

  “Of course,” van Lier says. “Those are copies.”

  “Well, thank you.” De Hass stands up and shakes hands with van Lier, ignoring me and Dekker. He says something to van Lier in Dutch. The banker answers and smiles.

  We get up, and I walk de Hass to the door, leaving Dekker and van Lier to compare notes. “Well, I found it, but that’s all there is.”

  “Yes, very disappointing. Some advice to you, Mr. Horne.”

  “Yes?”

  “Stick to music. It’s much safer.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “Now here’s some advice for you. You bother me or anyone I know, and Inspector Dekker over there will be on you so fast you won’t know what hit you.” I hold de Hass’ gaze for a moment. “And that will be much safer for you.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just stares back at me, then glances over his shoulder at Dekker and van Lier, who are still talking. He pushes the large glass door open then and walks out, clutching the papers.

  I turn back toward van Lier’s desk. He’s still standing, watching. I walk over but don’t sit down. “What did he say to you—in Dutch, I mean?”

  Van Lier smiles. “He said he doesn’t like dealing with Americans.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch de Hass. He’s stopped in front of the large window by van Lier’s desk, looking in at us.

  “Don’t look now, but we’re being watched. Keep smiling and shake my hand,” I say. When I look again, de Hass is gone. “You did fine. Fletcher and I both thank you.”

  “Yes, I did, didn’t I,” van Lier says. “It was rather exciting.”

  “You don’t know how exciting. Thank you again.”

  Dekker follows me to the door. “Mr. Horne, I…I…” He can’t finish the sentence. He turns and walks out, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

  ***

  I’d packed the night before, so I’d planned to just come back, get my bag, and get a taxi to the airport. I hear Fletcher’s horn, but the minute I open the door, he comes flying out.

  “Well? How did it go?”

  “Like clockwork. I don’t think we have to worry about de Hass.”

  Fletcher holds out his palm for me to slap, then does his little dance. “Well, come on. I have to take you to the airport,” he says.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can take a taxi.”

  “No big thing, man. I’ll take you. I want to hear all the details.”

  We share a cup of coffee, then Fletcher goes off to get dressed. There’s some minor tension in the air. I know Fletcher hates to see me go and is afraid I might not come back.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Fletch, don’t worry. I always make the gig.”

  He smiles. “Okay. Give me ten minutes,” he says.

  “Sure, we got time.”

  I get the rest of my things together—one small carry-on bag and Ace’s portfolio. I pause at the piano, hope I’m going to see this old upright again soon, and play the first eight bars of “Oleo.”

  “You ready?” Fletcher says.

  It’s nearly an hour’s ride to Schipol Airport.
I give Fletch a complete rundown of the bank scene and have him laughing most of the way. When we pull in to departures, he stops the car. “I’m not going in,” Fletcher says. I get my bag out of the back, and he comes around.

  He holds out his hand. “Get this over with quick, and let me know when you’ve got a return flight. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Thanks, Fletch. See you in a few days.”

  “I hope so,” he says. “We’ve got some music to play.”

  I watch him drive off, then go inside to check in. Darren has gotten me a window seat, and I plan to kill time by sleeping as much as possible on the long flight—over ten hours, and that puts me into San Francisco in midafternoon.

  I spend the flight enduring two movies, three meals, and two snacks but no cigarette. Instead, I get up periodically and walk the aisles. I drink coffee, pick at the meals, try to read, but keep seeing the same words over and over. I even skim through the articles in the portfolio again, thinking that this is what started it all.

  When the films run, I get some headphones but doze through most of them, not even sure what I’m watching. Finally I give up altogether and fall asleep the rest of the way until I hear the pilot tell us we’re on the final approach to San Francisco. It seems to take forever to clear customs and passport control, but eventually I’m standing outside, breathing in San Francisco’s cool spring air and having my first cigarette in thirteen hours. Maybe I could quit.

  Shaking off the jet lag, I go back into the terminal and call Coop from a pay phone. “Hey, Coop, you just lounging around eating doughnuts?”

  “Evan? Hey, where are you?”

  “San Francisco. Got a little business up here, then I’m heading back to Amsterdam.” I fill him in on Fletcher, the upcoming gig, and my beef with Ace. “He sold me out, Coop.”

  “Are you sure? Doesn’t sound like Ace.”