Looking for Chet Baker (8 page)

I don’t remember hearing about any such film. “I would like to take a look if it’s possible.”

“Certainly.” She takes the tape off the shelf and shows me to a small room set up with a VCR and a television. “Take your time. I’ll be in my office if you need something.” She puts the video in the player and turns on the television.

“Thanks.”

I sit down at the machine and hit the play button. The narrator’s voice—it’s a woman—startles me at first. It’s very cold, objective, even harsh.

“Chet Baker, trumpet player and singer, died in Amsterdam, the thirteenth of May, 1988. His death was caused by falling or jumping from a hotel window. Chet Baker was fifty-eight.”

I rewind and watch it again. Cold, hard facts, nothing else. Then there’s a black-and-white photo of Chet, lying on his side in the alleyway, as the narrator continues.

“His face was covered with blood. At first, the police think it is a drug addict aged about thirty. In the hotel room, the papers of a fifty-eight-year-old American named C. H. Baker are found, so they assume it is a junkie who has robbed a tourist.”

I press the pause button on the black-and-white photo, freezing the frame, and feel those familiar stirrings, looking over the edge of a dark, deep hole, but not quite able to step back. For a moment I’m right there, in that photo, looking at Chet’s body, glancing up to the window of his room. But there are no clues, nothing to tell the real story. Not Chetty or Chet of the golden-tone horn. Just a dead junkie, his face covered in blood, discovered in an alley in a foreign country.

The rest of the film is fascinating, and I wonder why it’s never been shown in the States. Seems like a natural for PBS. There are interviews with, among others, Russ Freeman, Chet’s longtime pianist, the photographer William Claxton, record producers, friends, and a Rotterdam pianist, recounting a night when Chet just wandered in a club and asked to sit in. There’s also a segment with Chet and bassist Red Mitchell sitting at a piano together, talking, reminiscing, playing a couple of tunes: Red friendly, smiling; Chet holding his trumpet, watching Red warily play the chords on “My Romance.”

The story is told chronologically from May 7, five days before Chet died. The interview with a policeman who describes the scene and gives his opinion in no uncertain terms still leaves it very vague and inconclusive.

“We believe,” the detective says, “that Mr. Baker, under the influence of drugs, simply fell out of the window of his hotel. He was found at approximately three in the morning. There was no conspiracy, no sign of foul play, and his room was locked from the inside. Perhaps he thought he could fly,” the sergeant says, but he isn’t smiling. There’s even a brief glimpse of an Interpol memo, recounting, I suppose, Chet’s scrapes with the law in various countries.

I fast-forward through the tape, skipping over the many musical segments at various points in Chet’s career, seeing the physical changes that occurred over the years. I stop now and then for some of the interviews. When I have more time, I’d like to watch the entire film. I stop the tape and lean back, thinking about the detective’s comments. I’d have to check the locks on the doors again at the hotel, but if the door was self-locking, anyone could just close it behind them—or, if they were really worried about being seen, lock the door, then shinny down that infamous drainpipe—but it’s not even mentioned. None of this, I remind myself, tells me anything about Ace’s whereabouts. And even though I said I wouldn’t help Ace, here I am, already speculating, getting hooked on the story.

I rewind the tape, hit the eject button, and put it back in its box. Flipping through the file of clips, I find only two in English. I take those out and go back to the office. I knock and stick my head in.

“Helen?” She’s on the phone. She looks up, holds up one finger, talks for a minute or so, then hangs up.

“Thanks for your time,” I say. “Just one more thing. Can I get copies of these two articles?”

“Of course.” She takes them from me and goes off to another room. She comes back in a few minutes and hands me the copies. “I’ll refile these,” she says. “I hope you found what you were looking for.”

“We’ll see,” I say. “I don’t suppose I could borrow that tape, check it out for a couple of days?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “That is not permitted. You can see it anytime, but we don’t let material out of the building.”

“I understand. Well, thanks, Helen. You’ve been very helpful.” I start for the door, then turn back. “You can do me one last favor.”

“Yes?”

“If my friend comes back, tell him I was here.”

***

I walk back to the hotel, replaying those film images in my mind. The interview with the detective sticks out the most. He seemed emphatic that Chet Baker’s death was an accident, a fall from the window, possibly under the influence of drugs. Given Chet’s history, that seems more than possible. But Chet thinking he could fly? I don’t think so. Chet could fly, but only with a trumpet to his lips.

At the hotel I pause for a moment, looking again at the sculpture. Only you know for sure, Chet. And you’re not talking. When I go inside, two men at the front desk turn toward me. One is the policeman I talked to at the station, Inspector Dekker. “Ah, Mr. Horne,” he says. “We were just looking for you.”

I notice then that the other man is carrying a plastic bag. “Yes. Anything wrong?”

“This is Sergeant Vledder.” He nods toward the other man. “I’m not sure.” He pauses and looks around. “Perhaps we could go to your room and talk?”

“Yes, sure.” I don’t like the sound of this, and I’m already starting to regret my visit to the police station. As we ride up in the elevator to my room, I keep eyeing the bag in the other policeman’s hand. I unlock my door and invite them in. The maid has already done the room. I glance at the closet, thinking about Ace’s portfolio in there.

“So what’s this about?”

Dekker motions to Vledder for the bag, opens it, and pulls out a dark brown suede jacket. “I wonder if you recognize this or have seen it before.” He holds it up. It’s large, and I know immediately it could fit Ace. I try to picture it on him. “Where did you find it?”

“You do recognize it.” He watches me closely. “It could be your friend’s jacket?”

“Well, I’m not sure. It seems to be the right size. He’s a big man.”

“This was found in one of the coffeehouses, in a booth. It was turned in to the proprietor by a customer, and he called the police.”

“What makes you think it’s my friend’s?” But even as I say it, I know it’s Ace’s jacket.

“These.” He reaches into the inside pocket of the coat and takes out several business cards, with a rubber band around them. He shows me one. It has the red University of Nevada logo, “Charles Buffington, Ph.D., Department of English,” and Ace’s office number.

I sit down on the bed and look at the card, stalling, not wanting to consider what this might mean. “Isn’t it unusual for this to happen? Why was it turned in?”

“It’s hard to say. The coat is obviously an expensive one. The owner is possibly looking for a reward. Or perhaps he is just being honest. It does happen occasionally. Even in Amsterdam.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s quite all right. You do recognize the business cards.”

“Yes, they are my friend’s.” I look at the coat and cards again. “Any ideas?”

“No, I’m afraid not, except—” He glances at his partner. “It was found at one of the brown houses, where marijuana may be legally consumed. Is it possible your friend perhaps indulged?”

I laugh. “Ace? No, I don’t think so. Two glasses of wine is about all he could take.”

“Ace? Not Charles.”

“Ace is his nickname. He plays a lot of tennis.”

“Oh, I see.” Dekker and Vledder exchange glances and some words in Dutch. Dekker shakes his head, then turns back to me. “Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr. Horne?”

Now is the time to show Dekker the portfolio—make up a story about why I didn’t tell him earlier, give it up, and let the police handle everything. This is Ace’s jacket, his business cards. But of course I don’t do any of that. And I don’t even know why.

“Like what?”

Dekker smiles patiently. “You would know that better than me, Mr. Horne. Surely your friend would miss his coat sometime. This is not conclusive, but the coat suggests that he may still be in Amsterdam.”

“Yes, I see what you mean. I wish I could tell you something more, but I can’t think of anything.”

Chapter Seven

At the Bimhuis, halfway through the second set, I’m reminded of something else from the film. We’ve just finished a raucous blues and need something of a breather to cool down. Fletcher is standing by me at the piano.

“Man, that was smoking,” he says, nodding his approval at the drummer, who is mopping his face and grinning. “You got a ballad up your sleeve…”

“Do you know ‘Green Dolphin Street’?” I ask Fletcher. He looks surprised. It’s one of those jam session staples, always part of Miles’ early book. Everybody knows it, has played it countless times, but it’s still a beautiful, haunting song.

“Yeah, I know it.” He smiles then, guessing what I’m thinking. “Like a ballad tempo?” The tune is usually played at medium tempo or even faster, with the first and third eight measures given a Latin flavor.

“Almost, just easy,” I say, reviewing the chord progression in my head.

Fletcher smiles. “I got an idea.” He goes over to the drummer and bassist, says something to them. They nod and leave the stand. Fletcher comes back. “Just you and me on this, okay?”

“Sure.” Without any more discussion, I start a rubato introduction, letting the minor chords do the work through one out-of-tempo chorus. Then I start a vamp, in tempo, just beyond ballad speed. Fletcher slips in like he’s parting a curtain, and just suddenly there, sliding into the melody, singing with his horn, catching everybody off guard with long, elegant lines, at times almost like cries, floating and lingering like billowy clouds in the air even after they’re gone. He plays three choruses that ought to be recorded, so saxophonists everywhere can hear just how this tune can and should be played.

I follow, and my hands just seem to take over. Playing with good musicians sharpens your focus, makes things happen sometimes that you’re not aware you could do. I feel Fletcher’s presence beside me, and without looking up, I know he’s smiling. After two choruses, he joins me and we do some interplay, counter lines as if they’d been written for us and rehearsed for weeks, playing off the other’s ideas, changing them, quoting them back, or starting anew. Then we take it out as quietly as we’d begun, as if the tune disappeared in a mist.

We look at each other as the final notes fade to just an echo on the piano and air from Fletcher’s tenor. There’s what seems like a long, perfect moment of complete silence when we finish, as if the audience doesn’t want to break the spell. Only when I take my hands off the piano does loud applause arrive. I look up, almost surprised to see people there.

“Hey,” Fletcher says. “We better quit while we’re ahead.” He takes off his horn and sets it on its stand. “Let’s go outside. Got something to talk to you about.”

We get through the crowd to the exit. It may be old stuff to Fletcher, but I’m still tingling. Outside we both light cigarettes and stroll down the block. “Just didn’t feel like talking to anyone yet,” he says. “Those kind of moments don’t happen often.”

“Yeah, I know. I could go home right now and feel good about the whole night.”

Fletcher nods. “What made you think of ‘Green Dolphin’?” he asks me.

“I saw a film today, at the Jazz Archives, about Chet’s last days. Done by Dutch television. Thought I’d see if Ace had been there.”

“He was there, huh?”

“Yeah. Even left a note for me. In the film, there’s an interview with a pianist in Rotterdam. He was playing at the Dizzy Café. Said Chet just wandered in, came up to the bandstand, asked if he could play. They did two tunes. One of them was ‘Green Dolphin Street.’”

Fletcher nods. “Yeah, he used to do that.”

“The pianist said he thought it might have been the last tune Chet played. Just seemed right to do it.” We stop and turn around, start heading back toward the Bimhuis. “Kind of sad, huh?” Fletcher doesn’t say anything, just keeps walking slowly, head down. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“You’re not in any hurry to get out of here, are you? Amsterdam, I mean.”

“No, why?”

“Well, as good as this gig has been, it ends this weekend, but this guy I know called me. He’s opening a new place. Small club, wants me to think about a duo.” Fletcher turns and looks at me. “You up for that? Won’t be a lot of bread, but he’s cool. We can play what we like. Might be a long-term thing.”

“Are you serious? Yeah, I’m up for it. When does it start?”

Fletcher smiles. “Cool. Maybe as early as next week. We could make like Kenny Barron and Stan Getz. I just heard something new with Herbie Hancock and Wayne Shorter doing something similar. Just pure music, piano and horn. I got some things written too we could try. Maybe do some rehearsing at my place. I got an old upright piano.”

Fletcher’s excitement is contagious, and I’m elated of course at the thought of continuing to play with him. “You have a deal, Fletch.”

He smiles again. “Well, it’s partly economic. You know club owners. This guy likes the idea of only having to pay two musicians. We ain’t going to get rich, but we’ll have some fun. We’ll just split fifty-fifty.”

“You know how to make a million dollars playing jazz?”

Fletcher laughs. “Yeah, start with two million. C’mon, man, we got another set to do, then you can tell me about that film and the note from your friend.”

***

After the gig, Fletcher and I sit in a small bar sipping brandy—another of his haunts. Everywhere we go he’s greeted like an old friend, almost a celebrity, and if there were justice in the world it would be the same in America. It’s easy to see why he has chosen to stay in Europe, why so many did. And now maybe I’m considering it myself. I’m still wired from playing. We tried another duet number toward the end, this time on “My Foolish Heart.”

“I think I’m going to like this duo idea. It’s really going to happen, you think?” I ask Fletcher. He looks decidedly cool, his tie loosened, relaxed in his chair.

“Oh yeah, baby. I’m going to make it happen now for sure. You and me, we got something going.” He sets his glass down and looks at me. “So you gonna tell me about the note from your friend?”

“Okay.” I’d been holding off, not wanting to destroy the musical mood. “He left it with this girl who works at the archives.” I tell him what it said.

“Hot on the trail? Your friend does know you, maybe better than you do—or was he just guessing?”

I’d thought a lot about it since this afternoon. Did Ace know me that well? Or was he just guessing, hoping? I was creating all kinds of scenarios. The best case would be Ace, checking back with the archives, discovering I had picked up the note and suddenly reappearing, saying, “Gotcha, huh, Evan?” I’d be annoyed, but at least I’d know Ace was okay.

“He just knows my history. He’s been part of it. And I have to admit the film was fascinating.” I take another sip of my brandy. “You know what was the saddest part of that film? There was one interview with a recording engineer, talking about a session Chet had done for him. The sounds he was making, blowing the spit out of his horn, were leaking through on the piano solo, so he put Chet in a booth. Just like any studio isolation booth. Glass, so you can see, a door, headphones.”

“Uh-huh,” Fletcher says. “I’ve been in a couple.” He laughs.

“Sorry. Anyway, Chet wasn’t sure at first, but then he told this guy he liked it, called it the room. Said it was cozy and he’d never had his own room, let alone a house. Wanted to know if he could rent it.” I see Fletcher shaking his head, listening. “Well, the guy, I guess, thought Chet was just putting him on. Told him, sure, Chet. You come back, do another record, and you can rent it for a lot of money.” I lean forward, put out my cigarette, and down the rest of my brandy. “But you know what, Fletcher? I think Chet was serious.”

Fletcher nods. “Cat was just a nomad, what do you call it, a troubadour. Those last years over here, he just went from place to place with a bag and his trumpet. Playing where he could, where anybody wanted him. He stayed in rooms—hotels, friends’ homes—anywhere he could. Playing was all he had. You know about San Francisco? Some guys kicked his ass, knocked his teeth out?”

“Yes, that story has made the rounds. Russ Freeman talked about it in the film, and Chet too. Said it took him over three years to be able to play with false teeth.”

“Uh-huh. That should tell you how badly he wanted, needed, to play.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I know all about that.” I hold out my right hand and flex it. Not a trace of pain. Before my accident, I’d always taken my hands for granted.

Fletcher looks at it. “Still give you trouble sometimes?”

“Yeah, once in a while, but nothing I can’t deal with.”

“You’re lucky.” Fletcher stands up and stretches. “Well, I’m older than you. I need some sleep. C’mon, I’ll drop you at the hotel.”

“Wait, there’s something else.”

“Oh, shit, do I want to hear this?”

“The police came by the hotel today. They found Ace’s jacket, with some of his business cards in the pocket.”

“Damn.” Fletcher puts his hands over his eyes, rubs them. “I need another drink.” He signals the waiter and sits down again. “You want one?” I wave him off.

Fletcher turns back to me. “You don’t have to tell me. I know you didn’t tell them you got his case, right?”

“It just didn’t seem the right time.”

“And here I am, sitting here drinking with a fool. Man, when will be the right time? You need to take that case over to the police in the morning. Get it out of your hands, you dig?”

“Yeah, I know I should. I just—”

“Can’t let it go?”

“No, not yet.”

Fletcher just shakes his head. “Now I know how you got into that other shit with Wardell, those Clifford Brown tapes.” He looks at me again. “You crazy, man, you know that, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. I know it must seem like it.”

Fletcher downs his drink and stands up. “Well, that’s all I can handle tonight. Let’s go.”

“No, that’s okay. It’s out of your way. I’ll just take a taxi. I might have another drink.”

Fletcher studies me for a moment, then touches my shoulder. “Okay. Catch you tomorrow.” He starts off, then turns. “I sure hope your friend shows up before we start that other gig. I want you focused.”

“Don’t worry.”

“I hope I don’t have to. Later.”

I sit for a few minutes but decide against another drink. Outside, I get my bearings, head for a main street, and find a taxi fairly easily. I get out at the hotel and stand for a moment, looking at the sculpture of Chet. It’s like a magnet now. I walk up to the corner, deciding what to do, waving off a couple of taxis that slow down.

I know I won’t sleep. Nothing has been resolved about Ace. What else can I do? I’ve been to the police, talked to anyone who’s seen him—and nothing. He’s just vanished. I’m already beating myself up for turning him down so quickly, and the picture of him sitting in that London pub is still with me.

Finally I decide to take a walk around the Old Quarter, maybe get a snack. The tourists and curious are out in full force despite the hour. Music blares from several bars; loud voices, many of them drunk or on the way, echo around the cobblestone alleyways bathed in a mix of bright blinking neon and amber streetlights.

I pass one of the coffee shops and stop on a whim. Maybe this is what I need. Why not? It’s been a long time. Dark green curtains cover most of the windows, and the door is heavy wood with an opaque glass window. I go in and find it’s not noisy like a bar, but subdued in a kind of laid-back solitude—marble tables, young waitresses serving lattes, and the unmistakable pungent aroma everywhere. There is some laughter from a number of booths, but it’s not the loud, boisterous bar kind of sound. The music too is subtle, quietly oozing out of the sound system. As my eyes adjust, I find an empty booth and slide in the side facing the door.

I order a coffee from the young waitress, and she directs me to the small bar on the side of the room to place my other order. It feels weird to look at a marijuana menu. The descriptions are complete with strength, properties, and source of origin. There are various forms of Thai sticks, Maui Wowie, Moroccan hash, and scores of others I never heard of, including skunk weed, the local offering. Before I change my mind, I order a medium strength from Humboldt County in northern California. Might as well support the home team.

While I’m waiting, I notice a man enter, glance at me quickly, and head toward the bar. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him, and he doesn’t talk to me. I turn my attention to the other patrons awhile, then, when it’s ready, I make my buy, return to my table, and light up, sucking in the sweet smoke, holding it as long as I can. Involuntarily, I look over my shoulder. Relax. It’s all legal and aboveboard. This is Amsterdam.

A young couple in a nearby booth watches me and smiles. If we had glasses, we would hold them up in a toast. I take another long hit and feel it steal through my body quickly—too quickly. Maybe I’ve underestimated medium strength.

I lean back, still hearing the music, the muted conversation, but suddenly everything is hazy, out of focus, spinning. The hanging lamps over each table seem to sway and leave light contrails in their wake. I put my hands on the table to steady myself, even though I’m not moving at all. I close my eyes for a moment, but that seems to make it worse. Way too strong, and so long since I’ve smoked anything stronger than a menthol cigarette, I rationalize. I panic, feeling like I’m falling, watching myself grab the table edge to steady again. I lean back against the seat, try to focus, but everything is in a haze and still spinning. Got to get outside, get some air.

I wait for a few minutes, get up, and start for the door. It seems so far away, like I’ll never make it. I know people are watching me, pointing. The waiter comes, takes my elbow to steady me. “You are all right?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m…okay…thanks…just want to get outside.”

He opens the door. I step out, feel the cool night air wash over me. I lean against the building for a moment, try to stop the spinning. I don’t know how long I stand like that, but I know whatever I’ve smoked is nothing like anything I’ve had before. I look up the street. The neon lights from bars and restaurants are blurry, moving, yet fascinating, distracting. I must get to the hotel, lie down. I try some tentative steps but feel like I need something to hang on to. I stay close to the edge of the sidewalk, against the buildings, only vaguely aware of people passing me, looking, laughing, pointing.