pull my door shut and see the maid’s cart outside a room a couple of doors down—the Chet Baker room. The door is open, but I don’t see the maid. I glance in and see the room is all made up, with no sign of luggage, so its occupant must have checked out early. I can’t resist walking over to the open window and looking out. I can almost touch the drainpipe running along the side of the building. The view of the canal is even better from here. Was Chet looking out, trying to get a better look at a woman, waving at her or something else? Maybe just sitting there, heroin coursing through his veins, nodding off, oblivious to the danger.
“This is your room?” The maid is standing in the doorway, holding an armful of towels, looking at me.
“Oh no, sorry. I’m down the hall. I think my friend was staying here a few nights ago. Do you remember a very tall American with a beard?”
She shakes her head. “I have been on holiday,” she says. “To London. My friend Maria might know.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll find him. Thank you.” She nods and goes to get something from her cart, then turns back to me. “I can do your room now?”
“Oh yes, sure. I’m going to breakfast.” I follow her out into the hall. She nods again and pushes the cart down to my room, opens the door, and goes inside. She peeks out again, seeing me still standing in the hallway. “You can shut the door, please?”
“Sure.” But when she goes in my room, I duck back inside Ace’s room and close the door behind me. I want another look around.
There’s nothing out of place, and no reason there should be. It’s simply a hotel room, cleaned and ready for its next occupant. No plaque that says “Chet Baker Slept Here” either. I open the drawers of the nightstand, check in the closet, the bathroom. If Ace or anybody was here, there’s no evidence of it. I walk over to the window and look out again. A metal heater runs along the wall just under the window. It’s early spring, but the nights are still cool, and so is the heater when I touch it. I glance down, and something catches my eye. Something white, a piece of paper or something stuck behind the radiator. I slide my hand down to see if I can reach and drag it up, and I feel something else wedged between the wall and the heater.
I manage to get hold of the edge and pull. It’s a flat leather portfolio with a zipper around three sides. I’d know it anywhere; Ace always had it with him. He couldn’t have forgotten it—but what’s it doing here, shoved down behind the radiator? And who put it here? Inside are file folders, typed pages, handwritten notes, newspaper clippings, photos—all of Chet Baker. Ace’s research.
I zip it up quickly, open the door, and check the hallway. The maid is still busy in my room. Closing the door quietly, I slip down the stairs, Ace’s portfolio under my arm.
***
There are several coffee bars near the hotel. I choose the least crowded one and order a tall cappuccino and some kind of sweet roll. Grabbing one of the large ashtrays off the bar, I sit at a back table and open the case, turning over the pages one at a time as I wolf down the roll and sip the hot coffee. Ace has assembled quite a file on Chet Baker—news stories from American and foreign newspapers,
Downbeat, Jazz Times,
Gene Lees’
Jazzletter
, which is available only by subscription, a number of photos, and lots of typed pages with handwritten notes, phone numbers, and names added in the margins, all in Ace’s neat printing. One is for the Dutch National Jazz Archives in Amsterdam.
In the pocket in the back are also a couple of snapshots of Ace himself, smiling almost smugly, standing in front of the Chet Baker plaque in front of the hotel. I wonder who took those. Maybe the front desk clerk?
I put everything back in the case, zip it up, and carry it with me to the bar to get another coffee. I sit down again, light a cigarette, and listen to the voices around me, take in
“This is your room?” The maid is standing in the doorway, holding an armful of towels, looking at me.
“Oh no, sorry. I’m down the hall. I think my friend was staying here a few nights ago. Do you remember a very tall American with a beard?”
She shakes her head. “I have been on holiday,” she says. “To London. My friend Maria might know.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll find him. Thank you.” She nods and goes to get something from her cart, then turns back to me. “I can do your room now?”
“Oh yes, sure. I’m going to breakfast.” I follow her out into the hall. She nods again and pushes the cart down to my room, opens the door, and goes inside. She peeks out again, seeing me still standing in the hallway. “You can shut the door, please?”
“Sure.” But when she goes in my room, I duck back inside Ace’s room and close the door behind me. I want another look around.
There’s nothing out of place, and no reason there should be. It’s simply a hotel room, cleaned and ready for its next occupant. No plaque that says “Chet Baker Slept Here” either. I open the drawers of the nightstand, check in the closet, the bathroom. If Ace or anybody was here, there’s no evidence of it. I walk over to the window and look out again. A metal heater runs along the wall just under the window. It’s early spring, but the nights are still cool, and so is the heater when I touch it. I glance down, and something catches my eye. Something white, a piece of paper or something stuck behind the radiator. I slide my hand down to see if I can reach and drag it up, and I feel something else wedged between the wall and the heater.
I manage to get hold of the edge and pull. It’s a flat leather portfolio with a zipper around three sides. I’d know it anywhere; Ace always had it with him. He couldn’t have forgotten it—but what’s it doing here, shoved down behind the radiator? And who put it here? Inside are file folders, typed pages, handwritten notes, newspaper clippings, photos—all of Chet Baker. Ace’s research.
I zip it up quickly, open the door, and check the hallway. The maid is still busy in my room. Closing the door quietly, I slip down the stairs, Ace’s portfolio under my arm.
***
There are several coffee bars near the hotel. I choose the least crowded one and order a tall cappuccino and some kind of sweet roll. Grabbing one of the large ashtrays off the bar, I sit at a back table and open the case, turning over the pages one at a time as I wolf down the roll and sip the hot coffee. Ace has assembled quite a file on Chet Baker—news stories from American and foreign newspapers,
Downbeat, Jazz Times,
Gene Lees’
Jazzletter
, which is available only by subscription, a number of photos, and lots of typed pages with handwritten notes, phone numbers, and names added in the margins, all in Ace’s neat printing. One is for the Dutch National Jazz Archives in Amsterdam.
In the pocket in the back are also a couple of snapshots of Ace himself, smiling almost smugly, standing in front of the Chet Baker plaque in front of the hotel. I wonder who took those. Maybe the front desk clerk?
I put everything back in the case, zip it up, and carry it with me to the bar to get another coffee. I sit down again, light a cigarette, and listen to the voices around me, take in
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