Los Angeles Stories (3 page)

“You have the clarinet, and you know this man.”

“But I don't know why I have it,” I said. I explained how the widow Clark mistook me for someone else.

“But you might have been the right man. She was expecting somebody. She blamed them.” I told Finchley about Leo and the shotgun. “We'll get to that presently,” he said.

“But what if they're looking for me now?” I said. “Leo was scared. I'm scared.”

“That's good. Danger sharpens up the mind.” The woman came in through the curtain. “The midget was ashking for you. I shaid you'd been here and gone,” she said.

“That's fine, Lydia. Have a drink.”

“Well, I don' mind if I do.” She held out her glass. Finchley poured her a tall one, and she tossed it down in one gulp.

“Shammysh rot­gut is the worsht shince canned heat,” she said.

“Have one more,” said Finchley. She took her drink in both hands and went out through the curtain.

“What's that about a midget?” I asked.

“Just a fellow I know. Trouble follows him, he's like a human lightning rod. A sure sign that something's up. ” Finchley rubbed his hands with enthusiasm.

I was beginning to form an opinion of Finchley. Had I fallen in with a madman? I kept hearing Leo, “They'll wash you into the street.” It wasn't hard to imagine: The gutter on Spring Street. Sewer pipes. Garbage in the riverbed down by Aliso Flats. “What about the dead man on Utah Street?” I said.

“Omit nothing,” said Finchley. I tried to remember details. The blood caught his attention. “Blood on the walls, delightful! Sprayed, smeared, how was it done? Think, man, think!”

“Smeared, I would say. I didn't stick around there, I had to find a telephone.”

“Smeared how? Up high? Down low?”

“Low, definitely. It looked a little like letters. Maybe it meant something.”

“Close your eyes. What do you see? You knock. You open the screen door. You look about for someone in the house. Something makes you look down. Is something moving?”

“No, it's just feet.”

“Do you smell anything?”

“Frying lard.”

“Music?”

“A radio. A soap opera.
Ma Perkins
?”

“Excellent. Eleven o'clock to eleven fifteen, followed by
Our Gal Sunday
. You get the idea?”

“No, I don't.”

“My friend, consider. A man is listening to the radio while making lunch, sometime between eleven and eleven fifteen. But by the time you arrive, he's been murdered, his blood smeared on the wall down by the floor. I suggest he named the killer with his own blood, then crawled into the kitchen and died. What did the blood spell?”

Then I saw it. “It spelled ‘Book.' ” Finchley picked up the telephone and dialed.

“Homicide,” he said into the receiver. He waited. Then he said, “They're putting me through.”

After what seemed like days and days, a big man in a suit came into the room and sat down at the desk. I was handcuffed to a chair. He shuffled some papers around and looked over at me.

“So, Mr. St. Claire. Frank St. Claire. I wouldn't be here, wouldn't waste my time, but there's too many connections.”

My mouth was dry and my tongue felt like an ironing board, but I had to say something. “What do you mean, connections?”

“A suicide on Bunker Hill, a dead musician in hock to the bookies, and a spic dismemberment down in the Flats. And Frank St. Claire knew them all.”

“I meet people in my job, I don't know them. Except for Mr. John.”

“John Casaroli jumps off the roof and you inherit. Why? Tell me that. Make it sound good.”

“I really don't know.”

“A couple of bright boys were seen hanging around there. Friends of yours?”

“I don't have any friends since Mr. John died.”

“You create a disturbance at the Clark home while a service is going on. No respect for the dead, it seems. Why's that?”

“I was doing my job, how could I know?”

“The widow says you told her to hand over the clarinet. Says you threatened her.”

“She's lying. She gave it to me.”

“Why would she lie?”

“I don't know.”

“All right, Utah Street. Some character slices this guy's arm off and beats him with it. There's blood on the walls. Maybe it spells ‘book,' maybe he was overdue at the library, I wouldn't know. But, here's Frank St. Claire at the scene, within minutes, and that's just one too many times in my book.”

“The supervisor makes all the decisions. I think he was punishing me for the trouble with Howdy Clark. Nobody wants to work the Flats.”

The detective got up. “Nobody's as dumb as you act,” he said. He left the room. After a while, an officer in uniform came and took me down the hall to another room. A man in a white coat was seated behind a desk. He told me to sit down and relax. Relax! How could I?

“I'm Dr. Sonderborg,” the man said. “I'm going to ask you some questions.”

“I've done nothing,” I said.

“Begin, if you will, by telling me about yourself. Anything that comes to mind.”

“Nothing comes to mind.”

“I see you're a single man, living alone. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I know a girl. I know three girls altogether, but I recently met one in particular.”

“Tell me about her. What's her name?”

“Rene. She runs a beauty parlor on Olive and Fifth.”

“Is she kind to you, is she affectionate? Responsive?”

“She says I might be a mad dog from hell. ‘The jury's out,' is how she puts it.”

“And that makes you angry.”

“No.”

“Would you say her behavior towards you is cruel? Belittling?”

“Oh, no. She's really a nice person.”

“Do you ever ask her to hurt you, to punish you?”

“What? What is this, who are you?” Maybe the police are crazy, I thought.

“Do you hate the police?”

“No.”

“Are you plotting against the government of the United States?”

“No.”

“Are you a Communist?”

“What's that?” I said. The doctor pushed a button on the desk and the detective came in the room.

“What do we got?” he asked.

“Why do you waste my time? Get him out of my office. Drop him off in Griffith Park. I went to medical school for eight years, Spangler. Eight goddamn years.”

“And you got a
very tough
job here, Sonderborg,” Spangler said with obvious distaste.

Detective Spangler gave me back my briefcase and told me not to leave town. I left the police building and walked up the Hill. The police believe everything is a pattern. Once they see a pattern, they think they know it all, and they think they got you. That's not the way life is. Take it from me, life is random and inscrutable, like the
City Directory
. Or my name isn't
St. Claire, Frank, chkr, Alta Vista Apts 255 Alta Vista Ave., Ls Angls.

1949

T
HE 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
Ú
ltimo 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.”

“
Ó
rale! 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 qu
é
?” 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 Time
s
building. I cut the lights.