Los Angeles Stories (10 page)

I took it. Billy was actually a very swinging piano man. “Falling in Love Again” was a special number featuring a vocal by Billy: “Love is my game, I play it how I may. Guess I was made that way, I can't help it.” The high school girls were intrigued. Billy sat at the piano and signed autographs. That's a square hustle, in my opinion. People think they want a memento to take away; then they forget all about it and lose the paper in the parking lot. The girls crowded around the piano and seemed to go wild for her. Him, I should say. They were just ordinary white kids; they didn't know what time it was.

Billy was suave, I checked her out. I loitered nearby. She picked up on two girls in particular, a blond and her friend, a plump little brunette. Two friends together, that's good trolling. They feel safe with each other, and you can cut them out of the pack. Billy says, “I'm having a little party back at the hotel. Some friends of mine from town. How 'bout you girls ride with me in the limbo?” Billy had a husky voice for a woman.

“What's a limbo, Mr. Tipton?” asked the blond girlie.

“I meant limo, that's just musician talk, you know how it is with entertainers, how we like to kid around, you're gonna know everyone at the party, we'll have a ball!”

The brunette said, “Well, I don't know about going to a hotel.”

“Oh, sure, that's the fun part,” said the blond, “I've never been. Wait 'til Maxine hears!”

“Sure,” Billy said right on top of it. “Wait till your friends hear about who you got to meet. Hey, Al Maphis, tell them who's going to be there!” Billy gave me the look. I took it.

“Girls, pick up on this. There is a VIP here in town to see Billy about a very big deal. I'm sure I can rely on you to keep it under you hat.”

“Mums the word!” said the blond, getting excited.

“His name is Johnny Dollar, and he is a top gambler in Los Angeles. When he meets a person for the first time, he gives them a silver dollar just to remember him by, and that goes for you, me and the lamppost. Johnny digs people, he wants everybody to have a blast when he's around.”

“A gambler?” asked the brunette. Her resistance was fading. Free drinks and food were winning out.

“Johnny's the man with the action-­packed expense account,” Billy said. “You never can tell. Everything will be in the line of hilarity.” She put her arm around the blond and gave her a squeeze. Deal closed, I could smell it.

Hick-­town hotels are a real pain in the ass, as you know. No coloreds, no unescorted women, no drinking, no gambling. Billy had a suite on the top floor, the fourth. The management was not with it. It was “Right this way, Mr. Tipton. A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Tipton,” et cetera. I rode up with Billy and the two girls.

Billy sent the bellhop out for liquor and sandwiches. The girls checked out the suite. They dug the king-­size bed; they bounced up and down on it, laughing and carrying on. Billy sat there and watched. The blond, her name was Betty Newlands, had nice juicy little legs, and she could really bounce. “Betty's a cheerleader at school,” Joyce, the brunette, explained. Betty really bounced. She lifted her dress up like cheerleaders do, showing off her underpants. “Betty, put your dress
down
!” Joyce said. Suddenly I was back in Oklahoma. I saw the white sheets, the burning cross, I felt the heat.

“Al, why don't you take Joyce over to the sitting room and get her something to eat and drink?” Billy told me. Billy had eyes, she was juked.

I steered Joyce out and closed the bedroom door. “Let's see. There's ham, cheese, ham and cheese, and some of these little cocktail tamales, Joyce, honey. Here's scotch, bourbon, and ginger ale. Bet you're ready for a plate and a drink. I'm feeling a little warm, how 'bout a tall cool one? How's that going to be? Let's play the radio. Look, we're all the way up on the fourth floor, look out there.” Two blocks past the hotel, Kingman quit trying. The desert stretched out for a hundred miles, maybe more.

Joyce got a tamale plate. “I never tried these before,” she said. I fixed her a weak high­ball and made myself a stiff one.

“Those are Mexican tamales. Pork on the inside, corn on the outside.”
Just like you
,
honey
. I was getting a bad feeling, like when the sax player solos in the wrong key and there's nothing you can do about it.
Schoolgirl held captive
.
Public demands justice
.

“My daddy told us to always stay away from Mexicans.”

“That's good advice. Drink your drink, honey.”

“Where is everybody? When does the party start?” Joyce asked. In the bedroom, it was quiet. The party had started. Right on cue, there was a knock at the door of the suite. I knew it was a bad mistake, but I opened it. There was a man in a Western-­cut sharkskin suit, polished black cowboy boots, and a Stetson city ­brim like gamblers wear. His clothes cost more than I make in six months of steady work. Six-feet-four, narrow and hard like a telephone pole.
Just kill me, por favor
, I thought.

“I heard Billy Tipton was here,” he said.

“You heard absolutely right. Come on in, have a drink, Jackson. There ain't nobody here but us chickens.” I said, trying to act breezy, like the joint was jumping.

“Who are you, friend? Where's Billy?” he said.

“I'm Al Maphis. Mind if I call you Hurley Jim Bowling?” It was a crazy thing to say, but I hadn't eaten all day except the highball.

“Why should you?”

“Because that's your name. Joyce, meet Hurley Jim, a well­ known man in certain circles. I told you the party was going to pick up steam.”

“I don't get your drift,” he said, quiet­like. “What's the set­up? You look Mex to me.”

“No offense meant. I play drums for Billy. How many drummers does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Three: one to screw, one to count off.”

“Maybe you better take the air, Pancho. Take the kid out of here, they got laws in this state.”

“We were just leaving. Joyce, Hurley Jim has got a point. Shall we vamonos por some nice quiet place?”

“What about Betty? I can't leave without Betty?” Joyce said.

“Who's Betty?”

“Another good friend of Billy's. Ever been in Joplin?”

“Just came from there. Anything to it?”

“Nothing at all. Never made it that far north. Never did.” I steered Joyce into the hall and hustled her down the back stairs.

Night was coming on. The wind blew fine­-grained dust off the hills and down the main drag, which was empty of people and cars at that time of day. Everyone was hunkered­ down with their chicken-fried steaks and mashed potatoes. We walked in the direction of the bowling alley. The sky went from orange to red to purple, and the dust and paper trash swirled around our feet. “That wasn't a very good party,” Joyce said.

“What'd you have in mind?”

“I thought Mr. Billy Tipton was going to be a nicer man. I thought we were going to have fun and meet people.”

“You did.”

“Ugh, I didn't like that man. Why did he say you look like a Mexican, are you? You've been very white to me.” She put her hand up to her mouth. “Oops, I'm sorry.”

“No offense. Hurley Jim Bowling isn't a likeable man, I admit. He's a big-time gambler, and this is a small town. I don't know what he's doing here, but I'm going to try to stay out of his way.”

“Betty Newlands is always playing tricks on me. We go places together and then she finds someone and takes off without telling me. I'm never around at the finish.”

“Tell her you don't like it.”

“Oh, no. Betty's a very pretty girl, it's different for her.”

“Why? You're pretty nice looking.”

“You don't have to say that, I know I'm fat.”

“So get some exercise, go dancing.”

“I like bowling. Fat people are good at bowling. Do you like bowling?”

“Never tried it.”

“I could teach you! Betty doesn't try, she doesn't care what I like.”

“That's mighty kind of you, but I'm in the band and the management, they don't want to see us on the other side of the stand, understand?” I told Joyce adios and I beat it back to Spic Town.

Jim McGee had papers spread out all over Berta's back table. I got a beer and sat down across from him. He'd been working. “Eight men can live comfortably on two hundred square feet of floor space. Most states say ninety-six inches is maximum width for trailers on their highways. A majority of states specify thirty-five-foot overall length as maximum.

“If you want to travel through all the states, you got to comply with the maximums. Besides, if your mobile boarding house is going to poke around in the backcountry, the narrower and shorter the better. So to get the required two hundred square feet and yet stay within the legal limits, I suggest making the trailer eighty-nine inches wide and twenty-seven feet long. That gives you 202.5 square feet.

“It takes about twenty minutes to wash, brush your teeth, and shave — on the double. Statistically speaking, two washbasins and a shower would keep three men busy simultaneously and turn out all eight boarders, washed, shaved, and in their Sunday best within forty-five minutes. A thirty-­gallon water tank, electrically heated, will give you all the hot water you can use. Each of the lockers contains fourteen cubic feet. That's enough for clothes and working gear, if your boarders are day workers. The outside toilet would have to work anywhere. An automatic pressure flusher draining through a two-­inch hose seems to be the answer.

“You ought to use extra-heavy channel iron for the frame, six-­inch stuff instead of the usual four-­inch. From two to four inches of spun glass and rock wool insulation between the trailer walls. Open up an account at the liquor store for the duration. Two dozen cartons of Chesterfield cigarettes. Cash — an even thousand to start. It'll take me a month if I don't have to stop for anything. Any questions?”

“Just one. What's a man like you doing in the desert?” McGee put his cigarette out in the tin can and lit another. Across the street, the El Otro Lado cantina was pumping, the jukebox trying its best to be heard over the din. “
Ingrato Amor
,” it sobbed.

“I got no complaints,” he said softly. “I did somebody wrong. If I do this work for you, then I got a stake. If I can run it up and square myself with some characters, then I can go on about my business, maybe even get back with my wife and kid.”

“Some characters in Joplin?”

“That's the size of it.”

“Okay, it's a deal. I'll get you what you need, somehow.” We shook. McGee had little hands and he felt weak, but he had a big brain up there. You know what they say about drummers and lightbulbs.

Harry Spivak called us together on the stand. “Boys, I've extended the contract two weeks. Billy has informed me he is staying with us for the duration.”

“Did I hear you say ‘raise'?” I said.

“I want to see clean shirts and pressed pants. If it says six o'clock downbeat, I want you here at 5:45, with a good attitude. Leave your shit off the stand, and I'm talking to you, Maphis.”

“We want five dollars a week raise, a fifteen-­minute intermission, and access to the facilities.” I said.

“I got pains in the kidneys, I got to piss a lot.” said Junior Tommy McClennan, our little guitar man.

“Maphis, I expect some gratitude. I run a strictly no ­coloreds ­in ­front ­of ­house place, you just keep that in mind.” Spivak said. Right then, Billy walked in through the front door — Hurley Jim on the left, Betty Newlands on the right, in tight and solid.

“A friendly discussion with the boys,” Harry said to Billy, but he didn't pull it off.

“We are standing down until we take a vote,” I said. “We know our rights.” I turned to the band. “All in favor?” The ayes had it.

“What do you need, Al?” Billy asked me.

“We're opening the talks at eight dollars a week increase in pay and decent working conditions. They expect us to piss in the alley.”

“Maphis, you're fired.” Spivak snarled.

Hurley Jim took a step toward Spivak. “Raise 'em ten dollars a week. Toilets. Maphis stays.”

“Who the hell are you, giving orders? This is my goddamn place, I'm Harry Spivak.”

“I'm Billy's manager. You'll take it and like it.”

Smokey took Berta shopping at the Western wear store up on 66. He got a new Stetson and a fancy gabardine cowboy shirt with arrows and rhinestones. “Gives a man elegancia,” Berta said. She got a pair of fancy suede Indian moccasins with buffalo nickel buttons and a shawl embroidered with la Virgen. She looked real cute, saucy. We went across the street to the Otro Lado to celebrate our new money. Jim McGee had his nose in his trailer schematic, but Berta made him come along. “All work y no plays, el señor!”

I asked McGee about Hurley Jim Bowling. He said, Bowling was there, in Joplin. He ran the game. Hurley Jim is here, in Kingman, I told McGee. He said, Kingman is going to get hot.

We played the jukebox: Lalo Guerrero, Beto Villa, Chelo Silva, Lola Beltran. I danced with Berta, Smokey danced with Berta, Jim danced with Berta. Jim was a very smooth dancer. “Muy guapo!” said Berta. Nobody called me a Commie or a lousy Mex all night.

The labor dispute was settled. Hurley Jim looked like a winner, Harry Spivak looked old. The real story, though, was Billy Tipton and Betty New­lands. Frank Napolitano, the first trumpet, was desperate for information. He says, “Al, you're tight with Billy. I got a little camera like the divorce dicks use. Look at this. You could get some shots, Al! Please!” The guys pooled their money and offered it to me. I said, “No chance. Hurley Jim Bowling is in the picture now. A Mexican likes his life, such as it is.” Frank begged and pleaded: “Does the chick
realize
?” “I don't know nothing,” I said.