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black models, many with baskets, racked, leaning against rails, chained to fences, taking up virtually every square inch of space. I’ve never seen so many bicycles.
    “They are for the commuters.”
    “What?” I turn at the voice beside me and see a man in a raincoat, carrying a satchel. It’s no one I recognize, just a friendly local perhaps who sounds like a tourist guide.
    “People cycle to the station, leave their bicycles here, then come back and cycle home,” he says. “There is little parking in Amsterdam. Bicycles are the main mode of transportation.” The man nods and starts off. “Well, enjoy your stay in Amsterdam.”
    “Thanks,” I say, wondering how he knew to speak English. “Wait, maybe you can help me.” I set my bags down and consult the slip of paper with the name of the hotel the promoter has arranged for me.
    “Yes?” The man comes back.
    “Do you know the Prins Hendrik Hotel?”
    He smiles. “Yes, you are very close.” He points across the wide boulevard in front of the station. “This is called Prins Hendrikkade. The hotel is there, toward the plaza.”
    I look in the direction he’s pointing and see the sign. “Okay, thanks. Thanks very much.” I set my bags down and offer him my hand. “I’m Evan Horne.”
    He takes my hand and shakes it vigorously. “Edward de Hass.”
    “Well, thanks, Mr. de Hass. Thanks very much.”
    “Not at all,” he says. “Enjoy Amsterdam.”
    I grab my bags and start walking, crossing without the lights, taking in the traffic, the people, and even more bicycles, riding in a special lane. I stop in front of the Prins Hendrik Hotel and see the irony of the promoter’s choice. Next to the double glass doors is a plaque and a sculpture. The artist has captured that lined face so well.
    CHET BAKER TRUMPET PLAYER AND SINGER
DIED HERE ON MAY 13, 1988. HE WILL LIVE ON IN HIS MUSIC FOR ANYONE WILLING TO LISTEN AND FEEL. 1929–1988
    Next to the plaque is a list of contributors. I scan the names but see none I recognize except for a couple of record companies. It’s hard to walk away, though. I look around, but people are passing by without even giving it a glance. I push through the glass doors into the hotel lobby. Inside, on one wall is a poster-size photo of Chet, taken in 1955 at the Open Door in New York City. This is the young Chet, on the rise, before his first bout with trouble, before those lines became etched in his face. All I can think is, Amsterdam is pretty cool.
    At the desk, I show my passport and get checked in by a bored clerk. “You weren’t here then, were you?” I ask, pointing at the photo. “When it happened, I mean.”
    It’s obviously an old question. The clerk doesn’t even look up. “No, only the owner was, and he does not come in much. Your room is C-18, and no, it is not the room Chet Baker stayed in.”
    “Thanks. I didn’t ask if it was.” I start for the elevator, then turn back. “Do you have an Ace Buffington checked in?”
    “A moment, please.” He taps some keys on his computer. “No, we did. Mr. Buffington checked out two days ago.” The clerk looks at me and smiles. “He stayed in C-20.”
    “The Chet Baker room?”
    “Yes.”
    Riding up the elevator, I think about that. Kind of puzzling, but maybe Ace already got what he wanted here, didn’t get my message, was heading someplace else or even back home. The truth is, I hope he’s already left Amsterdam.
    I find the room small and clean but stuffy. I try to open one of the windows facing a back alley, but it’s difficult. I get one of them halfway up and prop it open with this kind of stick thing attached to a chain. Below me is a cobblestone alleyway that winds back from the hotel. If I lean out, I can see one of the canals. I wonder if that’s what happened to Chet Baker. Chet, high, leaning out too far, just nodding off and…
    I put that all out of my mind then and unpack, wait for Walter Offen’s call. Chet Baker, what happened to him, is