the Onion Field (1973) (9 page)

"I were shot in my left leg and I had to wear a cast for a year without turnin over. It went up to my waist, and over my left leg all the way down, foot and all. And I laid there a year with that cast on.

"Well, you might say Jimmy took care of me. We had nobody. I had been makin six dollars a week before this happened, but after this I was crippled for life. And Jimmy would give me water and do things for me. Jimmy turned the gas on at three years old. We had one of those open stoves and if it would get too cold I'd tell him, 'Son, you have to try! And I'd tell him to light a match and lay it on the stove and then turn the knob because I weren't able to get up at all.

"And the same way with the lights. We had lights that swung down from the ceiling and we had to turn them off from there, and Jimmy would pull the breakfast table out of the kitchen, get on the table, and turn the lights off. Nobody was there with me daily, just Jimmy and I. My first husband finally left me, you see, after I got shot.

"After I was shot I were never able to get Jimmy to take a nap anymore unless he could wrap his head up and just smother hisself practically, so I just had to discontinue his naps because after that he was afraid to go to sleep in the day. It was all right at night, but takin a nap in the day, Jimmy refused to sleep unless he could wrap his head up.

"When Jimmy were about seven, a playmate got hit by an automobile. Jimmy thought he was dead. It didn't kill him, but Jimmy ran to the woods. It happened at school, and Jimmy told them he was goin to the woods and never come back.

"Well, the whole town, practically, went lookin for him. They found him with his head and shoulders under some bushes, and only his feet was stickin out, and he jumped up cryin, and he come runnin and said he was sorry this boy was dead. He just could not stand to see anyone hurt.

"He were afraid of a gun as far as I can remember because the lady I worked for, she bought him a tricycle and a little cap pistol for Christmas. It scared him to death, and I didn't want her to know he couldn't play with it, so I put it under the mattress and hid it. But he found it one day and I finally had to give it away. She bought it for him, but Jimmy was extremely nervous ever since I got shot. And he wouldn't fight. The children would hit him, fight him, but he wouldn't fight back.

"It were hard with a little baby, and me already past forty and never had a child of my own. And my new husband, Sylvester, never gave Jimmy a dime in his life. All he did was nag and fuss at him."

The only man in }immy Lee Smith's early life was his Nana's second and last husband. Sylvester was a gambler who would leave for weeks at a time, then return to abuse him and his Nana, and to take what little money she had. Once he beat her severely when she said the money was for Jimmy, for school shoes. And during the beating Jimmy called Mr. Ed, who was a neighbor. The giant black man stopped Sylvester. Then when his Nana limped off to work, Sylvester tied Jimmy to a bed with a pair of stockings and beat him with a board from a crate. His screams and pleas were heard by all the neighbors and when his Nana came limping into the apartment, she had already heard about it. Without a word, she got Sylvester's gun, and shoved it in his face crying, "You ain't never gonna lay hands on my boy agin. Never!"

She didn't know how to cock and fire the old revolver and Sylvester got it away from her. But he retreated, never again to strike Jimmy in anger, and after they went to Los Angeles he left their lives for good.

Whenever in later life Jimmy Smith tried to remember triumphs, it was somehow the defeats which came to him. Like the time the Goodwill Industries in Fort Worth had given him a pair of candy-striped overalls for Christmas and he was so proud of them he wore them to the movie that very Saturday, and Flatnosed Riley surreptitiously unbuttoned the flap. Jimmy had wondered all the way home why the other boys were snickering and pointing at him. When he discovered the truth, he burst into tears, crying, "You all played the dozens on me. You all played the dozens on me!"

Jimmy was never very popular with the other boys. There were distinct disadvantages to having light skin and mulatto features. "You ol yella-faced ponk. You ol half-breed nigger. Thinks you is white, dontcha? You oughtta git a ass kickin." And then they would do it.

But the advantages came later. With the girls, especially the very dark girls. "My, Jimmy, you a fine bright lookin boy. Take the shirt off, Jimmy. Mmmmm, ain't you a fine lookin bright boy."

But he couldn't be too bold about picking the prettiest girl even if he knew he could get her. Not when he was resented anyway because of his fair skin. So Jimmy decided to choose the ugliest chick when he was with the other black dudes, and to score on the pretty ones when he was alone. And it worked out fine. Picking the ugly chicks made the other boys approve of him.

Jimmy learned to hustle in Fort Worth during the Depression. There was treasure in tow sacks and even in rags, but nothing compared to what junk dealers would pay for zinc fruit jar tops and old copper. Even rich white folks hoarded such items. It took boldness to sneak into their garages and creep onto their screened back porches to get the tops off the fruit jars which they were using for canning. But if he were caught he would throw himself on the ground and sob as though his heart were breaking and tell them how hungry he was, which was true enough. Inevitably they would look down at the dirty, yellow-skinned boy with the tears streaking through the grime and give him only a mild scolding. Sometimes a lady would even open her purse and give him a dime and a motherly pat on the rump.

He learned that, with variations, the same thing worked in the A&P market when he got caught. But he couldn't pull that too many times, so the best thing to do was steal only what he could eat and duck down behind the counter and eat it right there in the store and walk out with a small legitimate purchase. The thing to do was become popular with the old people of the neighborhood who needed a boy to run errands and buy fifteen or twenty cents' worth of foodstuffs for them. The penny he got for the errand was nothing compared to the quarter's worth of food he had the opportunity to consume in the store.

But as always, he got caught.

He could never forget the beefy face of the clerk who found him behind a display shelf while he crammed cookies and bologna into his mouth. He had been jerked to his feet by the neck and carried through the store, his feet not touching the ground, a huge hand strangling him. He had felt a devastating pain between his buttocks as a kick sent him sprawling on his face. But big Mr. Ed Dixon at the other market across the street had seen it and run across and paid the outraged clerk from his own pocket.

"I'm sorry, sir," Mr. Dixon apologized to the white man. "I been knowin this little boy all his life and I'm terrible sorry. His auntie ain't the kind of woman who would appreciate this stealin. This yella nigger boy is gonna get one hell of a whuppin." And later to Jimmy he said, "You don't have to steal, son. If you ever gets that hungry, come to me." And he gave Jimmy a nickel and sent him home.

So Jimmy Smith learned that if he cried, or looked like he was going to, or just didn't act like he wanted to be Number One Dude, well then, somebody would always take care of him. And it was the same on the corner, the same hustling on the street. Just let Number One think he is Number One and he has all the headaches and ends up doing what Jimmy wants him to do.

It was only a short walk from Fifth and Stanford to Second and San Pedro. To a tourist passing through Los Angeles both streets would look very similar-downtown, shabby, in or on the fringes of skid row-forbidding.

To a crippled fifty-three year old black woman there was all the difference here at Second and San Pedro. With the Japanese returning from relocation camps this commercial neighborhood was thriving. She didn't believe there were dangers on this street for a teenager. Jimmy had his own hotel room now two doors down the hall from her room, and no longer had to sleep on the floor. But Fifth and Stanford was only a short walk away.

Fifth Street, from Main Street east, is the heart of skid row, the one street in Los Angeles which can compete with the worst of eastern slum neighborhoods. Bars line both sides of the street, and numerous liquor stores stock more Sneaky Pete and Sweet Lucy than the rest of metropolitan Los Angeles combined, most of it in short dog bottles which the derelicts can afford.

The derelicts were of all ages and races, a plentiful number of women among them. Fat and bloated squaws, emaciated toothless whites, with flaming swollen hair-covered legs, and faces like red balloons. Ancient bony black women past the age for ordinary hustling. All of them prowling, snuffling through blackened hotel hallways, conducting business there on the dirt-crusted slimy floors with a rag of a dress pulled over the face because who wanted to see what she had to feel and smell? Until at last she could no longer feel or smell.

Most were thankful that oral copulation was what the men wanted, because it was so much easier, and some of the derelict whores could line up three men in an alley in broad daylight and be through with them in less than ten minutes, making as much as a dollar for their work. Often, an impotent alcoholic would plead dissatisfaction, and a drunken business dispute would erupt between the two staggering wretches. But more often, these women were able to protect their earnings from the male predators.

It was a dangerous neighborhood to grow up in, and if you had lived there since arriving from Fort Worth you would of necessity have grown very tough or very cunning. Jimmy Lee Smith was cunning.

The true derelicts, the down-and-outers, gave up Fifth and Stanford, surrendered it to the blacks, and seldom roamed that far east. There was no need. What could be begged from a black neighborhood? The winos roamed west toward downtown, toward the live ones, and left Fifth and Stanford to the blacks, the pimps and prostitutes, the bootleggers, dope dealers, the thieves and con men.

After Jimmy and his Nana moved to Second and San Pedro there were many reasons for Jimmy to run the few blocks back to Fifth and Stanford, back to a life infinitely more exciting than a lonely hotel room when his Nana was at work at the laundry folding sheets. For one thing, at Fifth and Stanford there was the shine stand and the promise it held.

Before they'd moved up to Second Street Jimmy had persuaded his Nana to let him work in the shine stand across from the hotel, convincing her that she could look through the window and see him shining shoes. Finally she agreed. But of course much more could be made by running wine across the rooftops for the bootleggers than by shining shoes. Jimmy could go up a fire escape on one end of the block and come down through a skylight at the opposite end with a case of wine and never set foot on the street where the cops were. The bootleggers were small timers who brought their wine from Delano in barrels and diluted it for sale on the street. An enterprising boy like Jimmy Smith knew that every hotel roof in the neighborhood had caches of wine for the taking if you were sly and quick enough. So the men came to admire the clever boy and began calling him "Blood" and "Youngblood."

The jukeboxes of most of the east Fifth Street establishments hunkered out on the sidewalks in those days, and raucous music mingled with car horns and tire sounds and laughter and occasional screams, the ordinary sounds of skid row.

Then there was Carole Lombard.

She was big, brown, and smooth, with loose full breasts and a blue satin dress which was tearing at the seams because there was so much woman to cover. Jimmy didn't care that she was thick through the middle and past her prime. To him she was beautiful.

He was thirteen when the big car stopped and a white man beckoned him to the curb. He saw at once it was not a plainclothes police car. It was a Buick, with snowy whitewalls, and a fatcat white man in an up-to-date, wide, hand-painted necktie.

"Hey, kid, know where I can get me a colored woman?"

Jimmy just shrugged, not walking too close to the car.

"I'll give you a quarter, boy. A quarter just to point me in the right direction."

"Over there," said Jimmy quickly. "In back of that shine stand. There's a room. Jist go on in. They gonna find you."

"Thanks," said the white man and tossed him a quarter.

It was so easy he could hardly believe it! So easy! Was that how pimps got started? And he had always thought there was something magical and infinitely complex to learn before you could stand tall in front of the hotel, hands in your pockets, leaning forward at the waist, with marcelled hair, in orange gabardine-billowing, sharp- creased slacks, pegged tightly to the ankle-pointed black and white wingtips and a long sport coat with big shoulders, and a broad- brimmed felt hat with a feather. Not too much feather, just enough to be lookin sharp, lookin good. And cool was what you had to be, pretending you didn't know everyone was admiring you, just busting out with a hee haw once in a while to show you knew you were the boss of this corner. You had the girls, six in your stable, you had the big Caddy, you had the power, man.

But he never really believed he could be one of them, not a real pimp. . He was already resigned to a secondary role in life, a number two man, making small stings, someday hoping to drive a decent transportation car, taking a back seat to the big timer. It had its advantages. The big man was always ready to do a favor for the smaller man who was no threat. If something bad went down, like from a police bust or from an infringing rival, well the big timer was knocked off, but the number two man did business as usual. It was much safer not to aspire to high position here on east Fifth Street.