With a Tilt of My Hat

by Mary Matuskey

  “I say we get going now. Let’s go over there and check him out,” Fike responded.

  Chapter 38

  Perfectly at ease, ready for this to happen, with pen in hand, I signed the contract with CP Records. It took a while but we finally came up with a name for my song. We decided to call it “Vintage Souls”. Now that the date was confirmed on our recording session, Bo Bo, John and I smiled knowing that in two weeks we would be in San Francisco, California. Disagreements on the layout of songs went roundabout with the four of us for a while. An hour later, we were all in agreement regarding the eight songs that would be recorded. Once we got past the wisecrack titles Bo Bo came up with, for instance something to do with Derelict. We confirmed it in writing that our official band name was to be called VitalWinds. Gypsy Jazzman Trio featuring Steven Straws, John Redman, and Bo Bo Smith. VitalWinds meant the direction of winds necessary for gypsy travelers to be guided while on their path without a compass or map.

  VW logo representation when written upside down took on the appearance of two mountains, a symbolic symbol meaning trinity. Our emblem: VW with VitalWinds embossed on the forefront of the CD. It is said that when a person is too heavy for the wind to push forward, the spirit gods enhance these winds to blow stronger—just as John, Bo Bo, and I have discovered through our journey of compiling music together.

  Legally, Ryan occupied the title of manager. He dealt with all our business and finance legalities. He had the knowledge and expertise needed from previous contracts with musicians including Jack and Bo Bo’s back-up spot when they recorded with the Midnight Drifters a decade ago.

  Ryan put in writing regarding the two songs I composed, along with one composed by John; these three would head the recording. Along with four of jazz’s all-time favorite songs, plus one special song Bo Bo and Jack composed together several years ago. A song that had become an all- time favorite at the Bygone Era club. Ryan would perform and record with us on violin for that song only. Since he originally played during that era when John wrote the song “Gypsy Fair.” Big Rudy from San Francisco would also join in on piano lending his expertise. These eight songs had become our bible. Just as one does not fluctuate from scripture; we too were tenacious regarding our music.

  Twice a week, Ryan and one of his college students who played piano, joined us for practice. Once in a rare moment, I sang in song with Bo Bo who loved to sing the vintage blues for fun during break. Our energy level was crazy and we couldn’t stop talking, singing or playing. Every day was a new experience; the vibes seeped through our soul opening our music a notch higher than before.

  Even my time spent with Kari seemed emotionally heightened. Sex was about sex, and I mean hard and fast, quick and good. My energy level was phenomenal with total ecstasy, as I switched from her body to my guitar and I constantly craved more from both.

  The nightclub became my home; the street life instilled positives in me more so than before because everywhere I walked, people recognized me. Smiling, I tilted my fedora, acknowledging them in the same manner of an old time gentlemen. Word was, several club owners from Seattle were coming down to hear us perform. Ryan said we had possible gigs set in motion for the next two months if we chose to accept them. Even the crazy lady with the three birds on her hat, who owned the psychic shop two stores down, knew about the Seattle scouts. The city proprietors on our block hung posters in their windows bearing our name with the advertisement of “VINTAGE SOULS.” They took pride in us, and I felt fantastic.

  Where there were fears, courage bounds.

  Acceptance flourishing in my mind,

  Calming distress, glassing over what has declined,

  Shining only praises in sounds.

  Chapter 39

  Landing was a bit bumpier than expected when our plane’s wheels touched down on the runway. I was sure glad to have my feet on the ground as I stepped inside San Francisco’s airport. Ryan had made all the preparations for our stay, relieving us from any added pressure, insisting that we stay focused on our music for the next four days.

  However, John and Bo Bo made sure to set aside time for me to tour Fisherman’s Wharf, since this was my first time visiting this grand city. Ryan booked a tour guide for all of us to go boating around the Golden Gate Bridge, while we engaged in a private dinner on the ocean one evening.

  Four hours of recording was to take place each day for the next three days. The studio was large with a sophisticated sound room and electronic synthesizers. Our rehearsals required little attention from the electronic gurus who ran the place. They were all about the quality of sound, and I was about the composition. Indeed it made for a well-rounded team, with one goal only, to get VitalWinds music out to the public. The guys were professional, to say the least, and I was impressed at how they kept things on track.

  There was a brief pause when Ryan decided to set up cameras, insisting on filming each session in hopes of compiling a DVD.

  So, with two cameras set on tripods, he positioned one in front of us full-view, and one to our left. However, when he raised and lowered the tripod camera, moved the shot location, and changed the lenses to a wide-angle one, it was so upsetting to me.

  Wearing the headphones and jamming our song in front of those big barrel microphones gave me a little piece of nostalgic heaven. Our bodies moved rhythmically to each note, and in little time we turned inward, producing our music. It was euphoric playing there. I was awed by the recording and what took place.

  Our second session was solely for recording my composition of “Vintage Souls.” My hands became sweaty. I grew dizzy and couldn’t adjust to perform in this small room. So, I went out into the hall corridor with my guitar slung on my back, walked to the elevator, and descended onto the streets of San Francisco.

  Crossing at the light, my eyes fixated on a bench under a large elm tree. Swinging my guitar around me, I sat down. With my fedora tilted over my forehead, I hugged my guitar and strummed. Relaxation unfolded my body, as I played “Vintage Souls.” In my mind, I heard the sound of the bow gliding over the cello strings. One two one two, the beat escalated to a higher level. The piano sounded next as my fingers pressed each string producing the rhythm of my soul.

  My mind now calm and focused, I rose from the bench. I inhaled slowly before re-entering the elevator. It ascended to the recording floor. Without a word, I took my place amongst my fellow musicians, ready to record. The song took its own course this time and lifted my spirits higher than ever before.

  By the third day, we were pretty exhausted. I felt the pressure from the studio techs and desperately needed some down time. It was fun but definitely hard work to record music. I was relieved when nightfall came, visions of ocean waves flooded my mind, and I looked forward to the morning when we’d be on the water.

  Chapter 40

  The ship made its way from the bay into deeper ocean waters. Sails glowed white as they billowed under the Golden Gate Bridge. Blanketed by gray fog, a light breeze brought a mist of cold rain upon our faces. The guys and I sat entranced by the quiet atmosphere, comforted within our own solitude.

  Three hours skimming the ocean was medicinal. Humps of great whales glided from beneath the water, sprouting sprays of mist while voicing their unique sounds. A spectacular sight of nature’s best was spread before us. I was thankful to have had this experience as I we glided back into port.

  Knock, knock went my feet when they hit the wood plank streets of Fisherman’s Warf. What a rush of excitement that was for me. My mind had quieted. However, I was eager to be amongst the crowd of tourists again. First stop we went to was near a barrage of barking seals. I stopped to buy a bucket of fish so we could feed the cute creatures. Vintage sailboats hugged the pier’s side, along with several huge historical vessels that were docked nearby, their bows stretched far into the harbor. It was a sight, especially for me, a man who loved boats.

  Colorful sun rays shot through the clouds when we made our way to the second destination: the Ghirardelli Ch
ocolate Factory. I purchased chocolate goodies for Kari.

  The last event of the day was a ride on the trolley car with its clanging wheels that glided us upward to the city. I liked how the soft yellow glow of old street lamps beckoned onto the towering buildings above illuminating them.

  Afterwards, I placed a call to Kari, yearning to hear her voice. It rang several times before transferring to voicemail. I hesitated about leaving a message, for I felt pathetically lonely, but opted to say, “I love you. Be home tomorrow evening.”

  There was a knock on my door as I closed the cell phone. I got up and opened it to see Bo Bo on the other side. He said he was restless, and would I like to go downstairs with him for a drink and a smoke. I realized I, too, could use the company. I grabbed my jacket and accompanied him outside.

  San Francisco at night was lively, with music bouncing off the walls onto its streets from several bars. We lit up our smokes and walked the rolling streets in pursuit of one of those bars. Neon lights adorned several buildings; pretty flashy for my taste.

  We continued on enjoying the night air, walked a few blocks further and came upon a blues club named Painted Blues. Prior to going in, a couple of hookers propositioned us. I think if I weren’t with him, Bo Bo would have been inclined to take one of them up on it. “Hey, Bo Bo, let’s listen to some music and then later you go back to the lady you met on the street.”

  Without hesitation, Bo Bo responded, “You sure you wouldn’t mind if I spent time with her?”

  “Of course not, buddy,” I told him, thinking how his mood was pretty much on the low side tonight and he often craved that kind of attention.

  The bar was overcrowded, and the name held some deception, not my kind of jazz atmosphere. We only stayed long enough to finish one drink and then I left Bo Bo to his lady on the street. I went back to the hotel and showered, allowing the steam to overtake the bathroom; the hot water soothed my body. My head felt light when it hit the pillow. I soon closed my eyes; my body went limp and I was deep in sleep.

  Chapter 41

  An older condo building stood tall amongst a heavily wooded area, which was the home of Rick, our mystery man. He answered on the second knock, dressed in khakis and a pastel orange polo shirt with sandals on his feet.

  I handed him the warrant and asked him to remove himself from the apartment while the search took place. Jones followed him outside for questioning.

  Rick lived in a meticulously clean place: two bedrooms with a small kitchen decorated in yellows and bronze tones. The furniture looked like it was staged from a catalog, right down to the bathroom towels. Framed photographs of Rick with two men, and one with a beautiful woman taken by a waterfall. There were no kinky or suspicious looking items in sight.

  Once the officers finished, Jones and Rick reentered the apartment. He was unsure if he recognized the man in the police sketch. He stated that he went clubbing often and saw so many men in a month. However, he did recall a shy type who ran out on him one night at one club not too long ago.

  “He was a real nice guy but he seemed kind of sad and just wanted to talk. We talked for hours as he shared his love of explorations and camping,” Rick told them. But Rick swore to us that he had never met the man before, nor did he see him after that night. He didn’t sense any anger or vibes from him that would suggest he may be a murderer.

  As for our recent victim who was found in the nearby woods, Rick didn’t know the woman. Of course, he’d heard about the killing from the news, it happened only minutes away from his home, down by the old café bar.

  Jones was satisfied for the time being, and thanked Rick for his information. She left him with a request to please call the police station if he came in contact with the so-called shy man.

  * * * *

  After the officers left, Rick became anxious and paced his living room reflecting on how much he’d liked the guy and secretly wished he hadn’t run out on him. However, he held with him a memory of the night Mr. Runaway telephoned and the long endearing conversation they shared. Rick wasn’t about to admit that to the detectives. It was a night of enlightenment for Rick. Due to his own insecurities, he couldn’t comprehend why the guy had left him so suddenly. Rick’s mind went back to the surprise talk he and Mr. Runaway shared.

  The sensual softness of his voice came through when I answered the phone, as he told me that I melted his inner being. He reached out to me, longing to talk with someone who would understand his outrageous acts of violence, his gnawing need for comfort. I love to replay our conversation in my mind as Mr. Runaway explained that he had lost the one person who was most influencing in his life. Someone who helped him maintain a guided path for release of his unusual sexual aggressions. He explained to me that being a man who liked men and women in a sexual manner wasn’t the factor that created his violent mood swings, that those disturbed feelings were already seeded into him.

  Furthermore, he explained to me that there are men who are just plain fucking sick, and he was one of them. Straight men rape women and men. He continued to explain how he enjoyed torturing men, how it was satisfying to him. But sadly now, he recognized how he’s turned dark and out of control. To tie another person up with just playful touches, allowing desires to progress into sexual fulfillment was harmless. He acknowledged that he had crossed over into deep darkness and cannot find his way home. He ended the call by telling me, “You, Rick, are the first person I have emotionally connected to in years.” I told him to be safe and then he hung up first.

  Rick glanced out his front window and saw that Captain Clark had assigned an officer to stake out his home. With a click of a switch, Rick turned off the living room lights and went to lie in his bedroom.

  * * * *

  Back in the Portland forensic lab, Susan Bee compiled her findings along with those of medical examiner Dr. Bloom. The DNA from the baseball cap and blood definitely belonged to the suspect in question, the one who matched all three killings thus far. However, the jacket had numerous body fluids from several people, one being a female, and that of two different males, with one that matched our suspect.

  “He must have stolen the coat from someone, or had contact with several different people in this short period of time,” Susan suggested.

  After all documents were presented to Fike, Jones asked if he would like to join her for a bite to eat at the Bygone Era Club before they caught the flight back to Washington.

  “Yes, that would be relaxing, to hear some good jazz music. I liked that place the last time we came here,” Fike responded.

  Jones and Fike sat at a table close to the stage and noticed a sign that read Good Luck Gypsy Jazzman. Presenting the outstanding sounds of the band VitalWinds.

  “Excuse me,” Jones said to the waiter, “what’s the deal with this gypsy jazz band?”

  “The band is recording in San Francisco this week. Sorry to disappoint you but they won’t be performing here until Friday.”

  “Well, they were fantastic when we heard them last month. We only caught part of their show one night while visiting from Washington. Congratulations to the band. Would you let them know how much we liked their music, and look forward to listening to their CD when it’s released?”

  Chapter 42

  Kari hadn’t answered or responded to my phone call because she had spent several days with Bryan. His grandfather had a massive stroke and died within minutes. Bryan was so devastated he needed Kari’s support. She held him, cried with him, and gave all her attention to only him. His family wanted everything to be respectfully done for Bill’s final burial; they all took care of the arrangements with the funeral home.

  I was aghast when I heard the news. My eyes flooded with tears at the thought of Bryan mourning. When I arrived back to Washington, I held onto both of them. Tears stung our eyes when we entered the church for services.

  Bryan was amazingly strong as he spoke to the congregation of the loss of his grandfather. “And this is the day set forth as Heaven’s doors ope
ned for my grandpa Bill. He died this past Sunday at 6:30 a.m. I’ve only been to one other funeral, for someone in my family whom I barely knew. It sure was different this time. My grandpa and I had a really great relationship. We spent many days together throughout my life. Peace, patience, love, faith, sunsets, and fishing are the words that come to mind when I think of him. When I arrived to the church and saw him laid in the casket I swear I could feel him still inside his body. I felt as though he was hiding words behind his little smile.

  “My brothers, our father, one of my cousins, and my uncle were called upon to be the pallbearers. This walk instilled great pride in me; each step was the most important I have taken in my life. My grandpa was a genuine person who touched hundreds of people’s lives. And still in this moment, I felt like he was with us in the physical and spiritual sense, like he was still in his body wanting to be a part of the event before the Big Parting Way to Heaven.”

  The next reading was from the scripture of the Bible read by Bill’s brother. Bryan sensed his grandpa’s spiritual presence. The final reading was given by Bill’s daughter, Bryan’s mother. She gave the eulogy, which she did beautifully, and after she was done, Bryan no longer felt his grandpa’s presence. Instead, he felt peace.

  I thought it was pretty cool how everyone got in their cars and lined up to drive to the cemetery with the police escort. It was strange and sort of exciting to have all these police motorcycles driving at high speed past us to get to the next light. They stopped and got off their motorcycle at each red light and stood with their hands directing traffic so we could pass through about twenty-five red lights along the way.