try to imagine them playing an instrument. I’m usually right. Piano players and bass players and drummers are different. Well, drummers are really different. But piano players, they got nothing to blow, they have to touch those keys, bringing all that metal and wood to life. They have a different look when they’re comping, playing for other soloists, than when they solo. You got that look. Last night, you looked like you’d like to climb in that piano and never come out. I could see it in your eyes. You got a great touch, you listen, and you play the prettiest chords I’ve heard in a long time. You could give a lot of cats a hard time.”
“Thanks. Coming from you, that’s—”
Fletcher waves his hand, gives me a quick mock frown. “Oh, shit, I didn’t say you’re Bud Powell.”
“Okay, but thanks anyway, it means a lot. You don’t know how much I’d like to believe you’re right about Ace, but I don’t think so. Research is Ace’s thing. That portfolio is stuffed full of information about Chet Baker. That’s why he was in Amsterdam. He wouldn’t just go off and forget it, any more than you’d forget your horn.”
Fletcher shakes his head. “Don’t matter. Unless you want back in the detective business, you just turn your friend’s portfolio in to the front desk and let him claim it, or call them about it. You don’t know, man. Maybe he did just forget it. Got distracted when he checked out and didn’t remember till he was on a train somewhere.”
What Fletcher says makes sense to a point, but I still believe Ace would have forgotten anything but his portfolio.
The waiter brings our food then, two big steaming bowls of meaty stew and a small loaf of warm bread. Fletcher was right. It’s great. We eat for a few minutes in silence, both of us thinking. Finally, Fletcher makes another suggestion.
“Why don’t you check with the local police, tell them the whole story?”
“I’ve already thought of that, but what can I tell them? My friend checked out of the hotel. Like you, they’ll just say, So what?”
Fletcher nods. “Yeah, probably. He’s not exactly a missing person. Maybe he’ll just show up again, and you can give him the case in person.”
“I wish it was going to be that easy, but I know it’s not. I almost feel like he wanted me to find it.”
Fletcher puts his fork down and looks at me. “That’s getting a little out there, isn’t it? You said he didn’t even know for sure you would be in Amsterdam, and he didn’t know what hotel you’d be in, did he?”
Before I can answer, the door swings open. A tall lanky young black man in jeans, turtleneck sweater, and leather coat and sunglasses struts in, spots us, and saunters over to our booth.
“Uh-oh,” Fletcher says. “Here comes Shaft.”
“Fletcher Paige, what it is.” He holds out his palm. Fletcher smacks it lightly without looking up. The young man just smiles and rubs his hand over his shaven head. He has one gold ring in his left ear.
“Hey, Darren. We’re eating.”
But Darren is oblivious. He sits down next to Fletcher and smiles at me. “You must be the piano man. Evan Horne, right?” He holds out his hand for me to shake. He lets go, then leans in, takes off his glasses, and points at me with one long slim finger. His eyes are big and round. “Oh man, you the detective cat.”
“Don’t go there, Darren,” Fletcher says.
“Hi.” I look to Fletcher. He rolls his eyes.
“Say hello to Darren. Thinks he’s the hippest cat in Amsterdam.”
Darren laughs. “Thinks? Man, you know it. I am the man. Well, next to Fletcher, anyway. Word is y’all were smoking last night at the Bimhuis.”
“Ain’t you got something to do, Darren?” Fletcher says. “You’re interrupting our lunch.”
Darren holds up his hands. For all his bravado, it’s clear he doesn’t want to offend Fletcher. He puts his glasses on again but keeps the smile intact. “That’s cool, man. Yeah, I got lots to do. I
“Thanks. Coming from you, that’s—”
Fletcher waves his hand, gives me a quick mock frown. “Oh, shit, I didn’t say you’re Bud Powell.”
“Okay, but thanks anyway, it means a lot. You don’t know how much I’d like to believe you’re right about Ace, but I don’t think so. Research is Ace’s thing. That portfolio is stuffed full of information about Chet Baker. That’s why he was in Amsterdam. He wouldn’t just go off and forget it, any more than you’d forget your horn.”
Fletcher shakes his head. “Don’t matter. Unless you want back in the detective business, you just turn your friend’s portfolio in to the front desk and let him claim it, or call them about it. You don’t know, man. Maybe he did just forget it. Got distracted when he checked out and didn’t remember till he was on a train somewhere.”
What Fletcher says makes sense to a point, but I still believe Ace would have forgotten anything but his portfolio.
The waiter brings our food then, two big steaming bowls of meaty stew and a small loaf of warm bread. Fletcher was right. It’s great. We eat for a few minutes in silence, both of us thinking. Finally, Fletcher makes another suggestion.
“Why don’t you check with the local police, tell them the whole story?”
“I’ve already thought of that, but what can I tell them? My friend checked out of the hotel. Like you, they’ll just say, So what?”
Fletcher nods. “Yeah, probably. He’s not exactly a missing person. Maybe he’ll just show up again, and you can give him the case in person.”
“I wish it was going to be that easy, but I know it’s not. I almost feel like he wanted me to find it.”
Fletcher puts his fork down and looks at me. “That’s getting a little out there, isn’t it? You said he didn’t even know for sure you would be in Amsterdam, and he didn’t know what hotel you’d be in, did he?”
Before I can answer, the door swings open. A tall lanky young black man in jeans, turtleneck sweater, and leather coat and sunglasses struts in, spots us, and saunters over to our booth.
“Uh-oh,” Fletcher says. “Here comes Shaft.”
“Fletcher Paige, what it is.” He holds out his palm. Fletcher smacks it lightly without looking up. The young man just smiles and rubs his hand over his shaven head. He has one gold ring in his left ear.
“Hey, Darren. We’re eating.”
But Darren is oblivious. He sits down next to Fletcher and smiles at me. “You must be the piano man. Evan Horne, right?” He holds out his hand for me to shake. He lets go, then leans in, takes off his glasses, and points at me with one long slim finger. His eyes are big and round. “Oh man, you the detective cat.”
“Don’t go there, Darren,” Fletcher says.
“Hi.” I look to Fletcher. He rolls his eyes.
“Say hello to Darren. Thinks he’s the hippest cat in Amsterdam.”
Darren laughs. “Thinks? Man, you know it. I am the man. Well, next to Fletcher, anyway. Word is y’all were smoking last night at the Bimhuis.”
“Ain’t you got something to do, Darren?” Fletcher says. “You’re interrupting our lunch.”
Darren holds up his hands. For all his bravado, it’s clear he doesn’t want to offend Fletcher. He puts his glasses on again but keeps the smile intact. “That’s cool, man. Yeah, I got lots to do. I
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