Los Angeles Stories Page 11

  “Do not be concerned. In me, she has found a man able to con­trol her temper. Already, we are understanding one another, I think.” Johnny Dolor, a sax­-playing clown? Not on your life, cabrón. “And you, amigo?” he asked.

  “I got to move on,” I said.

  “You are the Lone Ranger.”

  “Just a drummer from Tulsa.” We hugged. Johnny gave me the handshake and there was money in it. The Filipinos crowded around Betty, laughing and drinking. She signed autographs — a square hustle, in my opinion. I left. Step three.

  I saw the glow of Billy’s cigarette outside the trailer. “Pack up,” I said.

  “Where to?” she asked.

  “Spokane. I’ll take you to Union Station.”

  “What’s the setup?”

  “You’re off the hook; I’m off the hook.”

  “I don’t have enough money for train fare to the city limits.”

  “I promoted a little something for expenses.”

  “So where’s Betty?”

  “Betty is among friends who appreciate her. Forget about Betty.”

  “She was juicy. Girls cluster round me like moths to a flame. If they get their wings burned, am I to blame, Al?”

  We left in the Buick. I had a refund coming, but I figured the next trailer park I live in, it’s going to belong to me.

  “I hear Spokane is a friendly town,” Billy said, “I sure could use you up there, it might turn out to be a long-­running engagement.”

  “Thanks, but I’m looking for something smooth. I might even leave the business.”

  “Citizen Al Maphis? Don’t try and kid Billy Tipton.”

  “Never kid a kidder, right Billy?” I said. She took her suitcase and walked into Union Station. And that’s the last time I ever saw her. Him, I should say.

  I got gas in San Bernardino. The California trip had been rough, but there I was, back on the same old road with the moon and stars. East of Barstow, I pulled over to rest my eyes and stretch my legs, and I saw what looked like an automobile over in the soft sand. It was a pre­war Chevy, smashed up like it had rolled a few times. That’s a bad stretch through there, known for terrible wrecks. There was clothing scattered on the ground and a small accordion, the kind the border Mexicans play. Two or three phonograph records. I picked them up, and that’s when I saw the body. It looked like a small man, but it was hard to tell, the coyotes had got to him and there wasn’t much left. Just a brother on his way to a gig somewhere. Vaya con dios, amigo, hasta la tumba final, I said to him. I got back in the car and pulled out. The Buick was old and slow, but I wasn’t in any particular hurry this time. The Harry James Orchestra was on the radio, live from Hollywood. Good tone, for a straight-­ahead white man. It seemed to me I was somewhere in between Harry James and the dead accordion player, and it was a pretty good place to be.

  End of the line

  1954

  Please Note: The Baker Boy Confection Roll people have NOT seen this script. It doesn’t seem to offer a very positive message about the American home. I predict they may strongly object to the idea that women steal from their employers and drink. The ending is morally ambiguous. Baker Boy has warned us about this in the past, let me remind everyone. Thanks for getting Baker Boy product into the story, it may help!

  (Music, Truman Bradley lead-­in, actor voice-­over, sound effects.)

  WHEN I GOT to work, the yard crew was shoving 606 through the washrack. “What’s the big idea?” I asked Kappy, the yardmaster.

  “Orders,” he said.

  “You don’t wash a car when it’s scheduled out — you know it and I know it. Nobody wants to ride in a wet car,” I said. Kappy handed me a work order and a pink slip, both signed by the super. The pink slip had my name on it: “You are hereby notified and advised,” et cetera, et cetera. I stood there, and Kappy stood there.

  “Sorry, Ed. It’s a tough way to get the news,” Kappy said.

  I went across the street to the coffee shop the motormen use, called the Roundhouse, and sat at the counter. The waitress came over.

  “Evenin’, Ed. Coffee?”

  “I got time, this time, Lydia. What’s on the dinner?”

  “Pot roast and carrots.”

  “I’ll have it.”

  “The dinner ain’t ready yet. I can give you ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, but the dinner ain’t ready.”

  “I can wait,” I said.

  “Well, Ed, I never know’d you to wait for dinner in fifteen years,” she said.

  “That’s right, Lydia, you got a good memory. Me and 606 are retired from service as of right now. It’s the end of the Playa del Rey line.”

  “What! How the people gonna get out to the beach? How’m I gonna see my sister in Venice?”

  “No idea. It would take you all day on foot, and too darn much money by cab,” I said.

  The counter got busy. I read the paper and ate the dinner. I kept an eye on the carbarn. The maintenance boys finished up and left for the day. I finished eating and left some money on the counter. I bought a pint of Old Stagg bourbon and a package of Baker Boy Confection Rolls for dessert at the liquor store on the corner and walked across the street.

  It’s a hell of a way to get fired out of a job you had for fifteen years. Fifteen good years. I’m a better motorman now than at any time previous, but I’m not a motorman anymore, I thought. To me, trolleys have a face, like people. Two big eyes — that’s the front windows. The cow­catcher along the bottom front looks like a mouth, and the lights make a shape like a nose. 606 looked puzzled, as if she was looking all around for me.

  There was nobody there to see, so I climbed aboard and sat in the motorman’s chair like so many times before. Just me and 606. She was a Saint Louis car, built by the Saint Louis Car Company in 1907. Other than a new coat of yellow and green paint in 1947, she was totally original and totally fit for service. In fifteen years on the job, 606 had been my car for the last eight. That’s a long time, when you break it down into hours. I was married once, but Mom didn’t like her. Mom passed away before I got assigned to 606, so as you can see, it’s been real steady. Except for Lydia, I don’t even know any living person as long as I been knowing car 606, and I been knowing her good.

  Now, let me tell you what I did then. I raised the trolley pole to the overhead wire, rolled the dash sign to “Not in Service,” and notched the controller to move 606 out. It’s about a twenty-­mile run from down­town to the beach on Jefferson Boulevard. First you pass through the downtown residential area. West of Crenshaw, Jefferson is no-­man’s-land until you get to the Hughes Aircraft sheds off to the left. Then you start to smell the ocean and the Ballona Creek marsh. Downtown L.A. smells pretty bad, unless it’s raining.

  You take the Culver Boulevard cut­off and the track dead­heads where Culver runs out. After that, it’s just sand, a few beach cottages, and the ocean. Playa del Rey was some promoter’s seaside develop­ment scheme, but it didn’t work out. The beach-­bound riders say, “Who’d ever want to live all the way out here? There’s nobody around, there’s nothing to do,” but the idea appealed to me. I had some hope of making a down ­payment on a cottage, but you need a steady job. I don’t know how to be anything but a motorman. I always figured people and trolleys naturally go together, why change it?

  It was midnight by the time I got to the end of the line. I switched off the lights and sat there with the door open listening to the surf. You can hear the ocean at night, but you can’t see it. Sometimes you see little lights out there on the black water. Boats, moving around in the dark. A boat and a trolley are pretty similar, I thought. I had a drink from the bottle. After a while, I thought I heard the sound of shoes, a woman’s high­heeled shoes, tap-­tapping along. At that time of night, it stuck out. Then I saw her, carrying a suitcase and wearing a long coat, walking up from the beach side. She crossed the street and came over to the car.

  “Evening, miss,” I said.

  “Are you just going to sit here all night
?” she said in an abrupt tone.

  “Sorry, ma’am, I’m out of service,” I said. A motorman is always courteous.

  “Don’t kid me. If you’re out of service, what are you doing here? What did you do, steal it?”

  “This is my regular run, ma’am. I didn’t steal anything.”

  “Then let’s get moving.” She climbed aboard.

  “I can’t take riders when I’m out of service. That’s the rules.”

  “Don’t kid me about rules. I need to get back to town, and you’re going to take me or there’s going to be trouble, because I think you’re up to something.” She was what Mom used to call a “mean­-business woman.” She gave me a funny feeling. I thought it might be a good idea to get away from there, just to quiet her down, so I said, “All right, I guess we can get started.” I walked back to change ends, but she blocked me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Now she was getting furious.

  “Look, miss, I got to change the pole if we’re going,” I explained.

  “You bet we’re going. You just try something and watch what happens.”

  In order to change ends, the motorman has to crank down the trolley pole on one end and raise the one on the other end to the overhead power line. Finally, the woman sat down. “Why don’t you relax and enjoy the ride,” I said. “What are you doing all the way out here, anyway? The cars don’t run out here at this time of night. Suppose I hadn’t come along? What were you going to do at this time of night?”

  “You try any tricks, I’ll start hollering ‘copper,’ then we’ll see!” she shrieked. There wasn’t a cop around for miles, but the idea bothered me just the same.

  I released the air brakes, pulled the controller out a few notches, and we got moving. The girl sat in the front bench and stared straight ahead. I watched her sort of on the sly. She was young and nice looking, I guess, if you like ’em on the thin side. She had a hat pulled down low across her face, but I could see she was a little banged up. That accounted for the nerves, I thought. She caught me looking. “You watch what you’re doing!” She had an all­-of-­a­-sudden way of talking.

  “No offense meant. Perhaps you had a car accident back there?”

  “I didn’t have any car accident! I fell down. I tripped on some­thing in the dark.”

  “Maybe you could use a drink.” I handed her the bottle. She grabbed it and drained about half. “Better take it easy there,” I said. “Have a Baker Boy, it’s my personal favorite.”

  “Thanks, mister. I guess I’m sorry for yelling at you. I didn’t know what you were going to do, I thought I was stuck back there.” She handed back the bottle.

  “My name’s Ed Breen,” I said.

  “Ida Jenkins.” That seemed to make a difference, her telling me her name.

  “So, Ida, do you like the beach? I think it’s very relaxing. Some people fall asleep on the sand, they lose track of the time.”

  “I never saw it. It was dark when we, when I got there. Dark and loud and cold. You ever been to Saint Joe?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Good for you. I tried to get away from there for so long. I thought this was going to be it, finally.” I waited, but she didn’t say another word.

  I eased 606 back into the carbarn at 2:00 a.m. sharp. There wasn’t nobody around except Pop Cord, the night man, and he was asleep as usual. Ida had fallen asleep back there around Western Avenue. She came awake with a scared look, but I told her every­thing was all right, I was going to introduce her to a friend who might put her up.

  The Roundhouse coffee shop is on the ground floor of the brick building across the street. Upstairs is a row of two-­room apartments where Lydia has a place. Not a nice place, as Lydia would say, but it’s hard to get a nice place. She was just closing up at the restaurant when I walked in.

  “Lydia, you’ll never guess what happened,” I started off. She spied Ida out on the sidewalk, and said, “Bad news first.”

  “I took 606 and rode out to the beach one last time. See that girl? She was stranded out there, all alone. What could I do?”

  “Two days is all I can handle. Three at the most.”

  “Thanks, Lydia. I got a good feeling about it, somehow.”

  That was Thursday. I dropped by the Roundhouse on Saturday. “How’s it working out with Ida?” I asked Lydia when she had a moment.

  “There is one thing, Ed. There was a gun in her purse. I don’t suppose you caught sight of it before bringing her to me.”

  “What sort of gun?”

  “Well, Ed, it’s a Smith and Wesson .32 snub nose. It’s little, but it has been fired. What were you thinkin’?”

  “I’m not sure. A gun changes things.”

  “Ida is not a whole lot different lookin’ than your ex.”

  “You got a good memory, Lydia.”

  “I sure hope you do.” Some of the fellas from the day shift came in and Lydia got busy. Charlie, the Edgeware Road shuttleman, sat down next to me and banged his coffee cup on the counter until Lydia hurried over with the pot. “Ed, it’s a crying shame,” he said. “Look at you, a no-­accident record nobody can top. Look at me; I hit three Cadillacs in two months! I’m demoted down to a lousy shuttle! They might have given you something in the traffic office, Ed. It’s a god-­awful way to treat a man just because he takes a drink once and a while.” Charlie had had a few. His eyes teared up.

  “No, Charlie, I’m a man for the road. I got to feel the car move over the rails and smell the electricity. If I can’t do that, then I’m gone. I’ll be seeing you.” It was a good exit line.

  An item in the city section of the paper had caught my eye, and I wanted to get away from Charlie and study it. “Mystery Man in Surf,” it read. “Police are searching for the identity of a man found in the surf near Playa del Rey. The man is described as being of medium height, medium weight, and wearing a heavy overcoat. Detective Sergeant Duncan Mahoney confided to this reporter that the man ‘bears an interesting resemblance to one Earl McDonnell, a bright boy from the Midwest, and not the kind of man we’re happy to have with us here in Los Angeles. McDonnell had several known associates in the area, and we’ll be talking to them.’ ”

  I went back inside the Roundhouse. “Take a look at this,” I said to Lydia. She read the story and then put the paper away, out of sight. She opened the cash register and showed me the gun and a set of car keys on a key ring with a Lincoln medallion.

  “I’m going to have a talk with her, I think,” I said, taking the keys and the gun.

  “You take in mind what I said about Ida and your ex. The crack still goes, as the fella says,” Lydia said. She never liked my ex-­wife, most people didn’t. I went upstairs and knocked at number three. No answer. “It’s me, Ed,” I said softly.

  Ida opened the door against the chain and looked out. “Where you been at?” she said.

  “Nice to see you looking rested, Ida,” I said. She took the chain off and opened the door. The place was greasy with cigarette smoke. “Lydia won’t like it,” I said.

  “You got me all cooped up.”

  “You’re not cooped up, you’re on you own.”

  “I didn’t come out here for my health.”

  “You said you needed a place to stay. I think you needed to get off the street. Start with the gun,” I said.

  “You spied on me when I was asleep!”

  “Lydia wasn’t born yesterday, or the day before. See, I’m in between jobs, and I love a story. Let’s hear it.” I passed her the bottle of Old Stagg, it had worked before. She drained what was left in it.

  “My boyfriend gave me the gun. He says Los Angeles is a dangerous place.”

  Ever since you got here, I thought. “Tell him to come and get you.”

  “I came out by myself.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “What’s it to you. You’re just bluffing.”

  “I’m interested, that’s the way I am.”

  “I took a bus
as far as Tulsa, then I met a guy with a car. He rode me the rest of the way. Gave me a ride, I mean. In his car, for crissakes. When we got here, he wanted to go to the beach; he said he’d never been there. He said he wanted to go swimming. We were drinking and he passed out. I left something back there. You could help me if you wanted to. I thought you liked me, maybe I was wrong.”

  “Help you how?”

  “Maybe you’re the kind of man that takes advantage when a girl is in a tight spot and can’t pertect herself.” Ida stuck out her chest like a girl in a tight spot.

  “A man like me might get into a real tight spot nosing around a Lincoln belonging to Earl McDonnell. Earl being the kind of man who likes to go swimming in his overcoat.” I shook the car keys at her.

  She shot out of the chair like she had a firecracker go off in her pants, and came right at me. “Give me those goddamn keys!” she hissed. I pushed her back down in the chair. She sat there glaring at me, ready to pounce again.

  “I’ll give you a full report, Ida.” I left. She didn’t try to follow me. She was mad, but more scared than mad. It was all very familiar, somehow. Lydia was right, there was a certain resemblance.

  (Baker Boy message, Truman Bradley lead­-in.)

  Before I was married, I didn’t know too much about the retail clothing business, or women. I bought one pair of shoes a year, shirts every six months, and a new suit every three years. The railway provided the cap and badge. I’ve never been much for dressing, but at the same time, I’m not hard on clothes like some fellas.

  When I met my future ex­-wife, she was working at Grayson’s department store on Spring Street. She was in women’s blouses, on the second floor, and the sister of a fellow motorman named Fred Keller. Her name was Inez. Fred introduced us one night at the Round­house. He was going off shift and I was coming on. Inez was meeting him for dinner. Looking back, I think she was there specifically to meet me. I was living with my mother on Hoover, and had just started as a motorman with the Los Angeles Railway Company.