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kind of mentor?”
    “Yes, I guess you could say that. Why do you ask?”
    Hammond pauses, looks away for a moment. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. You haven’t talked at all about your parents. Are they both still living?”
    “Yes. My father and I never got along, he had no empathy for music. My mother does, but neither of them communicate much. They have their world, I have mine. I see them rarely.”
    Then I see where she’s going. “You think Calvin and Pappy are father figure substitutes? Is that it?”
    “Possibly. They’re both considerably older than you are and both musicians, so the connection is there, perhaps in a way you would have liked to have with your father.”
    “Aren’t we getting away from the point here?”
    Hammond doesn’t push it. “Yes, I suppose we are.” She looked at me then and smiled. I knew I’d told her more than I meant to. “I don’t know if this has helped you, but my instinct tells me you’re going to be okay. You acted courageously under pressure, and you were certainly an asset on this case. Your drive, determination, it’s who you are, but sometimes you need to rein it in.”
    I knew then exactly what she meant. I leaned back, distinctly feeling a weight lifted from me. “So what do you think?” I asked Hammond, trying to keep it light. “Am I ready for the field again?”
    “I think you know the answer to that better than I do,” she said. She closed the file and plopped it on her desk. The sound was a satisfying one to me. “Call me anytime if you want,” she said.
    She was right. I did know. I’d never see things quite the same way again, but I also knew I could probably go on.
    I didn’t call her again, and a month later, I left for London.
    April 28, 1988
    Chet Baker, nodding, listens to the playback in the cavernous Hamburg studio. Only two tracks to go. His teeth are hurting, getting worse lately. He touches his jaw, feels them slip. Making it so far, though, playing good, but now he just wants to get out of there, get in the Alfa and drive as fast as he can to the gig in Paris. Just cool it for a while.
    Chet’s old friends Herb Geller and Walter Norris are there for the date. Herb and Walter come into the control booth to hear the playback of “Well You Needn’t.” Norris, the brilliant pianist, sits quietly, legs crossed. Herb, his horn hanging from around his neck, watches him, listens, checking him out. Chet, smiling at Herb now, hearing his solo. So long since L.A., from the days when he and Gerry Mulligan packed the Haig for almost a year.
    “Not too bad for an old guy, huh?” Chet says.
    Herb nods. “You sound great, man.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Are you okay? You need anything?”
    “Just hope that guy gets back here with the teeth glue.” He looks at the floor for a moment. “You know, man, if the uppers go, I can’t play anymore, but I have an appointment with a dentist next week.” Chet sighs, shakes his head, smiles that sad smile. “I gotta get out of here, man.”
    Herb nods again and smiles back. It’s been over thirty years, but he knows how it is with Chet, how it’s always been. “I know. Well, only a couple of more tunes left.”
    The engineer stops the tape as the track ends and looks at Chet. “That one is fine for you?” he asks.
    Chet, glancing at Herb, catches his nod, saying, “Yes, it’s fine.”
    As always, he hadn’t played for anyone. Certainly not the record company suits who were now relaxing in chairs, in the control room, beaming at each other. They were scared earlier when he hadn’t showed for the rehearsal. Chet didn’t need to rehearse, but the orchestra, one of the best in Germany, did. For two days. An eighteen-piece big band and forty-three strings. Chet just played. He examined these old songs, played them, and then put them away until the next time. They would always be there, waiting for him like the women, the friends he left and eventually returned to. They were waiting too. Even