Читать книгу Los Angeles Stories - Ry Cooder - Страница 6

1949

THE STREETCAR STOPPED on the corner to pick up a load of early risers on their way to the little piece of job. A solitary rider got out and walked south on Berendo, a dusty street in a dingy neighborhood just west of downtown. He unlocked the front door at number 39, a two-­story brick building in need of paint since elephants roamed the La Brea Tar Pits.

“Jazz Man Records” read the sign in the front window, unwashed since Joaquin Murietta shot up Laurel Canyon. The man stooped to pick up the circulars from the scarred linoleum floor and then closed and locked the door behind him. Shelves lined the walls. On the shelves were paper sleeves, one-­foot square, and in the sleeves were ancient 78­-speed records, thousands of them. There was a small desk covered with dust, a desk lamp designed by Abraham Lincoln, and a black telephone. The man pulled a curtain aside and walked back to another room lined with shelves. 78s, thousands more. A portable record player sat on a small table next to an over­stuffed chair salvaged from the Edwin Hotel fire of 1910. The man took a disc over to the table. “Clarinet Marmalade” with Johnny Dodds, on the Okeh label, recorded in 1927. He sat back in the chair, lit his pipe, and closed his eyes. The scratchy old record played, and the little tune got moving — an unsolved riddle from the past: 4/4 time on the bass drum by brother Baby Dodds, top melody from the clarinet, suggestive interplay on trumpet and trombone. Chank­chank­chank went the banjo. The man’s face settled into an uncon­scious mask. In four minutes the record was done, and the steel needle in the heavy stylus arm began to drag across the center grooves, making a sshh, sshh, sshh sound that went on and on.

Nobody wants to get measured for a suit on Friday. Our people believe that the mortician dresses you on Friday for the last time. But still, in he came — Johnny “The Ace of Spades” Mumford. And he says, “Ray, I want the one-­piece back! I want the French shoulders! Three­-pleat pants all the way up, and I need my trick waistband, you hear me, Ray? Purple gabardine and cocoa brown, and I want ’em in two weeks!”

“Who do you know that I don’t, Johnny?” I laughed.

“Look, man, I got the number one rhythm-­and-­blues record right now. I’m so hot, I’m burnin’ up, and money don’t mean a thing,” said Johnny, a good looking, chocolate-­colored man, five-feet­-seven and rangy. I made an appointment to see him again in two Fridays. Johnny pulled away in his new Cadillac, all done up special for him in two-­tone lilac and cream, a beautiful car.

I got the job done right to the day. I got his fit, and no doubt about it. Then Lenny, from the Stylin’ Smilin’ and Profilin’ barbershop, stuck his head in the door. “You get the news about Johnny Mumford?”

“Man, what news?” I said.

“Johnny shot dead, backstage, at the 5­4 Ballroom!”

“The 5­4? Somebody killed old Johnny?”

“He killed himself playin’ with a gun! Lawd, have mercy where’s the po’ boy gone!” I ran out for a paper. “Self­-inflicted,” it read. I closed the shop and went straight down there. I told them to let me talk to the reporter, that I had information about Johnny Mumford. They brought me to a fellow upstairs. I said, “Look here, you got it wrong. No chance Johnny did this, and I’ll tell you why. He had me make up two fancy suits, two weeks ago today. No way the Ace of Spades would order clothes like that and then go out and shoot himself in the head.”

“Let’s have your name and address.” The newspaper man didn’t even look at me.

The funeral was big. African Methodist on Twenty-fifth was packed. Ebenezer Brothers Mortuary did the best they could, what with Johnny’s head blown out in back. I brought the suits over, and his mother chose the purple. Oopie McCurn, the bass singer with the Pilgrim Travelers, took me aside after the service. “The suit was a nice gesture, Ray. We all agreed. Ray does shoul­ders, no need to go further.” He gave me a look. “If you take my meaning, brother.” The Travelers did their rendition of “See How They Done My Lord” for Johnny. Little Cousin Tommy took the lead on “Somewhere to Lay My Head,” and Johnny’s mother and sister fainted and had to be carried out. Tommy is a short man, five feet in shoes, but he has a big voice and he can use it. “Overreaches,” as Bill Johnson of the Golden Gates observed later on at the repast, and you don’t dispute a man like Bill.

A police Ford was situated outside the church. Two plainclothes stepped up, looking plain. “Have a seat in the office,” one said. Breezy. No sense kickin’, as Jimmy Scott says, and he should know. I sat.

“I’m Detective McClure. You been stirring things up a little, haven’t you? Some people we know are getting a little concerned. You should concentrate more on your little tailoring job, that’s our line of thinking.”

“I’ve been trying to get at the truth. Nobody seems interested.”

“You were seen talking to that boy from the Sentinel. What’d he offer you, ’cause we can top it.”

“You can top the truth?”

“Very definitely. We can let you breathe. Have a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Montalvo.”

“Ray Montalvo, Custom Vootie Tailoring! If It’s All­ Vootie, It’s All Rootie!” That was Slim Gaillard’s idea, he likes everything strictly all ­rootie and reetie­ pootie. Slim is a very good-looking, well-set-­up man, and talented, but he’s what you might call a floater — he’s never in one place for very long. I’m from down around the District. It’s been mixed for a long time — black, Mexican, and Italian. I’m what you might call mixed, myself. Momma is from the West Indies, and Daddy was a Sicilian — Pietro, or Pete, as he was called. Daddy came out here to play professional baseball, but he was under­built and passed over. He worked as a stonemason until he died, a frustrated little man with a wicked fast pitch, wasted. I learned tailoring from Uncle Gustavo. Gus, as he was called. Gus was an expert in charro outfits for the mariachis that hang out over in Boyle Heights. That’s a very good clientele, very reliable. If they dig you, they stay with you. And the style never changes! You just keep doing the same short black coat and tight pants with no pockets, silver buttons, brocade, and big hat.

Gus would shake his head at me and say, “Looka, Ray, whadda you wanna do, eh? Why you don’ wanna work for me, I don’ know! I gotta good business, the Mexicans. Good boys, they pay alla time on time. Whadda you got, jazza musicians! They don’ pay, I know! I’m an old man. I got no sons a passa the job! Big waste! Whatsa matta you, Ray?” Two weeks to the day after Johnny Mumford’s funeral, he had his third heart attack, the big one. No pockets in a shroud, Uncle Gus.

Maybe I was wrong, but I never could see it — a black­skinned man with an Italian name cutting charro suits for the rest of my life? Thing is, I liked music! Jazz, jump, jive, rhythm and blues! I tried, but I couldn’t play anything very well. I studied harmony and all that, but you can’t get tone out of a book. Down around the District, you got to get hot or go home, so I made clothes for the players instead. Gus was right about the money though. Jazz musicians are a little unreliable, they’re always leaving town, they float.

My mother told me I had a responsibility to Gus’s family, so I went over to talk to his wife, Graziesa. She was in bad shape, hysterical, and the girls were terrified. I said I would look into it and see what might be done. The truth is you could almost see the cloud over my shop since Johnny died. Lenny the barber had stopped coming by for coffee when the two cops started parking out in front at lunchtime giving everybody the eye and tossing their cigarette butts all over the sidewalk.

A custom tailor is sort of a confidence man. It’s a confidential job, and it makes a man watchful and a little lonely. Other people wear the clothes you make, they go out and drink and do the Hucklebuck. That’s all right, it’s in the nature of the work. But a tailor under surveil­lance is all through. The vout just ran out. T-Bone Walker stopped by in his new Lincoln Continental. He said, “I think you better mooove way out on the outskirts of town!” T-Bone was on his way up. I had heard something about a new tailor on Sunset Boulevard.

“Ramildo of Hollywood! El Último en Charro!” read the new business card. I moved my sewing machine and the gabardine over to Gus’s place on First, two blocks down from the Mariachi Hotel in Garibaldi Plaza. I told everyone that I was taking over and discounting all work ten dollars just to get acquainted. They were all very polite and very sorry about Gus. He was family to them, but I am a different color, see, and they didn’t quite believe the whole nephew bit. You’ve noticed how furniture salesmen stand in the door and watch the street? I started doing the same thing, looking up and down the street for hours at a time. I announced a 30 ­percent discount and free hat, one to a customer. Folks waved and smiled, but nobody wanted a suit or a hat or even a belt buckle. I tried hanging out in Garibaldi Plaza, but every time they started up blasting those trumpets, it made my teeth hurt.

One day, two pachuco kids came into the shop. They looked to be about twenty, five­-six and very skinny, not your charro body type. Kiko and Smiley, by name. They employed a trick handshake I wasn’t familiar with. “What can Ramildo of Hollywood do for you cats?” I asked cheer­fully. “The first sombrero is free!”

“Queremos un zoot,” they both said at once.

“Reet! I cut suits for the Ace of Spades, rest his soul. Maybe you heard of him?”

“Ay te huatcho, vato.” Seemed like they had.

“So, two full-­drape zoots. Color?”

Smiley said, “Uno. We trade off.”

“Oh, I dig you now, you want to share it. Well, it happens this is zoot special week, and I can do you a suit and two pair of pants for the price. That way, you’re dressed, you both look good.”

“Órale! En púrpuro!” They laid twenty dollars in ones on me as a deposit without being asked and bopped off down the street. Two days later they were back with more ones and some silver, but I said make it twenty bucks total, a steal. They were ecstatic about it, and they both looked sharp and ready. “Fall by any time,” I told them. “Don’t be strangers.”

The big deal in retail ready-­to­-wear was the Victor Clothing Company, at 214 South Broadway. Leo “Sunshine” Fonerow had dreamed up the idea of credit layaway. You could buy anything in the store for $2.50 down and $2.50 a week. It worked like a charm and Leo became a rich man dressing the poor. He kept six tailors working around the clock doing alterations. One old man, Daddy Bassey, dropped dead pinning trouser cuffs, and I hurried in to see if I could nail the position. I told Leo I would do the work at home at a discount, and he hired me. Alterations were due back Friday night for customer pick­up on the weekend. Leo reckoned that working people would appreciate it if he kept the store open on Sundays. Families came in after church, excited and happy to be downtown, like it was a special event. A Mexican girl did good business selling tamales out in front of the store. I thought she was beautiful — compact and solid, about five-­four, with a big hair­do and a sly look. I tried to talk to her, but she didn’t speak English and I didn’t have the lingo down, so I just pointed and held up two fingers. “De qué?” she asked. “Make mine soft and easy, but I mean good and greasy!” I replied. She laughed; she got the message.

I was motor­vating home late one Friday after dropping off a load of pants, when I came upon a police roadblock at Broadway and Second. It had been raining, and the street was glowing red from squad car lights. I made a quick right turn and saw two guys, one in a suit and the other in trousers and a sleeveless undershirt, running down the sidewalk. That’s what caught my eye in the dark, the under­shirt. I pulled alongside and shouted out the one phrase I knew from movies, “Vamos muchachos!” They jumped in. I ran the light at Spring, made a bad left and pulled up in the alley behind the Times building. I cut the lights.

“Zoot patrol,” said Smiley. “They will catch all Mexicans wearing clothes!”

“Pendejos! Pinches gabachos!” said Kiko. Two police Fords went flying by on Spring, their sirens blasting.

“I happen to have a friend here,” I said. “Let’s go say hello to Herman.” Herman “Ju­Ju” Doxey, the night watchman at the Los Angeles Times, spent most evenings in the backseat of his ’37 Buick, listening to the radio, off the street and out of sight. I knocked twice on the window. Herman rolled it down and peered out through a thick cloud of cigarette smoke.

“Here we have Brother Ray and two young fellas,” Herman said. “I’m always glad to make the acquaintance of young people. Gettin’ hectic over on Broadway, it’s protrudin’ on my mood.”

“We have to get off the street for just a little while.” I said. I sat up front; Kiko and Smiley got settled in back.

“You boys just relax,” said Herman. “Listen, there’s Johnny Mumford on the radio, and now he’s crossed over Jordan. Ain’t that a shame?” He passed the Chesterfield pack around and we all lit up.

“Chonny was over there at the Big Union, we saw him!” Kiko said. “He sang ‘My Heart Is in My Hands.’ ”

“With his eyes to Florencia,” Smiley said.

“Florencia?” I asked.

“Qué chula chulita!” Smiley whistled.

“I know you got some fine, healthy mamacitas, and that’s a fact,” Herman said.

“Healthy?”

“You know, solid.”

“Solid?”

“Man, dig it and pick up on it!” Herman motioned for quiet while poor Johnny’s last platter got moving on the radio — a slow-­thudding blues, the horns sustaining in big harmony blasts, like the Southern Pacific Daylight pulling into Union Station:

Got me a fine healthy mama, she’s long and she’s tall

Built­ up solid, like the L.A. City Hall

From the top of her head right down to her feet

She’s a high­-grade load of sugar freightin’ up Main Street

Fine and healthy, yes she fine and healthy

So doggone fine and healthy, boys, and she ain’t no hand­-me­-down!

“High-­grade load of sugar?” Kiko pronounced it sookar.

“As in, juicy!” Herman said.

“Sólido!”

Herman began. “All right, then. John Mumford. Born, Los Angeles, 1923; died, 1949, cut down in his prime. The prodigal son was a forward child; his mind was not to obey. But he gave his all. The band would lead off so as to get the beat planted in the mind. At the turn­around, Johnny would move up to the front. Very smooth. But on the chorus, he might start slappin’ his left knee in time whilst holdin’ the microphone in his right hand. Ol’ Johnny’s gettin’ ready! On the second verse, John hold back just a little, walkin’ around and shakin’ his shoul­ders out, like a fighter. Next chorus, he tighten up! He grab a handful of Ray’s gabardine, ’bout mid­thigh! Clutchin’ at it! Them little gals run for­ward as close as they can get. He let the guitar work. He back up. Last chorus, he commence to stompin’! He grab his waistband and jerk his pants up, on the beat! All the gals throw pocketbooks, handkerchiefs, anything they ain’t gone need later on. They don’t throw they hatpins or they guns, nossir, they don’t throw that! Heh, heh, nossir, they don’t.”

I said, “Was it a woman got him killed? You know he didn’t do it.” Herman had the inside dope on all subjects known heretofore and as yet undesignated.

“Right now, I got to make my rounds. What good it is, I don’t really know. Look like a newspaper building to you? It’s a Temple of Secrets, the High and Mighty Church of the Next Dollar, and ain’t nary a one of ’em mine. What they need a watchman for? Our Lord and Savior had a marvelous trick bag, I’m told, but even he couldn’t break in here.” Kiko and Smiley crossed themselves. Herman laughed. “Don’t you boys be concerned, I’m strictly spiritual! My mind is stayin’ on Jesus! I’m a deacon in the Church of the Rapid Bible and the First Born, on Thirty-third. Worship services are spontaneous and unscheduled, but all are welcome! Right now, you folks better sit tight and let me have a look around on the boulevard. I’ll be back.”

Kiko said, “Man, he’s been at a lot of shows.”

“Actually, no. You dig Herman right here, every night. No need to go further. He’ll be on the radio in a little while. We don’t check him with no light­weight stuff.”

Saturday and Sunday nights it was Leon the Lounge Lizard’s radio show, The Rump Steak Serenade. Leon featured the cool sounds of jazz from midnight to 3:00 a.m., broadcasting live from Doctor Brownie’s Famous Big Needle, the jazz record shop on San Pedro open twenty-four hours a day. At two o’clock, Herman came on for a fifteen-minute interlude: “It’s time once again for Dig It and Pick Up On It, with Herman the Human Jukebox!” Folks would call in with questions and try to stump Ju­Ju, but it had never been done. If a caller asked about a record, he could name all the players, the label color, matrix number, and chart position. He’d know how many suits Billy Eckstine had and what brand of gin Fats Waller preferred. Tonight Ju­Ju was sharp and on the money, as always. A white man in Glendale, who wouldn’t give his name, asked, “Is it legal for colored men to call them­selves ‘King,’ ‘Duke,’ and ‘Count’?” Ju­Ju answered politely, “Yes, if jazz is legal. If not, all bets are off, and you had better stay right there in Glendale!” Next came a brother from Watts, one Horace Sprott. “How many times has guitarist Irving Ashby been stopped by the LAPD on his way home from the nightclub job with Nat Cole?” Answer: “Eighty­-seven times to date, and always by the same motorcycle officer, William ‘Bitter Bill’ Spangler, badge 666. Officer Bill asserts that John has been entertained in their home by his wife, Mabel, repeatedly and often, whilst he is out on patrol. ‘She plays those records by that spade, Cole. I hate music! Every time I come in from work, the place stinks like fish. I hate fish!’” The third caller was a white woman with an East Tennessee drawl that made a question out of everything: “Hello, Herman? This is Ida from Thirty-third Street, and I have a garage full of old 78 records? They belonged to my husband; he liked that music you like? I’m moving to Spokane, so what should I do?”

“ ’Scuse the hat, Miss Ida, ma’am, but that’s me you hear a-­knockin’!” Ju­Ju laughed. “I declare now, don’t you go answering that door for nobody else!”

We were sitting in front of their house in Chavez Ravine, up in the hills behind Chinatown. Kiko got a jug from the house and we passed it around, listening to Billie Holiday on the communal jukebox that was wired up to the lone streetlight.

My man, he don’t love me, he treats me awful mean

He’s the lowest man I’ve ever seen

“Help me out, lay something on me,” I said. “Like, ‘May I ask your name?’, ‘When do you get off work?’, ‘Would you like a drink?’, that kind of thing.”

Kiko laughed, “Man, pick up on theese and dig it!”

“What you wanna do, man?” asked Smiley.

“I want to take this girl out, man, what do you think?” I said.

“You wanna take out one of our girls, pendejo?”

“Yeah. You know, for a drink.”

“A drink?”

“Yeah, just for a drink.”

“Oh.”

He wears high­-drape pants, stripes of lovely yellow

When he starts in lovin’ me, he is so fine and mellow

“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 when 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.”

“What happens now?” I asked.

“Don’t you worry, I’ll take it from here.” He took off in the Buick. Thirty-third Street went back to sleep. I looked all around for Korla Pandit, but he was gone, and I never saw him or Florencia again.

Fifteen people were injured in a freak explosion in a quiet neighborhood on Berendo Street, near downtown Los Angeles. The blast originated at 39 Berendo, a record shop operated by one Don Brown. The building was completely destroyed. Police and firemen at the scene found the charred and fused remains of what must have been an exten­sive stockpile of shellac recordings. Sergeant Blaine McClure, of the Los Angeles Police Department, speculated that chemicals may have triggered the blast. “In a case like this, we overlook nothing. Our science boys are very alert, I can assure you.” When asked if the FBI had been notified, Sergeant McClure replied, “The LAPD is on the job, buster.” When asked if Don Brown had been located, McClure said, “We are very interested in Mr. Brown. We’ll find him.”

Off-­duty motorcycle officer William “Bill” Spangler was taken into custody yesterday after neighbors reported that he chased his wife, Mabel, down the sidewalk brandishing his service revolver. Spangler, who had been drinking, told police that his wife had served him a tuna sandwich for lunch that had paper in it, which he showed detectives. The paper was identified as the label from a 78 recording by Louis Armstrong, a colored singer with trumpet. Sergeant McClure of the LAPD speculated that it was flotsam from the recent explosion on Berendo, one block away. The Spanglers reside at 33 Catalina Street. Neighbors told police the couple quarreled frequently and often. Spangler was quoted as saying, “I’m expected to take it and like it and go out and do this stinking job?” Mabel Spangler was unharmed, and has been released.

‘My Dear Mr. Montalvo. I trust this note finds you well. I have found a new home here in Spokane. I find I am enjoying new things, for instance, music! Thanks to Mr. Billy Tipton, who has proven to be a real gentleman, and you know how rare that is! Please remember me to your friend Herman. Kindest regards, Ida Kirby, General Delivery, Spokane, Washington.’

The manager of the Bundy Theatre at Pico Boulevard and Thirty-fourth Street in Santa Monica stood outside eating a candy bar and watching the traffic. It was Wednesday, a slow night for neighborhood movie­going. The manager was a big man, three hundred pounds easy, from eating candy bars on the job. A Santa Monica city bus pulled up across the street, headed westbound toward the beach, thirty-four blocks away. A solitary rider got out and unlocked the front door at number 3406 West Pico. A sign in the window read “Jazz Man Records.” The manager watched the man enter the store and close the door. “New guy,” he said to himself. “Who the hell cares about records?” Above his head, the marquee lights stuttered on and off, making a buzzing sound like Morse code. God­damn salt air, like I don’t have expenses, he thought, and the thought made him hungry. He turned and walked back inside the theater.

The new owners at 968 East Thirty-third Street loved the house. It was in perfect shape and priced just right for a young couple. It was after they’d been in the place a little while that the problem arose. Their dog hated the garage. He wouldn’t even go out in the backyard. He stayed in the house and shook and wouldn’t hardly eat. It drove the man crazy. “There’s nothing out there, Jerry,” he told the dog. Jerry whined and shook. Just to prove it to himself, the man got his flashlight and went out to have a look around. When he came back, he was spooked. “Honey, there’s a man in the garage sitting in the big chair. I went up to him, but he was gone. The chair was warm. I don’t know, maybe Jerry’s right after all. What the hell . . .” The woman watched the man and said nothing. Christ, she thought, I was doing all right in Spokane.