Looking for Chet Baker by Bill Moody Page B

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