says. Inside I can see a group of small children sitting on the floor. A woman is seated before them, a book in her hand, obviously reading a story. A little farther on, more kids are working on some art project and a teacher is roaming around the room commenting on their work.
“Hookers’ kids?” I ask.
Fletcher smiles. “Nope, just a regular preschool.”
“Here? In this area?”
“Yep, part of the city’s urban renewal. It’s mostly bars, the red-light district—you’ve seen that—but they want to have some normalcy too, so they put in a preschool. Ain’t that a bitch.” He laughs and claps his hands.
“But don’t the parents object?”
“No, they know it up front. The girls were here first. They can be liberal too.”
I glance at the window next to the school. A tall, willowy black girl is seated on a stool. Her hair is almost red, and she’s clad in only bra and panties. She catches my eye, cups her very full breasts, and smiles. Fletcher waves and blows her a kiss.
We walk on past a beautiful old church, and Fletcher tells me it’s the oldest in Amsterdam. “Some place, huh? The Old Quarter. You can get drunk, get high, get laid, and save your soul, all in walking distance.” He laughs again. “This sure ain’t California, man.”
We continue turning corners till suddenly we’re back at the New Orleans. Fletcher’s booth is still vacant, his newspaper right where he left it, and menus are waiting on the table. “Now we eat,” he says, sliding into the booth.
I join him. “You must be a good customer here.”
Fletcher smiles slyly. “Yeah, one of the perks of living here for a while. Shit, Dexter Gordon was a write-in candidate for mayor when he lived in Copenhagen. They got a good stew you might try.”
I follow Fletcher’s lead. He catches the waiter’s eye and signals him, putting two fingers up. The waiter nods and heads for the kitchen. The bartender brings us two draft beers. Fletcher takes a long pull of his and looks at me.
“So, what’s on your mind? I can see you want to talk about something. You’ve been preoccupied all morning.”
I nod and wonder how much to tell him, but there’s nothing to lose. “How well did you know Chet Baker?”
“Uh-oh, here we go. Sam Spade on the case.” He laughs. “No pun intended.”
“You’re a mystery fan?”
“Oh yeah, got a collection of paperbacks. Raymond Chandler, Ross MacDonald, Walter Mosley, Elmore Leonard, and some new cat, Gary Phillips. I like him because his character is named Monk. But my main man is Charles Willeford. Writes about a Miami cop named Hoke Moseley. Gotta love a guy named Hoke,” Fletcher says. “Ain’t got his own teeth, always owes his ex-wife money. But he’s cool.”
“Well, I’m not on any case, but there are a couple of things. Remember I asked you about my friend Buffington, the professor? Well, there’s no sign of him. The hotel says he just checked out, and that’s not like him.”
“So? Lots of people check out of hotels.”
“No, there’s something strange about it. I saw him in London, and we agreed that if I made this gig, we’d get together. I’m sure he would have left a message for me.” I pause for a moment, wondering what Fletcher thinks. “There’s something else.” I tell Fletcher about finding the portfolio. “He wouldn’t just leave it like that, forget it when he checked out. Especially hidden as it was.”
“Didn’t hide it too well,” Fletcher says. “You found it.”
“Yeah, I know. And that bothers me. What do you think?”
Fletcher studies me across the table. “I watched you playing last night. You even look like a piano player, got that look in your eyes, the way you listen, head to the side, looking for the right chord. Piano players are like that. Always thinking, watching everything, hanging back.”
“Really. You got all that?”
“Oh, yeah,” Fletcher says, with a mischievous smile. “Little game I play. I see people and
“Hookers’ kids?” I ask.
Fletcher smiles. “Nope, just a regular preschool.”
“Here? In this area?”
“Yep, part of the city’s urban renewal. It’s mostly bars, the red-light district—you’ve seen that—but they want to have some normalcy too, so they put in a preschool. Ain’t that a bitch.” He laughs and claps his hands.
“But don’t the parents object?”
“No, they know it up front. The girls were here first. They can be liberal too.”
I glance at the window next to the school. A tall, willowy black girl is seated on a stool. Her hair is almost red, and she’s clad in only bra and panties. She catches my eye, cups her very full breasts, and smiles. Fletcher waves and blows her a kiss.
We walk on past a beautiful old church, and Fletcher tells me it’s the oldest in Amsterdam. “Some place, huh? The Old Quarter. You can get drunk, get high, get laid, and save your soul, all in walking distance.” He laughs again. “This sure ain’t California, man.”
We continue turning corners till suddenly we’re back at the New Orleans. Fletcher’s booth is still vacant, his newspaper right where he left it, and menus are waiting on the table. “Now we eat,” he says, sliding into the booth.
I join him. “You must be a good customer here.”
Fletcher smiles slyly. “Yeah, one of the perks of living here for a while. Shit, Dexter Gordon was a write-in candidate for mayor when he lived in Copenhagen. They got a good stew you might try.”
I follow Fletcher’s lead. He catches the waiter’s eye and signals him, putting two fingers up. The waiter nods and heads for the kitchen. The bartender brings us two draft beers. Fletcher takes a long pull of his and looks at me.
“So, what’s on your mind? I can see you want to talk about something. You’ve been preoccupied all morning.”
I nod and wonder how much to tell him, but there’s nothing to lose. “How well did you know Chet Baker?”
“Uh-oh, here we go. Sam Spade on the case.” He laughs. “No pun intended.”
“You’re a mystery fan?”
“Oh yeah, got a collection of paperbacks. Raymond Chandler, Ross MacDonald, Walter Mosley, Elmore Leonard, and some new cat, Gary Phillips. I like him because his character is named Monk. But my main man is Charles Willeford. Writes about a Miami cop named Hoke Moseley. Gotta love a guy named Hoke,” Fletcher says. “Ain’t got his own teeth, always owes his ex-wife money. But he’s cool.”
“Well, I’m not on any case, but there are a couple of things. Remember I asked you about my friend Buffington, the professor? Well, there’s no sign of him. The hotel says he just checked out, and that’s not like him.”
“So? Lots of people check out of hotels.”
“No, there’s something strange about it. I saw him in London, and we agreed that if I made this gig, we’d get together. I’m sure he would have left a message for me.” I pause for a moment, wondering what Fletcher thinks. “There’s something else.” I tell Fletcher about finding the portfolio. “He wouldn’t just leave it like that, forget it when he checked out. Especially hidden as it was.”
“Didn’t hide it too well,” Fletcher says. “You found it.”
“Yeah, I know. And that bothers me. What do you think?”
Fletcher studies me across the table. “I watched you playing last night. You even look like a piano player, got that look in your eyes, the way you listen, head to the side, looking for the right chord. Piano players are like that. Always thinking, watching everything, hanging back.”
“Really. You got all that?”
“Oh, yeah,” Fletcher says, with a mischievous smile. “Little game I play. I see people and
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