Los Angeles Stories Page 4

  “Where did the jukebox come from? What’s it doing in the street?” I asked.

  “Cousin Beto Six­Fingers found it. Nobody over here has dinero por radios.”

  “He found a brand-­new Wurlitzer jukebox?”

  “Cousin Beto finds things for people.”

  “Do you help him?” I asked, wondering what Kiko and Smiley did all day and night. I kept seeing them in the strangest places. “What happens when it rains?”

  “It moves,” said Smiley.

  Love is like a faucet, it turns off and on

  Just when you think it’s on, baby, it’s turned off and gone.

  The record finished. The fancy colored lights switched off, and the machine went to sleep.

  The last rays of the sun fell upon the dirty front window and died trying to get through. The man sat in the front room of the record shop studying an auction circular of rare 78s. He made little checks next to certain entries with a red pencil, drinking occasionally from a greasy water glass. A pint bottle of Four Roses bourbon sat near to hand.

  The red lightbulb in the ceiling went on. The man put the paper down and walked through the curtain to the back door. He checked the peephole, then opened the door partway. “Boss,” said a confiden­tial voice in the dark. An ancient panel truck was parked in the alley behind the shop, “Cousin Beto’s Scrap Metal” painted on its side. A short, slightly­ built man with a large cardboard box stood waiting.

  The box contained 78 records which the man with the pipe began to take out and examine. He handled the records expertly, like a bank teller counting money. The short man was Mexican, or Mexican and something else like Greek, with oily black hair duck­tailed in the pachuco style and a wide leering mouth full of gold teeth. He watched the man closely.

  “Nice, boss. Look at the condition,” he whispered. The man with the pipe regarded the Mexican and spoke for the first time with the pipe­stem clenched in his teeth. “Whiteman, Whiteman, Whiteman, Nick Lucas, Vernon Dalhart. Bunch of crap. Where are the sleeves?”

  “I had to get out of there fast, boss, I had to leave the sleeves. But I got something special, something you really gonna like. Columbia Black Label, brand new.” He held it properly, as the man had taught him always to do, by the edges. His gold rings flashed in the light, especially the ones on his right hand, since there were six fin­gers instead of the routine five.

  The man took the record and turned it this way and that, examining the grooves and the silver inscription that read “Ma Rainey, colored singer with piano acc. by Clarence Williams, recorded in New York, 1923.”

  “Where’d you get this?” he said in a flat, accusing tone.

  “Boss, listen. It’s a lady, down on Thirty-third. Her old man was a collector, like you. They’re in the garage! Bluebird, Paramount, Columbia, Okeh! This is el mero mero, boss.

  “What’s the set­up?”

  “She’s a gabacha. In the house twenty years. Two poodle dogs inside. Garage is in the back. Original boxes. You gonna love it, boss!”

  “Who else knows?”

  “A kid brings her groceries from the tienda on the corner. He’s always looking for old cars down there. He got the key and went into the garage. He found this. He says it’s got muchos hermanos más!”

  “The key?”

  “She likes him, she lets him see.”

  “Get it.”

  “She keeps the keys on a string around la cintura.”

  “Get the key.”

  The deliveryman pointed to the box of records on the table. “Y éstos?”

  “Junk,” said the man, turning back into the doorway. The deliveryman took the box and put it back in the truck. It had seen better days and was full of rust, but the motor made almost no sound as he drove away.

  Sunday morning, the shop doorbell rang and it was Herman. “Brother Ray, what you got planned for today?”

  “Just trying to decide between a bench in Union Station and a bench in Pershing Square.”

  “We going to pay a social call on a high-­tone Christian white lady named Ida.”

  “The one with all the records?”

  “That’s just what I’m talkin’ about! See, we tryin’ to be a little more visible over at the church. We got some old people need help and some young people that’s gonna need help. Those that haven’t had all the advantages like you and me.”

  “All the advantages?”

  “Yes. You learned a useful trade, didn’t you? You just getting re­located now, but you’ll do all right. Some of these young ones, here, they might wake up one day and find they ain’t got nothin’ now, and ain’t never gonna get a doggone thing. What then? So we tryin’ to raise a little money to start a night school. I told Ida, she can take it off her income tax!”

  It took most of Sunday to move the record boxes over to the church social hall. “Gonna have a big sale with all these babies! We gonna call it ‘Jumpin’ at the Record Shop!’ ” Herman was thrilled, Ida was pleased. She gave us iced tea.

  That’s a drink I never cared for, but it helped wash away the dust. It was an old-style bungalow with giant pink and blue hydrangeas all around the outside and white lace doilies everywhere on the inside. Plenty of photographs of Ida with a weak-­eyed, weak­-chinned man I took to be the late Mr. Ida. I was afraid to get dust all over the doilies, so I had my tea standing up. “Well, if it’s of some use to your people, then I feel satisfied. My late husband wanted to be interred with his records, but I was disinclined. Korla Pandit played the organ for us at the funeral service, in person. Such a kind man. Very comforting. He had a vision in which he saw me moving towards a new life in Spokane, Washington. Korla says Spokane is an important spiritual center. You know, another man expressed interest in the records, but I didn’t particularly care for his aura. And, there were six fingers on his right hand? Six and five is eleven, a sinister sign­post, as Korla would say. Sit down, young man, don’t be bashful. More tea?” I sat. One of her French poodles tried to bite my leg. “My late husband read his evening paper there. He always listened to his records out in the garage when we had our circle. Frank was very thoughtful and considerate.”

  My back hurt from lifting all day. I changed clothes and drove downtown. The girl was there with her tamale set­up. “Dos de pollo,” I said. She was surprised.

  “Bueno, habla español?” she asked.

  “How ’bout vamos por some nice quiet place?”

  “Tiene un carro?” The same in any language.

  “I got a car, un Chevy.”

  “Una ranfla!”

  “Cuándo you get finito?”

  “A las siete.” She had me there, I didn’t know the numbers. She took hold of my wrist and pointed to seven on my watch.

  “Solid!” I said.

  “Qué?”

  “I mean, that’s good. Hasta seven o’clock?”

  “Hasta las siete en punto.” It seemed easy, maybe a little too easy.

  I came back at 6:30 and parked down the street where I could watch the girl. I couldn’t figure out what the hell I was going to do. Invite her out for Mexican food? Invite her out to learn English? Maybe some people don’t care about English, like they’re fine how they are. It started to rain. At 6:45, an old Ford delivery truck pulled up. Two guys got out and put the tamale cart in the back. I could see the thing was heavy, and they were little guys. Kiko had the coat this time, and Smiley had the undershirt. So, how do they decide? That’s the thing that puzzled me the most. The girl got in and the truck pulled out.

  Kiko and Smiley knew my car, but all Chevys look alike in the dark, so I followed them. Whoever was driving did a very nimble job dodging trolleys and beating the stoplights. The truck was a lot faster than it looked. They headed west on Pico Boulevard, past Hoover, past Vermont, and turned right at the alley behind Berendo. I parked around the corner and ran back. A little ways up the alley, I could see a headlight beam coming from a white stucco garage with a curved roof and open double doors. I got down low to have
a look, like they do in Westerns. The truck was inside with the motor running, “Cousin Beto’s Scrap Metal” painted on the side. Other cars were parked diagonally against one wall. Fancy cars, like Cadillacs and Lincolns. Jukeboxes, fifty or more, were lined up along the opposite wall. There was a stairway leading up to a second-floor landing.

  A man came out on the landing. He saw the delivery truck and walked down the stairs. “Where’s Beto?” he asked in a gruff, unfriendly way. I couldn’t hear the answer, but the man didn’t like it. “You tell him I don’t want any gaddamn greaseballs in here!” Kiko and Smiley got the tamale cart out and pushed it up against the wall. The man walked over to the truck and looked in. “What have we got here?” He sounded a little drunk. The girl stared straight ahead.

  “Meester O’Leedy, es mi hermana, Florencia. She sells tamales es muy buena, she makes goood money por you!”

  “Maybe we ought to have a little drink, maybe I was a little hasty back there. No offence meant and none taken, right, sister?” A jovial tone, hollow and mean.

  “No entiendo,” the girl said to Smiley.

  “Sorry, Meester, pero, she no speak much English, que lástima! Es Sunday, so she wanna go por the church! La madre es gonna make big trouble when I don’ go straight over there! Es okay?”

  The man waved them away in disgust. “Gaddamn bunch of church­going monkeys!” He turned and walked back up the stairs. I sprinted down the alley and made it around the corner to the Chevy just as the truck shot out of the alley and hustled back down Pico Boulevard.

  The rain was picking up. I sat there in my wet clothes, trying to think. What had I learned? Almost nothing, except for one little thing. The light in the garage was bad, but I recognized one of the cars parked in the back. A brand-new Cadillac, sporting a custom lilac-and-cream paint job. Lilac and cream. No mistake, there was only one car in Los Angeles like that, and it belonged to the late, great Johnny Mumford, the Ace of Spades. When a man is buried in a suit you made for him, then you got a responsibility.

  I drove back to the shop. I lay down on the bed in the back and turned on the radio. It was ten o’clock, and the Lounge Lizard didn’t come on until midnight. I had time, I dozed off. The next thing I heard was a woman’s voice. “This is Judy from Echo Park. Who killed the Ace of Spades?” There was a pause, then Herman answered in a strange, sad tone: “The Ace was killed by the 39 Backbiters and Syndicaters, an organization of paid assassins under the direction of —” But he never finished. A shot rang out over the airwaves. There was a minute of dead air, then “Jumpin’ at the Woodside” with Count Basie came on. I panicked. I jumped out of bed and tore out of there in the Chevy and headed straight for Doctor Brownie’s record shop. Leon was getting ready to go on the air. “What’s the action, Jackson?” he asked.

  “Man, where’s Herman!”

  “He’s not due ’til two!”

  “Look, man, I got to find him! If he gets here, don’t let him go on the air!”

  “What’s the gag? Why the fright bag?”

  “I had a vision. If Herman goes on the show tonight, something terrible will happen, I’ve seen it! You just got to believe me and keep him off the air ’til I get back!”

  “Reet! Bring me back a double order of a­reechie­poochies!” Leon was gone, swinging out in radio-land jive.

  I figured I had one chance to warn Herman. I drove down San Pedro to Thirty-third and turned left. I took the block at two miles an hour, looking for anything out of place. The Buick was parked in front of the Invisible Church, right behind Cousin Beto’s panel truck. I parked and cut the motor. If I live ten thousand years nothing will ever surprise me again, I thought. I knocked, and the door swung open. “Right on time, Ray,” Herman said. He was seated on a straight-­back chair in a small circle of chairs in the front room of the church. Ida was on his left, dressed in a gown of something thin and pale. On his right was Kiko, then Smiley and Florencia. Between Florencia and Ida was a man in pajamas and a fancy piled ­up do-­rag. “Sit right down, Ray,” Herman said. I took the empty chair. In the center was a glass ball on a pedestal, lit up from inside. The light kept changing in some trick way. I said, “I had a powerful dream, there’s gonna be trouble on the radio!” Herman said, “That’s all right, we hip to it, we gonna take care of it right now. Just settle back and relax.” He closed his eyes.

  The room got dark. The light in the glass ball dimmed, and the do-­rag man spoke. “Let us join hands.” Hands found mine. “Let us pray.” His voice was rich and deep, like a radio announcer’s. There was silence for a minute. “Let us begin. Fascination lies in the magic of the extraordinary,” he intoned.

  “The world is a beautiful place to be born into,” the group responded.

  “Now and then it’s good to pause in the pursuit of happiness,” he continued.

  “The world is a beautiful place to be born into,” the group repeated.

  “. . . and just be happy. Who asks for guidance?” The question hung in the air. Ida was first, she was ready. “Will I be happy in Spokane?”

  The do-­rag man shifted around in his chair. I watched his face undergo a change. He grinned, he tilted his head to one side, then the other, and began to speak in a woman’s voice and make piano-­playing motions with his hands. “Happiness is just a smile away . . .”

  “Who’s that speaking?” Ida wanted to know.

  “I’m Billy Tipton. Spokane is a little cold sometimes / A little rainy maybe / But it’s all right / If you’re white.”

  “But will I belong there? I need to belong to a place,” Ida said.

  “Where are you calling from?” asked Billy.

  “Los Angeles.”

  Do­-rag made piano chording motions and sang in a woman’s contralto range, drawing out the vowels in the manner of Marlene Dietrich: “You don’t belong to Los Angeles / There’s nothing left to tie you down / Drop by and see me / Spokane’s where I can be / Found. The Billy Tipton Trio, Fridays and Saturdays at the Rumpus Room, 517 North E Street. It’s not a cool room / It’s a don’t­ be­ fooled room / It’s not a polite room / But it’s the right room / For someone like yoooou.”

  He settled back, his eyes remained closed. “Who asks for clarification?” Suddenly I wasn’t sure what I wanted to know. What difference did it make who killed Johnny Mumford? Who cared where his Cadillac had got to?

  Then Florencia began to cry. She raised her head and looked up toward the ceiling and spoke through the tears. “Chonny, mi amor, mi corazón,” she pleaded. “Tu hijo is coming soon. Your child. What can I do? It’s a sad world for me now. I have nothing. No tengo nada. Please help me, Chonny.” It was pitiful and heart­breaking. The do­-rag man leaned forward and rested one elbow on his knee and rolled an imaginary cigarette, just like Johnny Mumford used to do. He smiled a sad smile. “Hey baby, I’m sorry for the way it worked out. I didn’t mean no harm. They got to me when I was high. I was onstage, doin’ my hit. The crowd was goin’ wild, streamin’ and tryin.’ ” Do-­rag blew imaginary smoke and waved it away. “They said, ‘Some guy wants yo’ autograph.’ I said, ‘I’ll be rat down!’ This man put a paper in my hand, and whilst I was signin’, he pulled his pistol and shot me dead. I never even saw his face. If you have a boy, please name him after me. If it’s a girl, name her Florence. I know she gone be fine and healthy, jus’ like you, baby. Jus’ like you.” His voice began to fade away.

  Smiley’s hand shot up like he was in school.

  “Chonny! Wait! En heaven, what kine of car does Jesus drive?”

  Johnny replied with a chuckle. “Well, pardner, soon as we get up here, we take an oath not to tell. It’d be unfair to the competition. But I’ll say this, it’s low and slow, and it’s all dolled up! Lots of lights and mirrors and trick stuff on the inside. The Lord looks goood when he come cruisin’ by! That’s all I got for you, my telephone is ringin’. But, one thing we all agree on, there ain’t nobody up here that does shoulders like Ray Montalvo! No need to go further! I’ll see you whe
n the swallows come home to Central Avenue!”

  Do-­rag collapsed. He sat there with his head on his chest and didn’t move a peg. I thought that was going to be the end of the performance, but then Herman spoke up.

  “I have a question for Korla Pandit. Can you hear me, Korla? Someone wants to kill me. They will, if I go on the radio. Why?” Korla do-­rag seemed to struggle inside himself, as if he was fighting against something or someone. His head jerked around and he started talking fast, too fast. “This is Billy Tipton again. Who’s the tailor out there?”

  “That’s me,” I managed to say.

  “Great, listen, I can’t wear off-­the-­rack, see, and my tailor died last month, he froze to death in two inches of water, can you beat that, so suppose I send you my specs, because I got to get some new suits made and I—”

  “Hold it!” Herman said in a tough tone I’d never heard before. “Get back! That’s not Billy Tipton, it’s someone else, someone close by. Who are you! What do you want!” Nothing happened, nothing came through. “We’re none of us going to break the circle until you come out in the open and give it up!” Herman was bearing down, and it scared me bad. Korla just sat there with his head down and said nothing, he didn’t even breathe. Then all hell broke loose. Ida started hissing and snarling like a bobcat. Her face got all pinched up, and she said through clenched teeth in a voice like a buzz saw, “I want my records you took my records those records are MINE!!!” She fell on the floor and lay there writhing and hissing and clawing at herself. Herman got up and went out of the room. He came back with a hammer and one of Mr. Ida’s 78s. He read the label out loud: “The Growlin’ Baby Blues, Blind Lemon Jefferson, colored blues singer with guitar, the Paramount label, 1926.” Herman took the record over to the wall and put a nail through the middle and hammered it all the way in. Every time he hit the nail, Ida’s body jumped a foot. When he was done, she lay still and seemed to relax and breathe regular.

  Herman switched on the lights. “That’s all, folks. Just got to find out who it is that wants a bunch of old records that bad.” I helped Ida up off the floor. She seemed a little dazed. “Very kind of you, I’m sure,” she said. Herman and I walked her home, and Herman thanked her for organizing the circle on short notice. “Well, if it was of some use, then I’m satisfied. I feel very confident about Spokane now.” She didn’t seem to remember about the records, which was a damn good thing. I walked over to the truck. Florencia was sitting in the front seat, between Kiko and Smiley. She didn’t look up. I said, “I’m sorry. I hope it’s going to be all right for you.” The truck pulled out. Herman checked his watch. “Got to make the gig, can’t disappoint the folks in radio land.”