At Bert’s direction, Charlie and Dave had spent the week between their last encounter with Ethan playing music together. They worked on the arrangement of the song Dave had written, as well as some other funked-up instrumental pieces from Charlie’s past. Bert would have preferred to bring Aaron, and maybe even Abe, into the sessions, but time was too tight. Also, Bert knew that Charlie and Dave were his two best musicians and he wanted his A-team out there.
Ethan was scheduled to play The Grind at 7:00 again. At 5:30, the three pursuers were out in front on the narrow sidewalk, Dave seated on a bench with his keyboard standing on its legs before him, Charlie with his saxophone, standing to Dave’s right, and Bert about twenty feet away, leaning on the plate glass window front of the music store next door. As the two musicians wailed away, Bert smiled, observing the onlookers who walked between them, pausing to listen to the music.
Charlie and Dave sounded great. As the minutes passed by, more and more students stayed on to listen, forming a semi-circle in front of the two performers that was two or three deep, effectively blocking the flow of pedestrians.
Bert was relaxing and enjoying the music when he suddenly snapped to attention. With guitar case in hand, Ethan was heading toward him. Without a word, Bert caught Ethan’s eye and casually nodded in the direction of the crowd.
Ethan, looking curious, craned his neck over the people gathered in front of him, to observe what was going on. He turned away from the crowd momentarily, looking as if he was going to continue past them and on into the building, but he stopped in his tracks and turned back.
Minutes passed, and Ethan stayed in place watching the performance. Bert had sneaked up behind him, and catching Dave’s eye, Bert signaled Dave to play the tune he had written. Dave caught the signal, nodded to Charlie, and the two executed a smooth transition.
“This is our first song.”
Ethan, not realizing that Bert was right behind him, jumped at the sound of Bert’s voice, but then recovered and looked at him long and hard. “All right. I’m in,” Ethan said at last.
“Yes!” Bert exclaimed, pumping his fist, unable to contain his excitement. “You won’t regret it.”
“A few caveats though.”
“Whatever you say.”
“First, school comes first for me. Second, I want to keep my solo gig here on Friday nights. And third, and most importantly, you need to understand that I’m joining you for the music. We’re not buddies. We’re not going to be hanging out together.” He paused. “I’m not ‘one of you’ and I never will be.”
“Fair enough,” responded Bert, the elation of the moment overwhelming Ethan’s slights. Like a salesman who had closed the deal, he would work out the difficult details later.
“Here’s how to reach me,” Ethan said, writing his number on a scrap of paper and handing it to Bert. “I need to go now.”
Ethan headed for the doorway into The Grind.
“By the way,” Bert shouted to him, causing Ethan to look back over his shoulder before the door swung closed. “That girl who works in the coffee bar thinks you’re cute.” Ethan gave a surprised smile, turned, and walked into the lounge as Bert stood there chuckling, feeling pretty pleased with himself.
Chapter 6 – Gene
Bert needed a few days off. He wasn’t used to working such a vigorous schedule-- or at least relatively vigorous. It had been years since the days of being in the office by 7:00 A.M. and leaving at 7:00 P.M. That was on a good night. On many nights Bert left the office even later, and frequently had business dinners or cocktail parties or was on the road.
But now things were different; his stamina was gone. Bert was reminded of a time in his youth when his doctor had finally removed the cast from a broken arm. Expecting to be at full strength, Bert had been surprised to find that the muscles had atrophied and that he had difficulty lifting even light objects in any repetition. But in time, with some regular therapy and repeated exercise, Bert’s arm returned to its original strength.
That’s how Bert felt now. He realized that the days of meandering aimlessly around the city had taken their toll on his body and his endurance. These last two months he had operated on the adrenaline that came from the vision before him, but that power was now sapped. He would regain his old form, he knew, but it would take time.
The weekend had passed since the last encounter with Ethan, and Bert had done little more than relax at the apartment. On Tuesday morning, he decided to walk down to the wharf. He always found the area by the bay invigorating.
He stopped at Ted’s for a cup of coffee.
“Bert Ingram, how the hell are you!” came Ted’s cheery voice. “Still rounding up that band?”
Bert came to life a little more. “Almost there, buddy. Just need a bass player. I don’t suppose you’ve got one lurking in the back somewhere?”
“I just sold my last one,” Ted answered with a hearty laugh. “I wish you had told me. I’d have held one for you. By the way, did you ever find that Bongo Joe kid?”
“I sure did, Ted. In fact, I owe you one. He’s our drummer.”
“Pretty good, is he?”
“A bit rusty, but he’ll come around.”
Ted waited on a stray customer and then returned. “About this bass player, Bert, you haven’t stumbled across any around the city?”
“No. Unfortunately, it’s not the type of instrument you see a lot of soloists playing. I don’t mind scouring the streets of the city, but my gut tells me I’d be years waiting to happen upon one.”
“Have you considered placing an ad in the newspaper?”
“Yeah. That might work, but it just doesn’t have the right feel to it. Seems too conventional.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot. Essence of the city. Wretched refuse, huddled masses, all that stuff.”
Bert laughed. “Something like that.”
“Want me to put up a sign here? Would that help?”
“Maybe. Let me think about it.”
“What about your past, Bert? Didn’t you say you used to be well connected in the music industry? Anyone out there from your former life?”
“Hmmm. That’s a thought,” Bert mentally logged the idea for later.
The two men conversed a few minutes longer, with traffic at the restaurant pretty slow at the mid-morning hour. In another hour or so, the place would begin to buzz with lunchtime activity. Bert paid Ted for the coffee and said his farewell.
Down at the wharf, Bert wandered along the edge and sipped the coffee through the small opening in the plastic lid.
Someone from the past. Someone from the past. Think, Bert. Bert strained to get clarity in his mind, mentally traveling back in time through the haze of the recent years. Where to start? There were so many bands, so many musicians. Would there be someone from one of the bands he’d managed who’d be interested? And if they were, how would he find them? Bert’s industry ties were now separated from him by a wall of relationship neglect.
Wait a minute. There was that one guy. Bert was suddenly struck with the memory of a bass player who had worked in the background on a handful of albums by the bands Bert was managing at the time. A studio musician. What was his name?
Another thought struck him, a cold bucket of reality to the face. That guy had been no spring chicken back during the recording sessions, and they were at least twelve years ago, maybe even fifteen. Still, he wondered. He could still be around. Think, Bert, think. What was his name? John? Jerry? George? Something like that.
Bert swallowed the last drops of coffee, crushed the Styrofoam cup in his hand, and slam-dunked it into a nearby trash can. He needed to get back to the apartment to make some phone calls. Maybe someone at one of the studios would remember.
Bert walked home briskly, rejuvenated with the prospect, albeit a slim one, of locating the long lost bassist. He fumbled with the lock in his excitement to get started. Once inside, he threw his jacket over the couch and sat down at the kitchen table with the cordless phone.
Bert’s first call was to Backwoods Studios, a place that was anything but backwoods, located on Cahuenga Boulevard in one of the busiest areas of Los Angeles.
“Backwoods Studios, can I help you?” came the polished feminine voice.
“Uh, actually,” Bert started, not really having laid out his thoughts in his mind. Then, regaining the composure built from years of salesmanship, he continued, “I’m trying to locate a musician who used to work there.”
“Name?”
“Bert Ingram.”
“I don’t know of anyone by that name.”
“Oh, sorry,” Bert laughed. “I thought you meant my name.”
“What’s the musician’s name?” she responded impatiently.
“Well, here’s the thing, Miss--”
“Candice.”
“Here’s the thing, Candice. I don’t know his name. You see, I manage bands, and I’m looking for a fellow we did some work with there several years back. Could I try to describe him to you?”
“You can try, but I’ve only been here a few years.”
Bert went on to describe, as best as his memory would allow, the distinguishing characteristics of the bassist. When he had finished describing the rail-thin, African-American with the narrow beard that looked like someone had run a magic marker from one ear to his chin and back up to the other, and the teeth with the pronounced overbite, Candice gave him the answer he expected. She had no recollection of anyone fitting that description.
Bert thanked her and hung up the phone. Undeterred, he spent the better part of the afternoon telephoning studio after studio. It occurred to him that perhaps one of the producers might know of the bassist. He continued the calls, doubling back to those he hadn’t asked about producers.
Each time, Bert would first run through the names of all the producers he could recollect. And each time he met a dead end, he would ask who was currently producing recordings there. He then logged the producer’s name, the studio, and the producer’s phone number.
When Bert had exhausted all the studios, he found himself left with a list of seventeen record producers, along with telephone numbers for eleven of them. Having put in a good day’s work, and noting that it was getting late in the afternoon, Bert decided to quit for the day and pick back up in the morning.
At 10:30 A.M., feeling that he had given the producers sufficient time to be out of bed and working, accounting for their lifestyles, Bert began making calls. He reached voice mailboxes for the first two, and the third, whom Bert reached on his cell phone, couldn’t recall anyone fitting Bert’s description.
But the fourth call that morning, to what turned out to be the cell phone of a record producer by the name of Chelton Matlock, hit paydirt.
“Hmmm. Tall, thin, crooked teeth? Black fella, right?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Bert answered. “Know anyone like that?”
“Receding hairline?”
“I’m not sure, really. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen him.”
“Always dressed in black?”
It hadn’t occurred to Bert, probably because he had only seen him a handful of times, but now that the man had mentioned it, Bert did recollect that he always wore black. “Yes! He did always dress that way!” Bert said excitedly.
“Then you must mean Gene Thomason,” said the producer.
“Gene! That’s it. Do you know where I can find him? Tell me he’s still alive.”
“Well, I can’t tell you that for sure. I haven’t been in touch with him for awhile myself. But I can give you the last address and phone number I have for him.”
Bert eagerly took down the information on a piece of paper. After thanking the producer profusely, Bert hung up and dialed directory assistance in San Rafael. He asked the operator to confirm that there was indeed a Thomason listed at the San Rafael address given to him. There was! Bert hung up the phone elated. Now he needed to pay Gene a visit. It had been too long, and the relationship was too distant for a phone call to be sufficient.
Bert had never gotten used to not having a car and was frequently frustrated by the need to get to most places on foot or via the bus or subway system. Public transit was fine for the heart of San Francisco, but outside that central area, transportation was a nightmare of inefficiency. It seemed to him a lifetime ago that he had whatever resources he needed at his disposal. But over the last twelve years, almost exclusively due to the transportation issue, Bert had spent virtually all his time confined, prisonlike, within the perimeter of the city by the bay.
He mapped out in his mind the absurd amount of effort it would take to get to the San Rafael address just thirty minutes outside the city. He could take a bus to the town, which would turn the thirty-minute trip into one of probably triple that length with all the stops en route. And who knew how long he’d have to wait for the bus on the return route if he didn’t time it well? Then he’d have to pay an exorbitant fare for taxis to and from the bus station in San Rafael, assuming that one could find a taxi in the suburb. Either that, or he’d have to go find a local street map and then navigate his way on foot. Ugh!
After thinking through this painful option, Bert decided that it might be best to impose upon Dave for a ride. Dave was the only member of the band in sufficiently adequate financial stead to afford a car. Maybe he’d be willing to be chauffeur for a day. Bert made the call to Dave, who agreed to do the trip on Friday, when his class schedule was blank.
When Friday arrived, Dave picked up Bert in his bright blue Ford Escort at 9:30 A.M. Bert figured that if he arrived at 10:00 or so, that would be early enough that he might find someone home at the address, but not so early as to be completely intrusive.
The roads north out of San Francisco were relatively uncongested, the vast majority of the morning commuter rush having cleared out already. It didn’t really matter though, since they were driving against the commute. They crossed the Golden Gate Bridge with the morning fog obscuring the water below, making it look as if the bridge stretched over the clouds.
In San Rafael they stopped in the downtown area and asked in the post office for directions to the house address, which Bert had scrawled on a piece of paper. They followed the verbally given directions, entering a suburban community that slowly rose up a hill. Finally, they turned right into a quiet cul-de-sac containing ranch-style homes side by side around the perimeter.
Dave stopped the car along the curb outside number six. “It’s all yours, buddy,” he said to Bert.
Along the way, the two men had strategized about how best to approach the bass player. They had decided that rather than double-team him with a complete stranger and a near stranger, it would be best for Bert to speak with him alone. It was also their best hope for some recognition of Bert. It had been a long time since the two had worked together, and even then, their interactions had been occasional and few. Bert had also aged, and the time had not been altogether kind to him. Still, those in the biz tended to keep a mental library of others in the biz. After all, it was a business that more than almost any other depended upon relationships.
Bert strode confidently up the driveway and along the cement walk to the front door. He rang the bell and waited, beginning to fidget a little. Through the small window panels that surrounded the door frame, Bert could see a young African-American woman approaching. She opened the door just a crack. “Yes?” she asked.
“Hi. I’m Bert Ingram,” began Bert. “I was told a Gene Thomason lives here. Or maybe used to,” he added, aware that this woman, who appeared to be in her mid-twenties, might be too young even to be Gene’s daughter.
“I’m
sorry. He doesn’t live here any longer. Why are you looking for him?”
“You know him?” Bert responded, ignoring her question for the moment.
“I’m his granddaughter. And you--”
“I used to work with your grandfather. One of the finest studio musicians I ever had the pleasure of knowing. I was hoping I could maybe persuade him to join my band. We’re still in need of a premier bass player.” Bert was trying hard to turn on the charm, but he feared it didn’t come quite as readily as it used to.
“Oh, I see,” the young woman responded, trailing off in thought. She didn’t speak for a few moments, presumably unsure of how much to tell the stranger. Then she spoke again. “My grandfather, is, well…he doesn’t play anymore. He’s retired.”
“Is he okay?” Bert asked.
“Yes,” she answered quickly, sensing Bert’s concern. “He’s fine. In fact, he’s in a retirement community just up the road. I imagine you could visit him there, if you want.”
Bert told her that would be great and got the name of the community and the simple directions. He then thanked her warmly and returned to the car.
“Whispering Forest Retirement Community?” Dave asked. “Sounds like one happening place.”
“Full speed ahead,” instructed Bert.
Whispering Forest Retirement Community was just that. The woods along the main roadway opened briefly to reveal a flagstone marking the entrance and a narrow, meandering road leading into the community. The road was flanked by more woods, which finally gave way to a sprawling complex of two-story buildings, each one stretching over the equivalent of two city blocks. Dave followed the signs to the main building and parked the car.
This time, they both got out. Dave would wait in the lobby while Bert met with Gene, assuming he was there.
Ladies and Gentlemen...The Redeemers Page 7
