Looking for Chet Baker (10 page)

“Okay. You wait here. I got to have words.”

I watch Darren go inside, light a cigarette, and scan the passing faces of tourists and locals strolling by. I don’t have to wait long. In a few minutes the door opens, and Darren motions me over.

I follow him inside to the bar. Way in the back, a man sits in one of the booths. I don’t recognize him, but he nods as we approach.

“Hello,” he says, half rising and extending his hand. “I’m very sorry about last night. Darren has told me what happened. I would never have done that otherwise.” He seems genuinely apologetic and concerned, so I don’t want to push it.

“Done what?” I ask.

Darren slides in next to the man. I can’t see his eyes for the shades, but he keeps his head straight ahead and goes into his other voice. “Man says your order was switched to Moroccan hash by some dude who paid the difference. Said he was your friend.”

“Who?” I ask the bartender.

He shrugs, his eyes dart around, and I know he’s lying. “I don’t know. He just pointed you out, and then was gone.” I remember now the man coming in the bar right after me, but I still don’t know who he is or if he even had anything to do with the switch.

Darren takes off his shades and looks at me. He raises his eyebrows. “Is that cool?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Outside, Darren and I walk through the Quarter, back toward the hotel. “Looks like you got an anonymous friend,” Darren says.

“Yeah. Wonder who it is?”

“You best find out. Maybe I’ll find out for you.” He looks up the street, sees something, then motions to me. “Come on, I want you to meet someone.”

I follow him toward a woman who is talking to a man with his back to me. He turns when he sees the woman look over his shoulder. His face makes me stop in my tracks. He’s still dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and a leather jacket, and his dark hair is falling over his forehead. It’s daylight, but this is Chet Baker, the impersonator from the Bimhuis.

Darren sees my expression and laughs. “He won’t hurt you, man.” I walk closer. The resemblance is uncanny even in the light of day, but it’s clearly not Chet. “This here’s Philippe.”

I put out my hand. Philippe’s hands are jammed in his pockets. He hesitates, then shakes with me, but says nothing. Darren seems entertained by the whole thing.

“Las Vegas has Elvis impersonators. Amsterdam has Chet Baker impersonators, but just this one.” Philippe gives Darren an uneasy look, nods to me, and starts to walk off. I watch him for a moment, feeling a rush of relief.

“He was there last night?” I ask Darren.

“Yeah. He saw you, got scared, went for help, and ran into me. Least you know you didn’t see no ghost, right?”

Saved by Chet Baker’s ghost. “Yes.”

“Well, later, man.” Darren puts his glasses back on and heads around the corner.

Fletcher has vouched for Darren, but is it too much of a coincidence that he was in the alleyway right after I fell, and this Philippe guy too?

I’m still thinking that as I head back to the hotel.

There are no policemen waiting for me, but there is a message from one—Inspector Dekker. I’m almost afraid to call, but if it was bad news about Ace, Dekker would come in person. After being switched around for a couple of minutes, I finally get him.

“Inspector, it’s Evan Horne.”

“Oh yes, Mr. Horne. I have some news.”

“About my friend?” I grip the phone tighter, trying to read Dekker’s tone.

“No, I’m afraid not, but I have contacted the investigating officer on Chet Baker’s death. You inquired about him.”

I sigh and light a cigarette. “Oh, yes. What does he say?”

“He said for you to call him, but he’s leaving town soon, so it will have to be this week.”

“Fine.” Dekker gives me the number, and I copy it down.

“Thank you very much, Inspector.”

“Not at all.”

I learn from the desk clerk that the number is for a small town about thirty miles from Amsterdam. I take another deep breath and have the call put through. It answers on the third ring.

“Allo.”

“Mr. Engels? My name is Evan Horne. I spoke with Inspector Dekker, and he said he’d talked to you, said it was all right to call.”

“Yes, we spoke. This is about the Chet Baker business, yes? It was a long time ago, Mr. Horne.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to find my friend. He is gathering research for a book. I thought he might have talked to you.”

There’s a bit of a pause before Engels answers. “Yes, I spoke with a Professor Buffington. Is that your friend?”

“Yes. When was that?”

“Some days ago.” Engels chuckles. “He is very inquisitive, your friend.”

“Yes, I’m sure he was. Mr. Engels, is it possible I could meet with you? If it’s convenient, I could come to you.” There’s another pause as Engels thinks it over. Two Americans in the space of a few days might be too much for him.

“Very well. I will give you directions.” I write everything down and repeat it back to him to make sure I’ve got it right.

“Would tomorrow be okay?”

“Yes, tomorrow is fine. There is a small pub near my home. Call me from there, and I will meet you. At noon. That is convenient for you?”

“Yes, that’s fine. Thank you. I’ll see you then.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Horne.”

I hang up the phone. Well, at least three people have seen Ace—Fletcher, Helen at the archives, and policeman Engels. I have a feeling about Engels; I’m counting on him to have some answers. I take out the portfolio and go through Ace’s research material once again, looking for a mention of Margo Highland.

I find some of Ace’s notes with phone numbers and addresses. Halfway down one page is a handwritten note, a name underlined: Margo Highland—Chet’s friend? Northern California.

No address or phone number, but a source Ace obviously hoped to check out, and one I can learn more about from Fletcher. I also think about the film I saw at the Jazz Archives. If I know Ace and his methods, once he saw that film, he’d want to go back and check out those locations Chet visited during his final days.

Thinking about it in that light, Ace could be in Rotterdam, checking out the Dizzy Café or the Thelonious jazz club, talking to the musicians who worked with Chet if they are still around. It’s worth a shot, but it still doesn’t explain the jacket, or the portfolio. The longer I have that without telling the police, the more it bothers me. I know if something breaks, Dekker will give me hell.

Damn you, Ace, why didn’t you leave a message? Where in the hell are you?

Chapter Nine

A night off and more sleep revive me. I do a little wandering, just kind of soaking up Amsterdam on a long walk past Dam Square, through a major shopping district. There are goods from all over the world, a variety of restaurants, and on one of the main canals, glass-enclosed ferries that tour the waterways of the city. Back at the hotel, I take a nap, eat a late dinner nearby, catch an English film on TV, and crash early—the exciting, glamorous life of a musician on the road.

When I wake up, I feel close to normal. I shower and dress quickly and head for the hotel bar for coffee and a croissant. I want to get out of there early and meet Engels on time, but I would like to get by the Jazz Archives and look at the film again first.

There’s no time to call Fletcher, even though he wanted to go. I decided to rent a car for this little country trip. The desk clerk at the hotel helps me arrange it with the rental company; they promise to have the car ready and delivered to the hotel when I get back from the archives.

Outside, it’s busy Amsterdam as usual as I walk down the Henrikkade to the Jazz Archives building. Cars, trolleys, huge buses, pedestrians, and bicycles elsewhere, and riders of all ages and dress. Many are old ladies, with loaves of bread sticking up out of the baskets on the handlebars.

Inside the archives, I find Helen again in her office, but today there’s something in her manner and expression that throws me. She’s polite, asks if she can help, but her smile and manner are chilly.

“Hi, Helen. I’d like to see that film again, please.”

She looks puzzled. “You didn’t see it yesterday?”

“Yesterday? No, I wasn’t here. Why?”

“Oh, there’s been a mistake, then.” She frowns, looks embarrassed.

“What do you mean?”

“I was off yesterday, but I was told someone came to look at the film. It was temporarily misplaced, and my supervisor blamed me. It took me all morning to find it.” She gives me a relieved smile. “I’m glad it was not you.”

Misplaced or hidden? “You don’t know who it was?”

“No—a foreigner, though. I just assumed they meant you. I apologize.”

“No need to. So, can you trust me today? I’ll personally hand it back when I’m finished.”

“Yes, of course.”

She takes me back to the film room and brings me the tape. “Perhaps you should bring it back to me. That way we can be sure.”

“No problem.”

I load the tape in the player and wonder who else is interested. I make some notes on the hotel stationery I’ve brought with me, noting the dates from May 7 to the early morning of the thirteenth, when Chet was found. I run the segment with the Engels interview a couple of times to see if I’ve missed anything. Engels seems efficient, sure of his facts, but uncomfortable in front of the camera. He does seem definite about there being nobody else involved, no crime.

There’s nothing else I need, but I stop the tape during one segment where Chet was interviewed sometime in 1987. His hair is long, and he wears tinted glasses and holds a glass of beer. He looks bad, maybe even high, but his crinkled face brightens when he talks about Diane, a woman with him at that time.

“She’s a gift any man could appreciate,” he says. “Nineteen-eighty-eight doesn’t have to be better. If it’s as good as 1987, that would be fine.” Well, it was for four months.

I fast-forward to the end and check the credits, but there are no names I recognize. I rewind the tape and take it back to Helen. “Here you are,” I say. “And thanks again.”

She takes the tape. “I am sorry for thinking it was you yesterday. Please come back anytime. I’ll be glad to help in any way I can. No luck on your friend yet?”

“No, not yet. Oh, you can do me one more favor.” I write the hotel number on some paper and give it to her. “If somebody else comes looking for the tape, would you call me?”

“Yes, of course.” She takes the paper and puts it in a desk drawer.

“Thanks. I hope to see you again.”

“Yes, I also.”

***

At the hotel, the desk clerk turns over the keys to a Volkswagen Golf and shows me where it’s parked. I check Engels’ directions again and wind my way through the maze of one-way streets out of Amsterdam to the expressway. The exits are well marked, and I get on the right road easily enough and head southwest toward Keukenhof. The exit for the smaller two-lane road comes up about twenty miles later. According to the directions Engels gave me, this road should take me to Noordwijk.

The landscape is as flat as Texas, dotted with small canals and pools of water. The traffic is light, but there are bicycles here too—kids, women, maybe housewives on shopping trips, and touring bicyclists loaded down with backpacks and bike bags weaving through dunes teaming with bird life.

I check the directions again and start looking for the canal crossing. At the entrance, there’s a wooden gate, like a corral, and a bell to ring. A man in a gray sleeveless parka comes out and waves me forward. The ferry is nothing more than a large raft that would hold maybe two cars at most. Cables stretch across the canal to the other side, where I can see some homes and more flatlands.

I drive on. The attendant secures the gate and begins to crank the cable attached to a large wheel. There’s no room to get out of the car as we’re slowly pulled to the other side. Except for the wake of the raftlike ferry, the water in the canal is still. At the other side, he opens a similar gate and takes my money, and I drive off. People on this side of the canal must go to work this way every day. It’s a long way from rush hour in Los Angeles on the 405 Freeway.

Following the curving road, I pass through a residential area with small, solid brick homes, and then, with another turn, the road empties into a square. There’s a small shop, like a convenience store, a church, and a low redbrick restaurant-bar. I park in the empty lot and go inside. The telephone is in the entryway. Engels answers on the second ring.

“Mr. Engels, it’s Evan Horne.”

“Ah yes, you are here. Wait there. I will come soon.” He hangs up, and I look around the bar. A woman perched on a stool behind the bar is reading the newspaper. Nobody else is around. She glances up at me. I order a coffee and take a table near the window that looks out over the square. The ashtrays are all clean, but obviously there for a reason. I have a cigarette going when she brings my coffee and sets it down.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m waiting for a friend.” She nods and goes off, hoping, I imagine, that my friend speaks Dutch.

In five minutes or less, I see Engels coming across the square toward the restaurant. He walks briskly, waves at some one coming out of the convenience store, then turns up the walk. Inside he speaks with the woman and points at me, then comes over.

“Mr. Horne.”

“Yes, thank you for coming.” He’s not as old as I imagined, and I realize that the film I saw him in was made fairly recently.

He points to the menu. “You would like some lunch, perhaps? I am hungry myself.”

“Maybe a sandwich, but please, my treat.”

He smiles. “As you wish.” The woman comes back, bringing him a draft beer. They have a quick conference about the menu. “A beer for you?” he asks me.

“Yes, sounds good.” She disappears again.

“There is good soup here, and she makes the sandwiches herself. So, you had no trouble finding this place.”

“No, your directions were very good. Quite a change from Amsterdam out there. I enjoyed the canal crossing.”

“Yes,” he says. “It’s not for impatient commuters. I like it here very much, but occasionally I miss the city. When I do, I go in and stroll around the Old Quarter.”

“That’s where I’m staying. At the Prins Hendrik Hotel.”

“Yes, I am not surprised. I’m told it has become an attraction for musicians and jazz people when they come to Amsterdam.”

“Well, in the jazz world, Chet Baker was famous.”

“Yes, I didn’t realize how much so until later,” Engels says. “At the time it looked to be a simple investigation, an accident, but of course it was not. Once he was identified, the police station was flooded with calls from around the world.”

“I saw you in the film, where you are interviewed. Do you remember anything else about that night?”

He sips his beer and glances out the window. “Ah, I was very nervous. No, I’m afraid not. The report came in of a man being found in the street. Somebody called from a bar but wouldn’t identify himself. I was called over. We found Mr. Baker’s passport and other papers in his room, his baggage, and his trumpet. It was out of its case, lying on the floor. There was also a considerable amount of heroin and cocaine on the table.”

“Speedball,” I say.

“What?”

“That’s the slang for heroin and cocaine mix.” My imagination spins off. Chet had his fix; maybe playing a little, he decides to sit on the windowsill, check out the scene. Or did someone knock on the door? Did he lay down his trumpet on the floor to answer? The conspiracy theories won’t go away.

Engels continues. “Someone, I forget who, contacted his agent, and he came over. He didn’t even know Mr. Baker was in Amsterdam. Apparently he had arrived in the afternoon, and the hotels he had stayed in before were all full. The agent, Peter Huijits, explained to me who Mr. Baker was.” Engels looks back at me. “They had been expecting him. He was scheduled to play that evening, in a concert.”

“Yes, with Archie Shepp.”

“I’m sorry,” Engels says. “I don’t know the name.”

The woman returns with our order, two bowls of steaming lentil soup and meat and cheese sandwiches on toasted bread. When she leaves, I say, “Another famous musician.”

“Yes,” Engels says. “I assume so. Forgive me, I am not such a big jazz fan.”

We eat in silence for a few minutes, then Engels continues. “A shame about Baker,” he says. “Not just his death but his addiction. When I checked with Interpol, he had a history in Europe. Sixteen months’ imprisonment in Italy, many other arrests.”

I nod as I finish half of the sandwich. “Yes, his drug problems were as well known as his music. But as many people have said, he did it to himself.”

I know Engels’ memory couldn’t be this good if Ace hadn’t reminded him.

“So, about my friend, Professor Buffington. You also talked with him?”

“Yes, but not here. I was in Amsterdam and suggested we meet there to save him a trip. We had coffee. He took many notes.” Engels smiles, remembering. “He is, I believe, intense? Yes?”

“Very. And when was that? Last week?”

“Yes, Thursday, I think. We talked for about an hour.”

The day before I arrived in Amsterdam. “Did he say what his plans were? Where he was going next? Anything like that?”

“No, I don’t recall. Just that he was continuing to research Mrs. Baker’s time here.”

“Did he mention my name at all?”

Engels looks surprised. “No. I had not heard of you until Inspector Dekker called.”

That also strikes me as strange. But to talk to a cop, Ace didn’t need me. “Do you remember if he had a leather case with him, like a portfolio, zipper on three sides?”

“Yes,” Engels says, nodding. “He had it open when we talked, referred to some papers. Why do you ask?”

I finish my sandwich, push the plate aside, and take out my cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

“No, please.”

I light a cigarette and look at Engels. “Can I tell you something in confidence? I mean, I know you’re retired now.”

“What? There is something else to our visit, yes?”

I lay it all out for him then, about Ace and our tentative plans to meet, the bar turning over his jacket, the business cards, and what I consider very unlikely behavior for Ace. I also tell him about talking with Dekker. Then I sit back and watch Engels’ reaction.

He’s quiet for a few minutes. He has his policeman face on now, digesting what I’ve told him, sorting through it. He holds my gaze then.

“But,” he says, “you have left something out.”

I nod and smile. “I guess you were a good detective.”

Engels shrugs but isn’t distracted by the compliment. “Your friend’s actions probably have some logical explanation, but on the other hand…” His voice trails off, and his scrutiny is more intense now. He likes answers too.

I jump in with both feet then, thinking worst case is I’ll have to tell Dekker as well. I tell Engels about finding the portfolio and the way it seems to have been hidden.

Quiet again, he gazes out the window, then turns back to me. “You did not tell Inspector Dekker about this discovery?”

“No.”

He nods again. “Very well, if Dekker asks me anything, I shall have to tell him. If he does not…” He spreads his hands in front of him.

“Thank you, but I plan to tell Dekker about finding the case.”

“Good,” Engels says. “I think it is necessary. There is something obviously strange about your friend leaving the portfolio behind, hidden, as you say. Policemen are suspicious by nature,” Engels adds, “but here there is cause, I think.”

It’s a relief to hear him say that, that I’m not imagining things. Something is very wrong.

“Yes, I think you’re right. I just don’t know what to do from this point.”

Engels looks at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I do have to go.” He signals the woman for the bill, and when she comes, he helps me sort out the necessary money to pay it.

“My advice is to tell Dekker everything so the police can make an official missing person case. I think there is grounds, from what you tell me. Leave it to them, Mr. Horne.”

We get up and walk outside to my car. “Well, thank you for your time,” I say. We shake hands. “And I appreciate your advice.”

“You can find your way back?”

“Yes, I think so.” I get into the car. Engels stands there for a moment and looks up at the sky.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“No,” Engels says, “I was thinking. It is nice to be not a policeman any longer.”

***

Driving back to Amsterdam, I’m so lost in thought I almost miss the exit for city center. I follow the signs for Central Station and manage to squeeze into a parking place near the hotel. The parking meters are at the end of the block. I put in enough coins for two hours, get a ticket, then go back to the car and leave it on the dashboard. Only one message at the front desk. The clerk hands it to me. “I did not understand,” he says.