Looking for Chet Baker (24 page)

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Authors: Bill Moody

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BOOK: Looking for Chet Baker

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“Yeah, but she broke it off again just before he died. Oh, I’d love to see that film,” Margo says.

“It’s at the Jazz Archives in Amsterdam. Ask for a woman there named Helen when you go back.”

“I will, I will.”

“So, you were saying about the money?”

“I decided it was time to let him have it, maybe use it to go home, see his family. He needed that, to get away from Europe for a while. I knew he was coming back to Amsterdam, but before I could…” Her voice trails off, and her eyes well up again. “I know a dealer was probably looking for him to get his money.”

“How much was there?”

She looks at me, back from her musings. “You won’t believe it, but it was over $87,000. Hell, I couldn’t believe it. After he died, I closed the account, paid for the sculpture, and I’ve been trying to decide ever since what to do with the money.” She shakes her head. “I should have sent it to his family, but everybody came out of the woodwork after he died, making claims, filing suits. I didn’t want to see it go to lawyers, so I just kept putting it off.”

She seems lost for a moment, as if she doesn’t hear me.

“What do you think, Margo? Did he jump? I know he wasn’t pushed.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Yes. There was a dealer looking for him, Margo, but he didn’t find him.” I tell her about van Gogh. “He must have seen Chet sometime that night, knew where he was, but he didn’t tell anyone.”

Margo sighs and smiles slightly. “Well, bless his heart.”

“He’s in bad shape now. Maybe some of the money could go to him, help get him straight.”

Margo doesn’t answer for a long moment. She’s perfectly still, then she raises her eyes to me and lets me see pain, longing, sadness, and finally relief, all in one brief gaze. “I hope to God he just fell and didn’t know anything.”

It’s so quiet I can hear the wind rustling through the trees outside. I reach across and touch her arm. “I think you’re right, Margo. I don’t think he knew anything.”

She lays her hand lightly on mine for a moment. “Thank you,” she says.

She gets up and puts the CD on again. She kneels in front of the speakers, her hands clasped together, and listens with her eyes closed. I listen too, as Chet Baker’s horn fills the room with melancholy, reaching down inside both of us somewhere, touching us without even knowing he does it. I watch Margo for a moment, feeling now like an intruder. I quietly let myself out and close the door behind me, the painful strains of “My Foolish Heart” still ringing in my head.

I don’t think she cares or even knows when I leave.

Coda

“You mind if I sit in?” I turn and find Johnny Griffin leaning over at my shoulder, his tenor saxophone in his hand. Fletcher hasn’t even seen him. We’re between tunes, and Fletch is talking to somebody at a front table.

“Hey,” I say and almost fall off the piano bench. “Well, yeah, sure.” The Little Giant, as he’s called, straightens up then and grins Fletcher’s way. Fletcher sees everybody looking behind him. He turns toward us, sees Griff, and throws up his hands.

“Oh, man,” Fletcher says and runs over. I watch the two of them embrace and laugh. They’re cut from the same cloth, and all eyes are on these two now as they have their public reunion. Fletcher finally looks at me. “Man, can you believe this?” His face must hurt from grinning. “Damn, let’s play something.”

There’s a quick discussion of tunes and keys until they eventually decide on a fast blues. Fletch snaps his fingers for the tempo. “About here?” Griff nods, and we’re off. They’re like a pair of racehorses out the gate, heading for someplace I’ve never been. Neck and neck through the line twice, then Fletch nods and steps away. Griff smokes a half dozen choruses and I just hang in, listening, slotting the chords. On his last one, Griff points his horn at Fletch, who’s been standing there listening to Griff’s blistering lines, nodding, grinning. He gives him a look, like, Oh yeah, well listen to this. Fletch steps up and answers back with six of his own. It’s a tie. Fletcher Paige and Johnny Griffin. Griff comes back, and they trade choruses, then four measures each, then two, holding the audience spellbound, until finally Griff waves his hand at Fletch in mock surrender. Then they both turn and point at me.

I manage a half dozen of my own, and when I look up to signal I’m done, they’re both snapping their fingers. “What’d I tell you?” I hear Fletcher say. “Go on,” Griff says, and that’s all I need. I look up at them at the end of my last chorus to let them know I’m done, and they come back, chasing each other for a couple more, and finally take it home. The audience hardly matters. Fletcher steps aside then and holds out his hand: “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Johnny Griffin,” but it isn’t really necessary. Everybody knows. They’re all on their feet now, clapping and yelling.

Damn, Fletcher Paige and Johnny Griffin.

We break then, and while Fletch and Griff catch up at the bar, I go outside and take in the Amsterdam night air.

This is our third weekend, and everything has gone to plan. The crowds have been good; the owner loves us and is already talking about an extension. My playing is probably the best it’s ever been, thanks to Fletch. It’s like working with a great actor, being pushed and prodded beyond your normal limits, and my hand has responded well.

But some things have changed since I came back, and some people are gone. Darren, for one. “We had a long talk,” Fletch told me. “He’s gone back to the States, to get in a computer degree program. Finally made him see he’s wasting his time here and it was time to go back. Forget all that Shaft shit.”

“And I’m sure it helped that you encouraged him,” I said.

“Well, maybe. I hope so. I owe him.”

I talked to Margo Highland a couple of times. She decided to set up a Chet Baker fund for aspiring young musicians with some of the money, and promised to return to Amsterdam soon to get things rolling. Navarro and de Hass are nothing but bad memories now, and Inspector Dekker has assured me they are both being investigated. De Hass will have slipped up somewhere, but that’s for Dekker to worry about. That I am leaving to the police.

I tried finding Van Gogh again, but nobody knew where he was, only that he’d left Amsterdam.

***

Now, as I turn to go back inside, I see Fletch and Griff coming out, shaking hands, saying good-byes.

“Nice to meet you,” Griffin says. “And play with you.” He winks at Fletch. “Is he paying you right?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Pleasure is all mine, Griff.” It’s all I can do to not call him Mr. Griffin.

“Well, you take care, Fletch.” He turns, and we watch him walk toward the taxi stand.

“Damn,” Fletcher says. “That was good. Come on, let’s walk a bit. We got time.”

We walk down to the canal and cross the bridge. The lights from tour boats glitter and shine on the water, and we can hear voices carrying across the water.

“I had an e-mail from Margo today,” Fletch says.

“Yeah? Is she coming back?”

“Uh-huh, sometime next month, if she gets all her shit together.”

“Guess I’ll have to find a place of my own.”

“No hurry,” Fletch says. He looks at me. “You going to stay, then?”

“For a while. I haven’t thought about it much—I’m just enjoying the moment.”

“Yes,” Fletcher says, “so am I. What about your FBI girl-friend?”

“She might come over, at least for a visit.” I shrug. “She has a career too.”

Fletch smiles. “Uh-huh, and I think I see San Francisco in your future.”

Fletcher could be right.

Once I’d had it out with Ace and talked to Margo, I drove back through the wine country, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I could see myself living there. So did Andie.

I’d boarded the return flight to Amsterdam with an advance copy of my CD, courtesy of Paul Westbrook, some promises from Margo Highland, and the scent of Andie’s perfume. We’d spent another night and day together, and although neither of us knew exactly where it was going, we’d made a good start. The timing was certainly getting better.

“You have to see Natalie, at least talk to her,” Andie said before I left. “I want to know, I want you to know, then we’ll go from there.”

She’d dropped me at the street check-in. “I can’t go in there. Let’s just say good-bye here.”

“Okay.” There’d been the usual crush of cars around us, unloading bags, vying for a space at the curb. When she looked at me, I saw her eyes well up. “Hey, c’mon now. We’ll be fine.”

She pulled a tissue out of her handbag and wiped her eyes. “Damn, an emotional FBI agent.” She managed a smile then. “You know how much I’d like to get on this flight too, don’t you?”

“Yes, but this time it’s different.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

I pulled her close and kissed her. She leaned her head against the seat for a moment. “God, you are a champion kisser. Now get out of here before I make you miss your plane.”

It wasn’t the same as with Natalie—maybe nothing ever would be—but it was good, and sometimes that can be enough.

“Who knows? I don’t like to predict anything anymore.” I look at my watch. “Hey, Mr. Paige, let’s play.”

***

Driving back from the Baby Grand, relaxed, feeling that good tired feeling that comes over me after a satisfying night of playing, we pass the Prins Hendrik Hotel. I tell Fletcher to pull over. “Just for a minute,” I say.

“Damn,” Fletcher says, “haven’t you had enough of that place?”

I get out of the car. “Just want another look.”

I walk over to the hotel. There aren’t many people out now, but just behind the hotel, I know the Old Quarter is bustling with activity. I look at the plaque again. The hotel and street-lights make the inscription just readable.

It should be in Yale, Oklahoma, I think—Chet’s hometown—or maybe someplace in California, where he spent so much time. But where? The Haig, where he began with Gerry Mulligan, is gone, and so is the Lighthouse, Shelly’s Manne Hole, like Birdland and the Five Spot in New York, or the Blackhawk and the Jazz Workshop in San Francisco. All gone. Like so many musicians before him, and so many after, Chet Baker came here to play his music where it’s appreciated best, so maybe a foreign country is appropriate.

The words on the plaque stay with me as I walk back to Fletcher’s car.
He will live on in his music for anyone willing to listen and feel.

We like our heroes to die young dramatically, or if they live, confess and show remorse. Chet Baker did neither.

Well, Chet, a lot of people are still listening, still feeling.

I get in the car and catch Fletcher’s look. “You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine now.”

Fletcher says, “Cool.” He puts the car in gear, pulls away, and starts humming a tune that’s vaguely familiar.

“What’s that?”

“‘The Peacocks.’ Stan Getz and Jimmy Rowles’ record. Young tenor player, old pianist. We got just the opposite going. You know that tune?”

“Not yet, but I can learn.”

“Yeah, man,” Fletcher says. “You learn fast.”

Chet Baker Selected Discography

The Best of the Gerry Mulligan Quartet with Chet Baker.
Pacific Jazz, 1991.