Looking for Chet Baker (7 page)

“Yeah,” Coop says. “Anyway, you said the plans were tentative, right?”

“Right.” There are a few moments of silence. I know Coop is mulling it over. “I did hear from somebody else you know, though. Natalie.”

“Really? How’s she doing?”

“Seems fine. Said to tell you hello if I talked to you. Listen, man. I don’t know how long you’re going to be gone, but if I were you, I’d talk to her. We had a beer, kind of caught up, you know. She understands things a lot better now. Might be worth your while.”

“Yeah, I know, Coop, but not yet. I’m not ready for that.”

“Gotcha. Just wanted to let you know. Well, listen, you’re burning up charges here. Got somewhere I can call you if I hear anything from Ace?”

I give him the hotel number. “You can probably catch me mornings, my time. We’re eight hours ahead of California. Leave a message otherwise.”

“Will do. You take care, huh?”

“I will, Coop, I will.”

I hang up, but reluctantly. It was good to hear a familiar voice. If Ace has gone back to the States, maybe he will pass through L.A. and call Coop. Nothing would make me happier.

Otherwise, I’m going to have to tell Coop and Inspector Dekker about the portfolio Ace left behind and make it official.

***

Back at the hotel, I go through the portfolio again, looking through every article and piece of paper in there, trying to come up with a logical explanation as to why Ace would leave all this material behind. I don’t even want to go there, but had he come across something that had made him overcautious? Was he afraid someone would find it, know what he was up to? I run over another scenario in my mind, just to try it out, see how it plays.

What if Ace had been forced to check out, been taken somewhere, against his will? And maybe his abductors—was that too strong?—had supervised his packing. They wouldn’t have known about the portfolio, that it was hidden, and if that was the situation, Ace certainly wouldn’t have told them. No, he would have left it right where it was, hoping that eventually somebody—the maid, the next occupant—would find it, turn it in, and raise the alert. Or was he counting on me finding it? When I suggested the possibility to Fletcher, he was right to say that’s a little out there, but now I’m not so sure. In any case, I’m not prepared to give it up now. There might be a time for that later.

Looking through the material, it’s clear that Ace has certainly done his homework on Chet Baker. I knew of Chet, of course, had several of his records, and knew something about his legendary career in jazz. But that’s nothing like the dossier Ace has assembled. I read it all just to pass the time, hoping to find some clue that might tell me where Ace might be headed next and why he’s gone off in such a rush.

Chet Baker had crisscrossed Europe since the 1950s. He’d played in, recorded in, and been arrested, jailed, and deported from several countries in Europe. He’d spent jail time in Italy—sixteen months—and left a trail a researcher like Ace would drool over. His celebrity had followed him everywhere, helped along by run-ins with the law. Ace could be in Italy, France, Scandinavia, even Spain. Chet played all those places more than once, but he’d spent a lot of time in Amsterdam, from the sound of it—no doubt because heroin was readily available, and the attitude much more liberal than elsewhere.

Chet grew up in southern California and started right at the top, auditioning for Charlie Parker in L.A., beating out every trumpet player there to make some gigs with Bird. When Parker went back to New York, he told Dizzy and Miles, “There’s a little white cat on the coast who’s gonna eat you up.” Next to that quote is Ace’s handwritten reminder to check the quote.

By then, Chet was in the pianoless quartet with Gerry Mulligan and well on the road to fame and fortune. Unfortunately for Chet, the road was littered with heroin.

He had his own group after that with pianist Russ Freeman. That was the beginning of his singing career too. Young, talented, good-looking, he seemed destined for stardom. Hollywood was interested, but drugs always waylaid the ultimate arrival. In and out of methadone programs—some official, some self-made—Chet hit bottom in San Francisco, when he was beaten up on the street in 1969.

There were several versions of that incident, and from the clippings, it wasn’t clear whether it was a simple mugging or a payback by drug dealers he owed money to. Whatever the case, his teeth were damaged, and he had to learn how to play all over again with dentures. It took him over three years, but he did it, making his first comeback with a series of records that were more commercial than artistic. They didn’t work, so he retreated as always to Europe, and eventually, so the critics said, was playing better than ever.

More records, reunions with Gerry Mulligan, and the legend continued. So did the drug use. It was just a part of his life that he could never fully shake. Still, people always turned out to hear him play, buy his records, and hope for more. There was a string of women, wives, kids, but nothing, it seemed, kept Chet Baker from playing jazz. Music was indeed his life, but time turned against him.

There are several photos, which I spread out on the bed, ranging from some very early days to one not long before he died—Chet sitting on a stool onstage, his trumpet nearby. He seems to be thinking, What happened? It is Dorian Gray in reverse.

I look at the two photos of Ace again. On impulse, I take one of them and slip it in my passport wallet. I put everything back in the case and zip it up. I light a cigarette and try to put myself in Ace’s head. Chet’s last recording, with a big band in Germany, is in my own collection—
My Favorite Songs: The Last Great Concert.
I remember from the liner notes that he had driven off right after the recording session for another gig somewhere, then back to Amsterdam with a pocketful of cash. Two weeks later, he was dead.

On one of the sheets with phone numbers and addresses, I’d come across the Dutch Jazz Archives again. Logical place for Ace to start after the hotel, digging through articles. A research library, where he’d be at home and comfortable. Somebody besides Fletcher Paige and the hotel owner must have seen him, talked to him. Ace could also still be right here in Amsterdam too, running around, excitedly talking to anyone who knew Chet Baker. Maybe that was the key to everything.

Find Chet Baker, find Ace Buffington.

Chapter Six

Fletcher Paige is a wonder. He plays every night with the maturity of a wily old veteran and the enthusiasm of a young kid on his first gig. This is simply one I don’t want to end. The audiences are responsive, the band is cooking, and I’m learning what it’s like to play with a master of what some critics have called America’s classical music. And here we are, doing it in a foreign country—me, the new arrival fresh from the States, Fletcher in self-imposed exile for eighteen years.

Personally, the relationship couldn’t be better. We share the same sense of humor, tell stories, talk about music, politics, even race. Jim Crow, Crow Jim, all of it. “You’re too young to remember the sixties,” Fletcher says, “but it went both ways. When Bobby Timmons left Cannonball Adderly, Cannon wanted to hire Victor Feldman, the white English pianist, but he knew that wouldn’t go over with the other guys.”

“Yes, I’ve heard him on records, did one with Miles, before Herbie Hancock.”

“That’s the one. All that free-jazz shit was going on then, and the black militant movement. The Panthers, Black Power. Nothing wrong with that, but it got into the music. So Cannon played the rest of the band a record with Feldman, said this is who he wanted. They listened, said, yeah, he’s the one. Then he told them who it was.”

“Like Miles hiring Bill Evans.”

“Exactly. Ornery as he was, Miles never let anything interfere with the music.”

I listen to these and other stories from Fletcher’s days with Count Basie, and as is so often the case, they make me wish I’d been born earlier. It feels like I’ve known Fletcher all my life. But when I casually ask him if he’s ever thought about going back, he just shrugs it off, and my question obviously triggers old memories.

“Why should I, man?” We’re talking again, just after the gig. Some of the people are lingering over stale drinks, not wanting to give it up yet. I watch Fletcher’s face set as he packs up his horn. He snaps the case shut, then turns and looks sharply at me. “Why should I go back to scuffling for gigs, playing for people who don’t even know who I am? Who thought I was dead.” He sets the case down and lights a cigarette. Beneath that congenial exterior, the anger is still there, but this is the first time I’ve seen it surface.

“You know, I talked to Johnny Griffin once, asked him the same question you askin’ me. Griff told me he once played Carnegie Hall and the stagehands gave him shit, and we both know why. Carnegie Hall!” He shakes his head. “No thanks, I been there, man. Don’t need more of that. I like it here just fine.”

There’s nothing I can say to that. I just nod. “Yeah, but Dexter Gordon found it different when he went back, didn’t he?”

“Well, I ain’t Dexter Gordon.” He breaks into a smile then. “Shit, I play better than Dex anyway. C’mon, man, let’s get off this and get something to eat.”

We go in Fletcher’s car, an old VW that nonetheless runs well. He crosses canals, winds around the back streets of Amsterdam until we pull up in front of a small coffeehouse nowhere near the Old Quarter. Fletcher gets out of the car. “Not here,” he says, as I start for the coffeehouse. “Around the corner.”

I follow him inside, where we’re greeted by a striking Indonesian woman who smiles broadly when she sees Fletcher. She has straight black hair that almost reaches her waist, large eyes, and smooth dark skin. “Fletcher, you’re a bad boy,” she says. “Haven’t come here in a long time.” She hugs him and glances at me.

“Maria, say hello to my friend Evan,” Fletcher says. “We’re playing at the Bimhuis, and Evan is one fine piano player. And you haven’t been to see me, either.” He playfully shakes his finger in her face.

“Okay, okay,” she says. “Too busy. You going to eat?”

“What else?” Fletcher says. “You know what I like. Same for my man too.” He looks at me. “Okay with you?”

I nod. “Sure, bring it on.”

“Well, you heard the man,” Fletcher says. “Get those pots on.”

She shows us to a back table. Despite the hour, the restaurant is busy. I catch a mix of languages from tourists and locals alike, and take in the smells of spicy food. We settle in, and Maria brings us two beers. “You’ll like this, man. Best Indonesian food in Amsterdam.”

The table is soon covered with an array of small dishes, saucers of condiments, stainless steel trays kept hot with a candle, and more food than both of us can get through.

“Wow,” Fletcher says. “I’d almost forgotten how good this is.” He raises his beer to Maria across the room, and she nods a smile back. Over coffee, we light cigarettes, and before long I catch Fletcher studying me. “Well?”

“What?”

“What have you done? You look like you got caught doing something. You didn’t turn in that portfolio, did you?”

“No. I spent the morning going all through it.”

“And?”

“It’s a dossier on Chet Baker, all of Ace’s notes. Very thorough, as I would expect of Ace, and vital to his research.” I signal a waiter for some more coffee and look at Fletcher. “Look, let me try something out on you. You already think I’m going overboard on this, so I might as well go all the way.”

“Go. Just don’t expect me to agree with you,” Fletcher says.

“Fair enough.” I gather my thoughts and start again. “Suppose Ace decided to keep that case where I found it, just to keep it out of anybody’s hands—the maid even, when he left the room. People do that, don’t they? If they don’t take it with them, most people wouldn’t leave an expensive camera just lying around in plain sight. They’d put it in their suitcase or in a drawer under some clothes.”

“Maybe,” Fletcher says. “Least it’s not immediately visible.”

“Right, what I thought. Now here’s the jump. Suppose somebody wanted Ace to go with them, maybe even forcibly, and went with him to the room to supervise his packing and checking out.”

“Uh-oh.” Fletcher stubs out his cigarette. “Go on.”

“Well, that would explain why when Ace checked out, the portfolio was still there. Maybe he hoped somebody would find it—okay, maybe me—and raise the alarm, report it to the hotel, and then maybe the police if he was really in trouble.” But even as I’m talking, I realize how much of a stretch I’m trying to make. Maybe Fletcher and Inspector Dekker are both right. I’m letting my imagination get away from me.

Fletcher thinks hard for a minute. “I see where you’re going with this, but you’re making a big jump, aren’t you? ’Course, you know this Ace guy better than I do.”

“I don’t know, Fletcher. It just doesn’t make any sense. I’m just sure Ace would never consciously leave without that portfolio, much less just forget it.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right about that. Have you been to the police?”

“Yep, told them about everything but finding the case. I also called the university and Ace’s home. Just got his answering machine, and the English department says he’s on sabbatical. Nothing funny there. Also called up a cop friend in L.A. Didn’t tell him all of it, but asked him to let me know if he hears from Ace.”

Fletcher’s eyebrows go up. “What did the police say?”

I shrug. “Nothing other than they would be alert, whatever that means. The guy I talked to is also checking on the guy who investigated Chet Baker’s death. He’s retired now, living in the country somewhere. I’m sure Ace would have looked him up.”

“Uh-huh,” Fletcher mumbles. “So what’s your next move?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I feel funny checking hospitals, again with the police. The cop told me to check with the American consulate. I suppose that might not be a bad idea, although I doubt that Ace would check in with them.”

“No, probably not,” Fletcher says. “All the time I’ve been here I’ve never done that.”

“Tomorrow I’m going to check out the Dutch Jazz Archives. It’s not far from the hotel. Maybe Ace has been there, somebody talked with him.”

Fletcher nods. “Well, I can see this is bothering you. You’re not going to quit till you find some answers, and in a way, I don’t blame you. He is your friend. But…you might also find some trouble. You’ve found it before.”

“I know, I know. Last thing I want now, but I just can’t help feeling something has happened to Ace.” I can’t tell if Fletcher is just humoring me or really thinks I’m way off base. He considers some more, then his lips curl into a smile.

“Tell you what,” Fletcher says. “You find that detective on Chet Baker’s case, I’ll go with you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’d like to hear the real story on that myself.” Fletcher laughs. “Maybe I’ll write a book of my own.”

We drive back to the hotel, and as I get out of the car, Fletcher stops me. I lean back in the window. “Listen, man, maybe I shouldn’t say this, but…” He looks away for a moment. “Find your friend. Maybe you’ll find yourself.”

Then he pulls away, leaving me to wonder what he meant.

***

In the morning I make my way down the Prins Hendrikkade after breakfast, about a fifteen-minute walk. It’s cool, but spring is definitely here. Across the way I can see ships docked and unloading, and the usual plethora of bicycles I have to watch for at every crossing. They seem more dangerous than cars or trolleys crammed with riders. Los Angeles is such a car city, the trolleys by comparison are fascinating, crisscrossing the city, seemingly always full.

In a row of gray buildings, I check the address and find the Dutch National Jazz Archives sign. It’s a few steps down, below street level. Inside, through a small room on my left, I see hundreds of books on gray metal shelves. I find a larger room and some offices off to the side. At the far end of the room, three men are sitting around a table discussing some Duke Ellington recordings. Their voices, in English, carry to my end of the room, and the discussion seems rather heated. I catch Johnny Hodges’ name, then hear a voice behind me.

“Can I help you?”

I turn around. A young woman, maybe late twenties, early thirties, with short dark hair and a friendly smile, is standing behind me. Once again I’m thankful English is a second language here. “Well, I hope so. A friend of mine might have been here to do some research, on Chet Baker. An American. His name is Buffington, Charles Buffington.”

She thinks for a moment. “Ah, yes. He was in a few days ago, looking through our clipping library. He had written from America for permission. It was very polite but not really necessary.” She smiles again. “We’re not so formal here.”

“Oh, I guess Chet Baker is a pretty popular subject here.”

“Yes, many people have come to visit Amsterdam because of his death here. Did you want to see something? Are you doing research also?”

“Well, no, actually I’m a musician. I’m working at the Bimhuis, with Fletcher Paige.”

“Ah, yes, he is one of our well-known citizens. Amsterdam has adopted him. And what is your instrument?”

“Piano. I came here hoping to find out something about my friend. We were supposed to meet, but he checked out of the hotel and didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

Her expression suddenly changes. “Are you Evan Horne?”

“Yes, why? How did you know?”

“Pleased to meet you. My name is Helen.” We shake hands briefly. “A moment, please.” She goes back into the office for a minute, then comes back with an envelope. “This is for you, then. Mr. Buffington left it. He said you might visit here.”

I take the envelope from her, start to open it. “Did you talk to him? Did he give you this?”

“Yes. He spent the day looking at clippings and one or two videos we have, but I didn’t talk to him much. He gave me the envelope when he left and said to give it to you if you came here.”

This is getting more spooky by the moment. “And if I didn’t come here?”

She shakes her head. “He didn’t say. I’m sorry, that’s all I know.”

“Well, thank you anyway, Helen.”

“Excuse me, please. I have some work to do, but if you want to see something, please let me know.”

“Sure, thanks.” I sit down at one of the tables and open the envelope. It’s a handwritten note, and definitely in Ace’s writing.

I read it several times, but nothing hits me. Was this after he checked out of the hotel? And how or why did he think I’d come here looking for him unless he knew I’d find the portfolio and see his notes. I sit for a few minutes rereading his note, thinking, wondering about the trail Ace has left, but I’m just more puzzled. I am curious as to what Ace looked at, though, so I go looking for Helen in her office.

“Sorry to bother you again. Could I see the material my friend looked at? And he mentioned another sculpture—is it different from the one at the hotel?”

She gets up from her desk and smiles again. “Yes. Come, I’ll show you.” She takes me around the corner, and there in the hallway is a human figure made from what looks like tree branches. There’s an old trumpet wedged in as well. “That’s Chet Baker’s trumpet,” she says.

“You’re kidding.” The shine has faded, and it’s all oxidized. “His family never claimed it?”

“No, no one did. This was outside for a while, behind the hotel, but it couldn’t be secured, and the hotel thought it was not appropriate to be displayed.”

“Yes, I can imagine they wouldn’t.” I can’t take my eyes off it. It wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in New York. I keep looking back as she takes me into another room crowded with gray metal shelves—books, cardboard holders for file folders and magazines, and several shelves of videotapes.

She pulls one holder out and two videotapes. “He looked at this collection of files, but I’m afraid most are in Dutch. He also looked at these two videos.”

I look at the titles. One is a commercial copy of Bruce Weber’s film on Chet,
Let’s Get Lost.
I’d seen it many times at video stores. On the other box, the title
Chet Baker: The Final Days
is written with a black marker pen.

“And this one?”

“It was done by a Dutch documentary filmmaker. The interviews are in English or translated. There’s also an interview with the policeman who investigated his death.”