the smells of cooking and coffee brewing, and wonder what the hell is going on.
There’s no way Ace would leave all this stuff behind. It is all his research, and even if there’s some logical reason—and I can’t think of any—he certainly wouldn’t stuff it behind the radiator and just forget it when he checked out. And he did check out, according to the desk clerk. He didn’t just leave one morning and not come back. His clothes were gone, so what’s the deal? It just doesn’t add up.
I finish my coffee and walk back to the hotel. It’s quite sunny now, but there’s still a nip in the air, and the streets are crowded. Across the way at Central Station, people are streaming in and out past the hundreds of bicycles. At the hotel, I check for messages and find one from Fletcher Paige for me to call him. I go back to my room, stash Ace’s portfolio in my own bag, and dial the number Fletcher has left for me.
“Lo.”
“Fletcher? It’s Evan Horne.”
“Hey. Got any plans this afternoon?”
“No, not really. What’s up?”
“Thought I’d show you around your neighborhood, get some lunch if that’s cool.”
“Sounds good. You want me to meet you someplace?”
“Yeah, there’s a place near your hotel, not far from the police station. Just ask anybody. The New Orleans Café. ’Bout noon?”
“Okay. See you then.”
I hang up and take out the portfolio again, looking through every sheet of paper in there, even in the side pockets, but there’s nothing there to tell me anything. That familiar rumbling starts in my stomach as I sift through the clippings and photos and typed pages, remembering how I looked at a similar file in Las Vegas on Wardell Gray. Even that made more sense than this does. At least then, Ace was sitting across from me in the UNLV Student Union.
***
Fletcher is already there when I get to the New Orleans Café. It’s dark inside, and there’s taped jazz coming from somewhere in the back. Fletcher sits in a booth by the window, drinking coffee and reading
USA Today
. He waves me over, and I slide in opposite him. He folds the paper neatly and takes off a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
“Hey, man, you found it.” He replaces them with another pair. “Gettin’ old, man. It ain’t fun. One pair to read, another one just to see. But shit, I can still play.”
“Just like you said.”
Fletcher glances at his watch. “Wanna take a walk? We’re early yet for lunch. We can come back, and I can show you around the Old Quarter.”
“Sure.” We get up, and Fletcher tells the bartender to hold the table, that we’ll be back later.
We wind through the narrow streets. Within a couple of minutes I’m totally turned around in the maze of bars, shops, and coffeehouses, but Fletcher seems to have a destination in mind.
“You do any smoke, man?”
“Not for a long time, since I worked with Lonnie Cole. He grew his own. Always gave me a bad reaction.”
“Uh-huh,” Fletcher says. “Well, if you’re so inclined, this is the place to do it. Any of these coffee bars, it’s legal. Just go in, and they’ll give you a menu. Shit from all over. One of the advantages of Amsterdam is their liberal attitude on a lot of things.” We turn a corner and come into a narrow alleyway with tall windows, glass doors, and the reddish-tinged lights. It could be where I walked last night, but it’s hard to tell. “Here’s another one.”
The girls are out in full force, perched on stools or pacing in front of the windows. In some, the drapes are drawn across. “That means they with a customer, probably some businessman on his lunch hour.” Fletcher waves to a couple of the girls. They seem to know him, waving back and smiling. Seeing my look, Fletcher says, “Different kind of window shopping, huh? No, I don’t do this scene, but I been around so long lot of folks know me. Hey, look here.”
Right next to one of the girls’ windows is a brick building. “Take a look,” Fletcher
There’s no way Ace would leave all this stuff behind. It is all his research, and even if there’s some logical reason—and I can’t think of any—he certainly wouldn’t stuff it behind the radiator and just forget it when he checked out. And he did check out, according to the desk clerk. He didn’t just leave one morning and not come back. His clothes were gone, so what’s the deal? It just doesn’t add up.
I finish my coffee and walk back to the hotel. It’s quite sunny now, but there’s still a nip in the air, and the streets are crowded. Across the way at Central Station, people are streaming in and out past the hundreds of bicycles. At the hotel, I check for messages and find one from Fletcher Paige for me to call him. I go back to my room, stash Ace’s portfolio in my own bag, and dial the number Fletcher has left for me.
“Lo.”
“Fletcher? It’s Evan Horne.”
“Hey. Got any plans this afternoon?”
“No, not really. What’s up?”
“Thought I’d show you around your neighborhood, get some lunch if that’s cool.”
“Sounds good. You want me to meet you someplace?”
“Yeah, there’s a place near your hotel, not far from the police station. Just ask anybody. The New Orleans Café. ’Bout noon?”
“Okay. See you then.”
I hang up and take out the portfolio again, looking through every sheet of paper in there, even in the side pockets, but there’s nothing there to tell me anything. That familiar rumbling starts in my stomach as I sift through the clippings and photos and typed pages, remembering how I looked at a similar file in Las Vegas on Wardell Gray. Even that made more sense than this does. At least then, Ace was sitting across from me in the UNLV Student Union.
***
Fletcher is already there when I get to the New Orleans Café. It’s dark inside, and there’s taped jazz coming from somewhere in the back. Fletcher sits in a booth by the window, drinking coffee and reading
USA Today
. He waves me over, and I slide in opposite him. He folds the paper neatly and takes off a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
“Hey, man, you found it.” He replaces them with another pair. “Gettin’ old, man. It ain’t fun. One pair to read, another one just to see. But shit, I can still play.”
“Just like you said.”
Fletcher glances at his watch. “Wanna take a walk? We’re early yet for lunch. We can come back, and I can show you around the Old Quarter.”
“Sure.” We get up, and Fletcher tells the bartender to hold the table, that we’ll be back later.
We wind through the narrow streets. Within a couple of minutes I’m totally turned around in the maze of bars, shops, and coffeehouses, but Fletcher seems to have a destination in mind.
“You do any smoke, man?”
“Not for a long time, since I worked with Lonnie Cole. He grew his own. Always gave me a bad reaction.”
“Uh-huh,” Fletcher says. “Well, if you’re so inclined, this is the place to do it. Any of these coffee bars, it’s legal. Just go in, and they’ll give you a menu. Shit from all over. One of the advantages of Amsterdam is their liberal attitude on a lot of things.” We turn a corner and come into a narrow alleyway with tall windows, glass doors, and the reddish-tinged lights. It could be where I walked last night, but it’s hard to tell. “Here’s another one.”
The girls are out in full force, perched on stools or pacing in front of the windows. In some, the drapes are drawn across. “That means they with a customer, probably some businessman on his lunch hour.” Fletcher waves to a couple of the girls. They seem to know him, waving back and smiling. Seeing my look, Fletcher says, “Different kind of window shopping, huh? No, I don’t do this scene, but I been around so long lot of folks know me. Hey, look here.”
Right next to one of the girls’ windows is a brick building. “Take a look,” Fletcher
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