Looking for Chet Baker (14 page)

“Oh no, he moved, to Paris I think. Some time ago.”

“Well, we tried,” Fletcher says. He suddenly sits upright and smiles. “Stove. The guy’s name I was trying to think of. It was Stove.”

The bartender looks at Fletcher and stops drying the glass in his hand. “Yes, I remember him. He sometimes helped the promoter who booked Chet. Some musicians used to stay with him. Woody Shaw, and an alto player, I think. Yes, Woody Shaw.”

“That’s the one,” Fletcher says.

“Yes,” Jan says. He puts the glass down as gears mesh in his head. “Now I remember. He was with Chet that night. He and another man—Blok, I think his name is. He still comes in here sometimes. He has a small secondhand record shop near here.” He takes out a pen and paper and writes down the address. “He lives over his shop.”

“Thanks, thanks very much,” I say and drop some money on the bar.

“Send him to me,” the bartender says. “He still owes me money.”

***

We give the address to a taxi driver, and make the ten-minute ride in silence. I feel my excitement growing with every turn. I tip the taxi double for the short ride, and we get out. The shop is closed, but there are lights on upstairs and a night bell and intercom near the front door of the shop.

I press the button and wait. A voice comes through the intercom shortly. “Allo.”

“Mr. Blok? I would like to talk with you, please. About Chet Baker.”

“The shop is closed. Come tomorrow. Chet Baker is dead.”

Fletcher rolls his eyes and pushes the intercom button himself. “We know that, man. Just come down here a minute. This is Fletcher Paige.”

“Fletcher Paige?”

“Yes, c’mon, man.”

“A moment, please.”

A couple of minutes later, we see the light go on in the store and the shade go up on the door. A thin man in a sweater and pants peers out at us. His face flashes in recognition at Fletcher, and he opens the door. He’s all over Fletcher, inviting us in, offering us coffee, which we refuse, then locking the door and pulling down the shade once more.

We go to the back of the small shop. Most of the space is taken up with bins of vinyl LPs. I glance at the tabs and see the names of jazz greats, from Louis Armstrong to Miles Davis, printed in black marker pen.

“Look,” Blok says, stopping at the P’s. He shuffles through some albums, pulls out one of Fletcher, and hands it to him.

“Damn,” Fletcher says, looking at it. He turns it over and looks at the liner notes. “Sweden. Forgot I did this one.”

Blok holds out a pen. “Please.”

Fletcher signs it and hands it back. Blok takes it back to an old desk with a cash register and props it up against the register. “This will sell quickly,” Blok says. “Come, we talk.”

He takes us back to a small office that was probably once a closet. “You play with Fletcher?” he asks me. In the harsh light, his face is lined, ravaged by time and probably a lot of drugs.

“Yes, at the Bimhuis in Amsterdam.”

“Ah yes, I have heard.” He asks Fletcher some more questions. It takes a while to get him focused, but finally I take him back to that night in 1988. “Yes, I was with Chet and Stove, at the Dizzy Café. Chet was not good. He did not play well.” He puts his hands out and shrugs. “He needs…”

“Yeah, we know what he needed,” Fletcher says. “Did he have a connection here?”

Blok eyes Fletcher warily. “It was not me, but…I tried, but…”

“Did Chet stay with Stove, at his house?”

“Yes. I was there, I saw him. He slept and slept, but then he left and went back to Amsterdam the next day. He was very impatient.”

That at least explains the time gap, but doesn’t put us any closer to Ace’s whereabouts, and I don’t even bother asking Blok if he’s seen Ace. “Who would Chet see in Amsterdam? For drugs, I mean? Did he have somebody?”

Blok looks around, as if the police will break down the door any moment. “It was a long time ago, a different life for me. Now I have my shop.” He stops, sees us waiting for more. “Sometimes he can get methadone from a doctor. Heroin?” He spreads his hands and shrugs. “Van Gogh, perhaps—”

“Van Gogh?” I look at Fletcher.

“Oh, shit,” Fletcher says. “We don’t mean no damn painter.”

Blok laughs. “No,” he says, “a different van Gogh. If he is still alive.”

“How do we find this van Gogh?”

“You must ask. Someone will know.” We spend another ten minutes with Blok but, getting no further, finally thank him and leave.

“Well, what now?” Fletcher asks as we walk back to our hotel.

“You think van Gogh is a waste of time?” I’m disappointed, but it’s a name, and we have nothing else to go on.”

“I think he just wanted to get rid of us. Van Gogh, my ass. We can ask around, but maybe it’s time to give this up. Have you thought about that? Nobody could say you haven’t given it your best shot.”

I have, of course, and Fletcher is right. What more can I do? What more could anybody do? I reported Ace’s disappearance to the police. They have Ace’s photo, his portfolio, his jacket. It’s really up to them now. Chasing down a onetime drug connection named van Gogh in Amsterdam seems like a bad joke. But those questions won’t go away. It still doesn’t feel right somehow, and Ace is still missing.

“Yeah, I guess. Not much else I can do anyway.”

We stop for a beer at a bar next to the hotel, thinking our separate thoughts. Fletcher, though, rekindles the fire. “Hey,” he says. “I just thought of something. There’s a guy in Amsterdam. Chet used to stay with him a lot. He’s a trumpet player too. Maybe Ace stumbled across him.”

“Who?”

“What was his name?” Fletcher thinks for a moment, then snaps his fingers. “Hekkema, Evert Hekkema. Knew Chet real well.”

I remember then. “Oh yes, he was interviewed in the film. He sold Chet a car.”

Fletcher looks at me. “Maybe I should see that film. Might give me some more ideas, jog my memory.”

“Cool. When we get back.”

“Hey, I didn’t tell you. I’m going to be in a film too, about us jazz cats living and working in Europe.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they called me a few weeks ago. Don’t pay shit, but what the hell. I’ll talk.”

“Where is this going to be?”

“Maybe on our gig, some at the house. Don’t be surprised if a camera crew shows up.” Fletcher laughs. “Well, I’m tired, man. Don’t forget I’m old. Let’s head back to the hotel.”

“I’m with you.”

“I got these,” Fletcher says, taking out some money for the beers. “Hang on a minute. I want to make a call.”

While Fletcher is gone, I run over everything again in my mind, still haunted by the thought that something has happened to Ace. He should have been here. He wouldn’t have seen that film and passed on these two obvious sources on Chet Baker. It just isn’t right.

When Fletcher comes back, his expression has changed completely. “Just checked my messages at home.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“A call for you from that policeman, Dekker. They found something on your friend.”

***

The drive back to Amsterdam seems to take forever. Fletcher drives, plays music, and keeps trying to convince me that it isn’t over yet, that Dekker’s call might not be anything. I haven’t slept much. Every time I close my eyes, I see myself identifying Ace’s body. By the time Amsterdam comes into view, I’m impatient to get to the flat and call Dekker. But even that doesn’t work out. Fletcher exits the expressway, and we make our way slowly into the city center.

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.