Ladies and Gentlemen...The Redeemers Read online

  Abe’s bed occupied the far right end of the apartment, with all the sheets and blankets left strewn. An old wooden desk sat next to the bed, which held a portable compact disc player/stereo system with built-in speakers. The desk was cluttered with CD’s, ranging from the Motown sounds he drew on for his subway singing, to blues and jazz.

  Abe made himself a ham sandwich, which he ate and washed down with a store brand can of cola. He then transferred the contents of his milk jug to the shoebox in the closet in which he kept his spending money. He also received a monthly check from the state and maintained an account at a bank down the street.

  Abe put on a John Lee Hooker CD, propped up a couple of pillows on the bed, and stretched out. He spent the remainder of the early afternoon lying there, listening to music as he did on many days, drifting between sleep and consciousness.

  Back at the Montgomery Street Station at 4:30 P.M., Abe fully expected to hear Bert’s cheery voice hustling the commuters on their return home. When 4:30 turned into 5:00, and then 5:30, Abe realized that Bert wasn’t going to appear.

  After years of living hand to mouth, collecting contributions from charitable strangers for a living, Abe was able to estimate the amount of money he received simply from the number and frequency of the interactions with the strangers and the feel of the milk jug. So when 6:30 rolled around, Abe had to admit that his collection for the afternoon was significantly less than it had been when Bert was there. He felt himself in conflict, part of him glad to be rid of Bert for awhile, but another part missing the success Bert brought about. He wondered if he’d see him in the morning.

  * * *

  That same evening, Bert made his way back to an area south of Market Street, one of San Francisco’s poorest sections, composed mostly of row homes in disrepair, industrial warehouses, gutted buildings, and highway overpasses. In a dim alley, he rummaged through an alcove that was piled waist-high with plastic trash bags filled with what looked like the contents of a thrift store. From one of the bags, Bert pulled out a white, yellow, and blue flowered quilt that was grayed with dirt and tattered in several spots, the stuffing showing through.

  He walked back to the corner, sat on a steam vent in the sidewalk, pulled a 375ml bottle of Old Granddad from his pants pocket, and took a big swig. Then he wiped his mouth with a broad swipe of his sleeve. He replaced the bottle in his pocket, laid down on the vent, tipped his hat over his eyes, pulled the quilt over himself, and went to sleep.

  Chapter 2 – Charlie

  Bert awoke with the sun, as he had since he’d begun living on the streets, the public, outdoor nature of his sleeping location not being particularly conducive to a sound and lengthy rest. He turned over onto his back, rubbed his eyes, and looked up at the sky. The morning offered unusually little fog over the city.

  Bert closed his eyes for a moment and thought back to the lazy Sunday mornings he used to spend in the natural wood and brushed chrome, highly stylized bedroom at his house. Propped up on a pillow, he would catch up on world news on CNN while reading the Sunday newspaper and the trade magazines that had accumulated over the past week. Those days seemed like a lifetime ago.

  He got up, gathered his blanket into a ball, and returned it to the plastic trash bag in the alley’s alcove. He then selected an outfit for the day, trading in his brown ensemble for a pair of light blue polyester pants, a navy dress shirt, gray tie, and gray herringbone sport jacket. It wasn’t quite GQ, but at least today the hat matched.

  The dole line would be starting to form on 9th Street by now. Bert made the six block walk, arriving fifteen minutes before the “soup kitchen” opened where volunteers served meals to the people in need, three times a day, seven days a week. Bert came here frequently; but not surprisingly, the food provided more sustenance than flavor. When his palate needed a break, he used some of his panhandling proceeds to treat himself to meals elsewhere, like at Ted’s. He was careful to remain frugal, though, for one day he would need to dip into the reserves to work his way back into society.

  These thoughts brought to mind an unsettled matter. Bert had used the crutch of alcohol to cope with both his decline in stature and the discomfort of street living. He made a mental note that he would need to address this issue.

  By 7:30, Bert had finished a bland bowl of oatmeal and was on his way to the 16th St. Mission Station to see if Abe was serious about a saxophone player being there.

  One of the many obstacles in Bert’s plan was his inability to recruit musicians in the traditional ways. Placing ads in newspapers and magazines was just too expensive, and using the internet was impractical. Besides, he had no place to conduct tryouts. He was forming a garage band without a garage.

  He knew it didn’t really matter though. The musicians he was looking for wouldn’t be reading the ads anyway. Rather, he would have to scour the streets to find the prospects on his own. The musicians needed to have the soul of the streets within them and the burning passion that comes from a life waiting to be fulfilled.

  At a minimum he would need a drummer, keyboardist, guitar player, and bassist to accompany his irritable but talented lead singer. A saxophone player would round out the sound nicely, thought Bert, and legitimize the sound he was after. He envisioned the band as grounded in roots rock, but he wanted the crossover appeal that would come from melding in elements of jazz, R&B, and urban funk.

  At street level, the 16th St. Mission Station was surprisingly attractive with a circular railing adorned with brightly colored panels surrounding the entryway in the middle of a gray, stone plaza. Inside, the area near the turnstiles and ticket booth was busy as the rush hour crowd moved through. Bert looked around the entryway, its shiny, red-tiled floors, multicolored tiled walls, and arched ceiling providing sharp contrast to the dinginess above. Sizing up those who appeared to be lingering as opposed to moving with a sense of purpose, he tried to determine if any of them might be this Charlie. When he concluded otherwise, he slipped through a turnstile amidst the crowd and headed down to the subway line.

  Bert observed a few people sitting on benches watching the crowds, others milling about near the stairs, and even one person digging through a trash bin, but nowhere did he see a card game taking place, or better still, a guy playing the saxophone.

  Bert continued to stroll along the platform for the better part of the morning, but met with no success. When he returned to the station later that afternoon, his search met the same end.

  The next day found Bert going through the same routine, pacing up and down each side of the train platform and throughout the station’s main concourse. Again, at the day’s end, he had yet to find anyone he thought might be the saxophonist. He had consciously avoided going back to Abe for any clarification on the subject, trying to minimize his contact with the unpredictable man until he had made more progress on the band. He didn’t want to do anything that might cost him his singer. But, when Bert lay down to sleep that night, he resolved to get some help from Abe if the next day’s quest proved fruitless.

  The following day, Bert was back at the station by 7:30 A.M. This time he froze as he rounded the corner onto the northbound platform. There, sitting on a folding chair behind a small aluminum folding table, was a man deftly moving around three playing cards on the table’s surface.

  A small crowd stood by the table. As Bert approached, he could see and hear two school-aged boys razzing each other. “Oh, yeah, watch me smoke this dude,” said one. Bert presumed that these boys were on their way, or at least should be, to school.

  The boy who was doing the talking stepped to the table, faced the man with the cards, and slapped a five dollar bill on the table. Bert watched as the man, an athletically built, light-complected African-American in his early thirties, flipped over all three cards. The queen of spades was flanked by the ten of hearts and ten of diamonds. Bert observed that the man at the table was unusually well dressed, wearing a form-fitting short-sleeved, olive knit shirt, brown dress slacks, and brown loafers.


  “Keep your eye on the queen,” instructed the man as he flipped the cards over and started moving them around, sometimes leaving them flat on the table and sliding them, and sometimes lifting and dropping them from side to side, but always returning them to a neat alignment.

  After about twenty seconds of this, the man stopped and looked up at the boy. “Okay, my friend, where’s the lady?”

  The boy gave his friend a cocky smile and pointed to the card on the right. “Right there, sucker.”

  The man flipped over the card the boy selected, revealing the queen. “Well done!” he exclaimed as he placed a five-dollar bill from his pocket on top of the boy’s five, which still sat on the table. “You must be a natural. How about giving this old man another chance?”

  “Sure,” the boy responded gleefully. “Let it ride.”

  The man repeated the process, conspicuously identifying the queen, turning over the cards, and then moving them around, this time a little more quickly. When he stopped, the confident youngster pointed to the card in the middle. Sure enough, when the man flipped over the card, it was the queen again. The man placed a ten dollar bill onto the two fives. “You’re taking me to the cleaners, son. But if you feel lucky, we can go once more,” the man offered with an encouraging smile.

  “You bet! But let’s get serious. Here’s another five dollars to make it an even twenty-five.”

  The other boy grabbed his friend’s arm. “Hey, let me get in on this action.” He looked at the man. “Can I put twenty on this too?”

  The man appeared to consider the request for a moment and then nodded. Forty-five dollars now rested on the table next to the cards. The man showed the three cards, but when he placed the queen face down, he had bent the corner of the card ever so slightly. The boys, seeing this, took a quick glance at one another and then watched the action. When the man had finished shifting the cards around, both boys quickly pointed at the rightmost card, which had a small curl on its corner.

  “Ten of diamonds,” announced the man, flipping over the card and gathering the money off the table. “Tough break.”

  The boys, who didn’t realize what had just transpired, talked it over. Bert smiled. He had seen this a hundred times before. The boys decided to each put up another ten dollars for one more go of it. This time, no corners were bent, but the man moved the cards around so deftly that by the end, neither boy had any idea which card was which. They argued over which card to guess for the better part of a minute, then ultimately picked the ten of diamonds again.

  “Ahh, shit. Our mothers are gonna kill us,” exclaimed the second of the boys.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said the first, then whispered, “I think this dude just hustled us.”

  The boys picked up the backpacks that lay at their feet and walked away shaking their heads. With the backpacks gone, Bert noticed something: a black, hard-sided case sat on the ground under the table, just about the size of a saxophone.

  Several more players tried their luck with a game or two with similar results, and Bert waited patiently for the crowd to disperse. Finally, approaching 9:00, the last of the players walked away, leaving Bert standing there. The man behind the table had noticed Bert earlier and now spoke to him. “Are you just a spectator or are you here to play? Oh wait, let me guess; you’re another undercover cop.”

  “No, I’m not with the police,” answered Bert. “I just came here to talk to you. You’re Charlie, right?”

  “That’s me. But I’m working here. If you want to play, then let’s see some money. I don’t make any money just talking.” Charlie looked away from Bert, hoping to find another target for his game.

  Bert rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, gave an audible sigh, and decided to try another approach. “Fine. Here’s ten dollars. Let’s play.”

  “Now that’s what I like to talk about,” said Charlie with a smile, and he showed Bert the three cards and began the rearranging.

  When Charlie came to a stop, Bert pointed at the leftmost of the three. It was the queen.

  “You have a good eye, my friend. Care for another round?” Charlie placed a ten on Bert’s ten.

  “Whatever you like,” replied Bert, going along with Charlie.

  Charlie performed the routine again, accelerating his speed this time, but when he was done, Bert again correctly identified the queen. Charlie added another twenty dollars to the pile.

  “Another?” asked Charlie, frowning slightly.

  Bert shrugged. “It’s your game. Remember, all I wanted was to talk to you for a couple of minutes, but we can continue playing if you wish.”

  Charlie played on, now trying the same bent corner routine he had used on the kids earlier. But Bert, having developed a great deal of savvy from living on the streets, was not fooled. He kept his eye the queen.

  “One more chance,” entreated Charlie, now clearly agitated. Bert nodded and left the bet on the table, now eighty dollars.

  This time Charlie moved the cards as fast as he could, at times picking up two cards in one hand. Sometimes he would drop the bottom one, and other times he would drop the top one but give the impression that it was the bottom one. When he was finished, he stopped and looked up at Bert.

  Unfazed, Bert pointed at the middle card: the queen. Then he spoke pointedly to Charlie. “Look. Keep your money.” Bert picked up his original ten dollars from the pile and pushed the remaining seventy toward Charlie. “I don’t want it. Play something for me on that saxophone there and we’ll call it even.”

  Charlie eyed Bert uneasily. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “If I play the saxophone for you, you’ll let me keep the money? Who are you?”

  “Abe sent me here to find you. You know Abe, from the Montgomery Street Station?”

  Charlie gave a big smile of recognition. “Sure. Sure. I know Abe. I used to play my games over there, until the cops chased me out. Gotta keep moving, you know. How is old Abe these days?”

  “Cranky as ever. So is that saxophone just for show or do you really play?”

  “Sure, I play. Used to play jazz at Maggie’s in Kansas City, before I moved out here. Now I just play down here when the crowd thins out and there’s no one to play cards with. Plus, it helps keep the cops away if I don’t have the cards out all the time.”

  Charlie popped open the saxophone case to reveal a golden saxophone, polished as if it were new. He noticed Bert admiring its condition and answered Bert’s unasked question, “It’s got a lot of years on it, but I take good care of my baby here. It’s all I’ve got left.”

  Charlie licked his lips and began to play, starting slowly, then laying out jazz riffs with an intensity and focus that caught Bert by surprise. The wail of the instrument pierced the subway corridor, resonating off the ceramic tiled walls.

  * * *

  When Charlie closed his eyes and blew into the sax, in his mind he was back on stage in the smoke-filled, dimly lit club on the outskirts of Kansas City, every table in the place full and all eyes upon him.

  It had been nearly six years since Charlie had left Kansas City. For two years there, he’d been a member of the house band at Maggie’s, a quirky, locals-only type of restaurant that featured live jazz on Wednesday through Saturday nights.

  From the outside, Maggie’s looked like nothing more than your average local tavern, located in one of Kansas City’s aging, middle-class neighborhoods. Inside, the décor was nothing spectacular either, just a large, dark-paneled room with clunky dark wood chairs and tables. The tables were covered with white tablecloths that draped down to the floor. The low light was provided by a combination of tabletop candles and overhead lights that were dimmed whenever the band was on the stage.

  Charlie had shown up at Maggie’s one day, a few years removed from high school and in need of a job. He landed dishwashing duty and worked in the kitchen earning not much more than minimum wage. A jazz aficionado, Charlie loved the saxophone, and when the weather was accommodating he would spend his breaks
at the restaurant sitting out on the back step by the screen door leading to the kitchen, playing the instrument. His apron bunched in his lap and his hands clutching the saxophone, the sounds would drift up into the cool air of the evening, drowning out the noise of the crickets. It didn’t take long for the musicians in the house band to notice Charlie while they were out back smoking or getting some fresh air during their breaks.

  Charlie’s gregarious personality and self-confidence always attracted people to him and the musicians, largely in their forties and fifties, quickly took a paternal interest in him, providing encouragement as well as an honest critique of his playing.

  When fortune smiled on Charlie and the house band’s saxophonist left a year and a few months after Charlie began working at the club, the remaining members were unanimous on how to replace him.

  It didn’t take much arm twisting for Charlie to put the drudgery of washing dishes behind him and step onto the stage. He joined the band, and after persevering over the bumpy first few months of learning the music and the tendencies of the other musicians, all while performing for the crowd, Charlie fit into the band very well.

  Charlie had never had much of a family life. He grew up in a small town outside Kansas City, the only child of a single mother who, by necessity, spent much of her time working. As a result of this void, the band members quickly became like family. Charlie became particularly close with the band’s trumpet player, Johnny Helms, and the two would frequently hang out after the final set of the night was over, toss down a few cold beers, and talk about life.

  One day, when Charlie had been with the house band a little over a year, Johnny invited Charlie to accompany him to the local horse track. Johnny loved to play the horses and was happy to find a companion to take with him. For Johnny, the track was a place to go to fill some time once or twice a week when he wasn’t performing, and his betting was no more than a few dollars here and there. Even on a bad day, Johnny seldom lost more than twenty-five dollars. Charlie, on the other hand, got sucked in.