Los Angeles Stories (11 page)

Hurley Jim had the suite right next to Billy's at the Hotel Kingman. He'd drop Billy off at the Lanes in his Cadillac, then take off for a while and check in later. He said we could bowl free of charge, and that meant a lot to the fellas. He always drove Billy and the girl home.

Spivak took it all without saying a word. Why? I asked Billy. Play the drums, she told me. I suggested she might not want to be seen around with a high school girl in a hick town like Kingman. Shut up and count off, she said.

Berta said they ran illegal Mexican booze into the Lanes, then re­bottled and shipped it to Los Angeles. It was common knowledge on the south side. “Es un troquero, mi hermano, he knows,” Berta said. Smokey said it was verdad, he saw it being loaded. You saw them take the cases? I was taking a piss. What are you doing pissing in the parking lot, we fought for toilet rights? I saw what I saw, mi jefe.

One night, Billy asked me to drive Betty home. She lived on the north side. “How does all this rate with your family?” I asked her.

“All what?”

“Late nights, hotels, Cadillacs. Some people don't like musicians, they got a bad rep.”

“Billy is helping me with my singing. He says I got natural ability. He's going to let me sing with the band as soon as I'm ready. My mom thinks he's a perfect gentleman.”

“How bout Hurley Jim? Does Mom like him too?”

“Oh, yes. He's going to help invest my dad's life insurance money.”

“Where's Dad?”

“He died last year. Heart attack.”

“Sorry.”
He'd have keeled over anyway
.

“Here's our house. Thanks, Al.”

“Hasta ma
ñ
ana, Betty.”

“When do I start?” Jim McGee asked me. “I can't hang around here much longer. Bowling's in town, my ulcer is kicking up. Your buddy Ramon keeps me awake, he sings, he screws the broad. So what'll it be?”

“There's money in Kingman,” I said. “I can smell it.”

We had Monday nights off. I was drinking beer in the Otro Lado. Billy came in, looking all around. She located me and sat down in the booth. “Welcome to the dark side, Billy,” I said, “may I suggest the pork enchiladas with the green sauce?” I was a little drunk.

“Drive me to Los Angeles.”

“You look nervous. Why are you whispering? You don't have to whisper, we're Mexicans here, but we're all friends just the same. How 'bout a beer, I'm buying.”

“Shut up, Al. Listen to what I'm telling you. I'll pay you good money.”

“I can always use it. What's the matter with Kingman?”

“Don't ask.”

“Who's going with us, I'd like to get the car washed.”

“Betty.”

“They'll stick the Mann Act up in you and break it off. You can't do hard time, Billy.”

“A thousand dollars.”

“They'll hang me from the chandelier. No more ‘Take it away, Al Maphis.' ”

“Fifteen hundred.”

“When?”

“Right now. Betty's had some trouble, we got to get her out of the state.”

“Two thousand, in advance.” We shook on it. Billy had strong hands for a woman.

Billy gave me the cash, it cleaned her out. I took a few dollars for expenses and left the rest with Berta. “Take care of Smokey,” I told her, “regreso en la ma
ñ
ana.”

“Vaya con dios,” she said
.

If I
make it, I'm going back to the Church
, I thought, remembering Father Bernalillo, my first drum teacher. He taught me to sit straight and hold the sticks out front. I learned music from an alcoholic dwarf named Ray Diker. Gene Krupa was the man back then, all the drummers in town were crazy about him. Ray told me, “Forget Krupa. He plays with his hands up around his face like he's eating chop suey. If you're going to eat, eat. If you're going to play the drums, keep your hands down.” Ray died of a burst appendix backstage at Cain's Ballroom. The guys in the band laid him out on two chairs, that's how short he was. My mother cried, she dug his rhythm the most.
I'm coming back, but I don't know when
,
Padrecito
.

At 2:00 a.m., we hit the highway. Billy went to sleep in the back, Betty rode up front. I found a radio station that played swing music. Driving through the desert at night, you feel like you got all the time in the world.

Something was wrong with Betty, she was dead quiet. I had a bad feeling, like the Klan posse was saddling up. The Buick was old and slow — just a stock model, no armor on it.

“Say, Betty, if you reach under the seat, there's a bottle. Have a drink.”

“I don't like liquor.”

“No? I do, sometimes. We got a bit of driving to do, so I think I'll have a snort, if you don't mind.” I took the bottle.

“I don't care if you do.”

“Thanks. Maybe you'd like some coffee, maybe you're hungry. When did you eat last?”

“I had a sandwich.”

“I like sandwiches. What kind of sandwich?”

“It was strange. Pink. Salty.”

“Pink and salty? That is strange, where was that?”

“I'm not supposed to say.”

“Okay, but I'm interested in this sandwich. Was it meat or chicken? Salami?”

“Nothing like that.”

“What did they call it?”

“I forget, who cares.”

“Lox, maybe? That ring a bell?”

“Yes, lox. He called it lox. It came on this weird round bread. It was hard to chew. I asked for regular bread.”

“What else? What about salad?”

“Chopped up lettuce and pickles. I don't like pickles. He put his hands on me. I don't like anybody to do that except Billy. He laughed at me and called me a ‘shiksa.' I didn't like that, whatever it is.”

“That wasn't very nice, I agree with you. Lots of people don't like pickles. What did you do then?”

“I shot him.”

My fingers were so tightly clenched around the steering wheel I wasn't sure if I'd be able do anything ever again but drive. I managed to take hold of the bottle and drink.

“One time, two times?”

“I forget. It kept going off.”

“That must have been loud, there in the hotel room.”

“I'm not saying.”

“Did Hurley Jim have lunch with you?”

“He was in the bedroom. He didn't have lunch.”

“Why not?”

“Because he was dead, that's why.”

“Of course. You know that for a fact. No mistake about it.”

“There's no mistake, don't talk to me like that, I saw it!”

“I'm with you, Betty, a hundred ­and ­ten ­percent. But, now, how about this, because I'm wondering, did you shoot Hurley Jim?”

“No, I didn't, don't say that! Your friend did. He's your friend, not mine, I don't like him.”

“If you don't like him, I don't like him. Who is he?”

“I told you! Why do you keep asking?”

“The man you shot.”

“Yes. Harry Spivak.”

The lights were on inside the Cool Springs Bar and Grill, a nice little roadside place, built out of stones. I needed to be where ordinary people were living their lives, maybe even enjoying themselves. I pulled up.

“I'm going in there and get us some cheeseburgers. You like cheeseburgers. Wait for me, don't leave the car.”

“I'm cold, I'm going to sleep.” Betty said. She closed her eyes. I covered her with her wool coat.

“One thing more, Betty. Where was Billy?”

“I don't know. He came later.”

I went inside. The empty dining room was very cozy, all done­ up in knotty pine. That's a nice look, friendly. There was a fire in the fire­place at one end, burning low. I sat at the counter and studied the pies in the case. Apple, cherry, berry, and rhubarb. “Rhubarb, that's the ticket,” I said out loud. A man came out wearing a white apron that said “Floyd” in blue thread. “I was just taking a nap. Not much trade at 3:00 a.m. What can I get for you?” he said.

“Three deluxe cheeseburgers, fries, one slice of rhubarb pie.”

“Just one?”

“The wife and kid, they don't like pie. Fries, that's what they like. The pie's for me.”

An Arizona Highway Patrol car pulled up out front. Two officers in green uniforms came in and sat in a booth. I watched them in the mirror.

“Hey, Bernie, Dan. Usual?” Floyd said.

“Sure, Floyd. Take your time.” One cop put money in the jukebox and went back and sat down. They talked to each other in low cop tones. Glen Miller came on, medium loud. Floyd brought my order out. “That'll be $8.50.” I gave him a ten and told him to keep the change.

“Thanks!” he called out over the music.

The radio was on in the patrol car. I could hear it as I walked by with the cheeseburgers. “Be on the lookout for a man traveling with a female companion. Last seen, Kingman. Man is medium height, wavy blond hair, gray suit. Age, forty. AKA Billy Tipton, entertainer. The female is AKA Elizabeth Newlands, a minor, five­-five, hair blond in color. Believed to be headed in the direction of the state line. Destination unknown. May be armed, approach with caution.” I watched the two cops through the window for a minute. They were yakking with Floyd, they didn't hear the broadcast. Billy was awake. I passed the food back.

“We're hot, we're on the air. You feel like you can lose the suit? They're not looking for a woman.” I pulled out. Billy ate her burger, Betty slept. “If not, it's five ­to one we don't make the state line. Betty told me the whole story about Hurley Jim and Spivak. You didn't tell me about Harry. That's trouble. That means the bright boys are out there looking for you besides the cops. Harry was connected. We don't have time to get fancy.”

“We'll make it. I've got friends in Hollywood.”

“I'm telling you we won't. I won't. I don't have friends in Holly­wood, or anywhere, except Mexicans and a broken-down airplane mechanic in Kingman. You can fake it. Use the kid's makeup and coat, you'll look terrific. There's a light and a mirror back there.”

“I haven't worn chick threads in twenty-five years. What if Betty sees me?”

“Fuck Betty! Vamos!” I got my point across. Billy went to work. She fixed herself up real nice. We kept rolling, good old Buick. Bernie and Dan caught up to us just outside Oatman.

I pulled over. “What's the trouble, officer? Was I speeding?”

“Identification, please,” he flashed his light around on the inside.

“My wife's asleep. My stepdaughter's asleep. They ate all those French fries, it must have knocked them out.”

“All right, go ahead.” He didn't like it, but there it was.
A man and his wife and kid. They looked like Mexicans.

We crossed the state line at 4:00 a.m. I pulled up at Essex, on the California side. It was just a wide spot on the highway — a gas station, general store, and four empty tourist cabins. It was cold and totally silent and still, like the dark side of the moon. I parked behind one of the cabins.

“What are you stopping for?” said Billy.

“I want to talk a little, and I want to watch the road for a while,” I said. Billy got her clothes and went behind one of the cabins. When she came back to the car, she had the suit and tie on again, like Clark Kent in reverse. “You look super, Billy,” I said. “So let's work back­wards. Betty was there in the hotel. Hurley Jim was with her, and Harry was there. But you were out. Harry shot Hurley Jim, or Betty thinks he did. Then he made a move on Betty and she got hold of the gun, or had a gun, and she shot Harry, or thinks she did. The way she told it, some things were missing. She's got a loose wig, what the hell did you leave her alone for? Tell me that.”

“I had definite business. Betty was there with Hurley Jim, I didn't know Harry was going there.”

“Hurley Jim would never keep a teenage girl in his hotel room, I happen to know it and you know it. That's a bad rap in Arizona, hard to beat.”

“I was gone for a half hour, no more.”

“Gone where, doing what?”

“That's personal.”

“We don't want a little thing like a double murder to get in the way of the personal.”

“Nobody knows Betty was there. Two business rivals argued, they fought. It's a well-­known fact that Harry Spivak hated Hurley Jim Bowling, resented Bowling's muscling ­in on his business inter­ests in Kingman.”

“Then why am I driving you all the way to Los Angeles?”

“I got a sudden offer from Hollywood. An audition with Capitol Records.”

“Is that bullshit or is it true?”

“It's perfectly true, it's all set up.”

“Are the guns where they should be? All set up and perfectly true? The cops like to know.”

“I did the best I could, I had to get her out of the hotel. I had to find you.” Betty woke up. She got out of the car and started walking away from the road, into the desert. We both watched her. “What are you going to do?” I asked Billy.

“I don't know. She wants to get married in Los Angeles; she wants to sing at the Hollywood Bowl. I got a possible two weeks with a trio at the Embers, in Santa Monica. After that, it's Spokane, Wash­ington. Hurley Jim was going to get me into Reno. That's out now.”

“Que pena. What about the mother?”

“Hurley Jim paid her. She drinks, she doesn't know nothing.”

“You can send her a card from Spokane.” I said. Betty finished her business and came walking back.

“I'm cold. Are we going to Los Angeles or aren't we?” she said.

“We're going, honey,” Billy said. I hit the starter and the Buick came to life, like an old horse. The clouds were turning ten shades of pink. It was going to be a beautiful day in the desert.