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.’ ”
