Looking for Chet Baker (19 page)

Van Gogh shuffles closer, leans in to speak to him quietly. The man nods and takes out a roll of money, peels off some notes, and hands them to van Gogh without taking his eyes off me. Van Gogh doesn’t even look at the money. He just stuffs it in his pocket, turns, and brushes past me. He whispers something to me, but all I catch is “Be careful.” Then van Gogh is gone and out the door.

I move closer to the table. “I’m trying to locate my friend, Professor Buffington,” I say to the younger man. “That man thought you might know where he is, but since you met me at the train station, you and your partner here probably both do. I’ve forgotten your name.”

The two have a brief exchange, in Spanish I think. The dark man either can’t or doesn’t want to speak English. He just continues to stare at me.

“Sit down, Mr. Horne,” the man from the train station says. “It’s de Hass.” He has a thin, pinched face and wavy hair and is dressed in more casual but just as expensive clothes. He’s much younger than the dark man and from his demeanor, obviously his employee.

He smiles in spite of himself, and his English is excellent, with only a trace of an accent. “You have a good memory. As for your friend, we have no idea where he is at this time. I suspect he has left Amsterdam. We have no further interest in him. Our business is now with you.” The dark man looks at him. They have another brief exchange, which I take to be a translation. The dark man nods.

“With me? What did you do, kidnap my friend?”

He gives me an exasperated look. “We persuaded him, Mr. Horne. Kidnapping, as you put it, was not necessary. He came to Amsterdam and attracted a great deal of notice with his questions about Chet Baker—questions that brought up old memories, old debts. Your friend made himself very visible, and eventually, those questions came to our attention. I offered him a chance to talk with Mr. Navarro.” He nods toward the older man, who glances over at the mention of his name.

That I was right about everything doesn’t make me happy to be sitting here. “Why? What did his research on Chet Baker’s death have to do with you?” I look around the room. There’s no sign of Darren or Fletcher, just customers talking, smoking.

De Hass is enjoying himself. “Chet Baker’s death was of no concern. Money he owed was. By persuading Professor Buffington to let us assist him with his research, we could protect our interests as well.” He looks at Navarro, and his voice inflection makes it obvious he’s asking a question. Navarro seems to approve.

“There were rumors, as there are about any celebrity death—rumors about money, long-forgotten bank accounts. People like to expand, add to legends, but there is often truth to these rumors. Chet Baker was a famous musician. His addiction and his carelessness with money were as well known as his music. I think if you were to check with the police, you would find he had a significant record with many police agencies, including Interpol. The needs of his addiction were provided for many times, and because of his celebrity and his earning power, he was sometimes allowed credit. He always paid his debts, eventually, except for that last time.”

“And of course, you don’t make exceptions.” I shift in the booth so I can see the bar.

“No. I would never have allowed credit to begin with, even for Chet Baker. It’s not good business. Mr. Navarro did on occasion. Perhaps he had a misguided soft spot for Chet Baker.” His smile is chilling, menacing.

That would be a first. A drug dealer with a soft spot. “And this time you’re talking about, it was just before he died?”

“Yes, so Mr. Navarro blames himself partly for the loss.”

“Chet Baker’s death?”

“His death?” De Hass laughs and shakes his head. “We’re talking about money, nothing more. I know you talked to the police. Chet Baker needed no help from anyone. He avoided Mr. Navarro, perhaps unintentionally, one too many times. But no, Mr. Navarro had nothing to do with his death. Chet Baker was already dead, evidently by his own hand. Mr. Navarro was looking for him, but he was too late.”

And van Gogh never told. Now I know what he meant.
I no tell,
van Gogh had said. Maybe he had warned Chet, helped him hide from Navarro, and maybe for his trouble, his hand was crushed. But I also know he brought me here not to find Ace but to deliver me to these two, out of fear and need—a few guilders, another fix. Never trust a junkie.

“How much did he owe?”

“Let’s just say it was a significant amount, enough that it was worth exhausting your friend’s leads, to clear the books, so to speak.” He pauses and looks around at Navarro, who says nothing but shifts in his seat and waves his hand in an impatient gesture. The younger man nods and turns back to me.

“Now we come to you, Mr. Horne. Mr. Navarro doesn’t want to bother, but I think there is money and that you can find it. For obvious reasons, I cannot make inquiries of bank records.” He pauses for a moment, then continues. “So, unless you wish to make good on that debt yourself, or know of some other way it can be paid, we are going to insist that you make those inquiries for us.” He glances up then, over my shoulder. I turn and see Fletcher and Darren slide onto a couple of stools at the bar.

“What do you mean, you insist? You forced my friend to—”

He puts his hand up. “Forced? No, Mr. Horne. Your friend cooperated willingly. You perhaps don’t know him as well as you think. He told me from the beginning that you had agreed to help him with his research, and there you were, right on schedule. As a musician it was obvious that you would have more success than he would have, so we simply speeded things along.”

“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.