even saw his face. If you have a boy, please name him after me. If it’s a girl, name her Florence. I know she gone be fine and healthy, jus’ like you, baby. Jus’ like you.” His voice began to fade away.
Smiley’s hand shot up like he was in school.
“Chonny! Wait! En heaven, what kine of car does Jesus drive?”
Johnny replied with a chuckle. “Well, pardner, soon as we get up here, we take an oath not to tell. It’d be unfair to the competition. But I’ll say this, it’s low and slow, and it’s all dolled up! Lots of lights and mirrors and trick stuff on the inside. The Lord looks goood when he come cruisin’ by! That’s all I got for you, my telephone is ringin’. But, one thing we all agree on, there ain’t nobody up here that does shoulders like Ray Montalvo! No need to go further! I’ll see you when the swallows come home to Central Avenue!”
Do-rag collapsed. He sat there with his head on his chest and didn’t move a peg. I thought that was going to be the end of the performance, but then Herman spoke up.
“I have a question for Korla Pandit. Can you hear me, Korla? Someone wants to kill me. They will, if I go on the radio. Why?” Korla do-rag seemed to struggle inside himself, as if he was fighting against something or someone. His head jerked around and he started talking fast, too fast. “This is Billy Tipton again. Who’s the tailor out there?”
“That’s me,” I managed to say.
“Great, listen, I can’t wear off-the-rack, see, and my tailor died last month, he froze to death in two inches of water, can you beat that, so suppose I send you my specs, because I got to get some new suits made and I—”
“Hold it!” Herman said in a tough tone I’d never heard before. “Get back! That’s not Billy Tipton, it’s someone else, someone close by. Who are you! What do you want!” Nothing happened, nothing came through. “We’re none of us going to break the circle until you come out in the open and give it up!” Herman was bearing down, and it scared me bad. Korla just sat there with his head down and said nothing, he didn’t even breathe. Then all hell broke loose. Ida started hissing and snarling like a bobcat. Her face got all pinched up, and she said through clenched teeth in a voice like a buzz saw, “I want my records you took my records those records are MINE!!!” She fell on the floor and lay there writhing and hissing and clawing at herself. Herman got up and went out of the room. He came back with a hammer and one of Mr. Ida’s 78s. He read the label out loud: “The Growlin’ Baby Blues, Blind Lemon Jefferson, colored blues singer with guitar, the Paramount label, 1926.” Herman took the record over to the wall and put a nail through the middle and hammered it all the way in. Every time he hit the nail, Ida’s body jumped a foot. When he was done, she lay still and seemed to relax and breathe regular.
Herman switched on the lights. “That’s all, folks. Just got to find out who it is that wants a bunch of old records that bad.” I helped Ida up off the floor. She seemed a little dazed. “Very kind of you, I’m sure,” she said. Herman and I walked her home, and Herman thanked her for organizing the circle on short notice. “Well, if it was of some use, then I’m satisfied. I feel very confident about Spokane now.” She didn’t seem to remember about the records, which was a damn good thing. I walked over to the truck. Florencia was sitting in the front seat, between Kiko and Smiley. She didn’t look up. I said, “I’m sorry. I hope it’s going to be all right for you.” The truck pulled out. Herman checked his watch. “Got to make the gig, can’t disappoint the folks in radio land.”
“What happens now?” I asked.
“Don’t you worry, I’ll take it from here.” He took off in the Buick. Thirty-third Street went back to sleep. I looked all around for Korla Pandit, but he was gone, and I never saw him or Florencia again.
Fifteen people were injured in a freak explosion in a quiet neighborhood on Berendo Street, near downtown Los Angeles. The blast originated at 39 Berendo, a record shop operated by one Don Brown. The building was completely destroyed. Police and firemen at the scene found the charred and fused remains of what must have been an extensive stockpile of shellac recordings. Sergeant Blaine McClure, of the Los Angeles Police Department, speculated that chemicals may have triggered the blast. “In a case like this, we overlook nothing. Our science boys are very alert, I can assure you.” When asked if the FBI had been notified, Sergeant McClure replied, “The LAPD is on the job, buster.” When asked if Don Brown had been located, McClure said, “We are very interested in Mr. Brown. We’ll find him.”
Off-duty motorcycle officer William “Bill” Spangler was taken into custody yesterday after neighbors reported that he chased his wife, Mabel, down the sidewalk brandishing his service revolver. Spangler, who had been drinking, told police that his wife had served him a tuna sandwich for lunch that had paper in it, which he showed detectives. The paper was identified as the label from a 78 recording by Louis Armstrong, a colored singer with trumpet. Sergeant McClure of the LAPD speculated that it was flotsam from the recent explosion on Berendo, one block away. The Spanglers reside at 33 Catalina Street. Neighbors told police the couple quarreled frequently and often. Spangler was quoted as saying, “I’m expected to take it and like it and go out and do this stinking job?” Mabel Spangler was unharmed, and has been released.
‘My Dear Mr. Montalvo. I trust this note finds you well. I have found a new home here in Spokane. I find I am enjoying new things, for instance, music! Thanks to Mr. Billy Tipton, who has proven to be a real gentleman, and you know how rare that is! Please remember me to your friend Herman. Kindest regards, Ida Kirby, General Delivery, Spokane, Washington.’
The manager of the Bundy Theatre at Pico Boulevard and Thirty-fourth Street in Santa Monica stood outside eating a candy bar and watching the traffic. It was Wednesday, a slow night for neighborhood moviegoing. The manager was a big man, three hundred pounds easy, from eating candy bars on the job. A Santa Monica city bus pulled up across the street, headed westbound toward the beach, thirty-four blocks away. A solitary rider got out and unlocked the front door at number 3406 West Pico. A sign in the window read “Jazz Man Records.” The manager watched the man enter the store and close the door. “New guy,” he said to himself. “Who the hell cares about records?” Above his head, the marquee lights stuttered on and off, making a buzzing sound like Morse code. Goddamn salt air, like I don’t have expenses, he thought, and the thought made him hungry. He turned and walked back inside the theater.
The new owners at 968 East Thirty-third Street loved the house. It was in perfect shape and priced just right for a young couple. It was after they’d been in the place a little while that the problem arose. Their dog hated the garage. He wouldn’t even go out in the backyard. He stayed in the house and shook and wouldn’t hardly eat. It drove the man crazy. “There’s nothing out there, Jerry,” he told the dog. Jerry whined and shook. Just to prove it to himself, the man got his flashlight and went out to have a look around. When he came back, he was spooked. “Honey, there’s a man in the garage sitting in the big chair. I went up to him, but he was gone. The chair was warm. I don’t know, maybe Jerry’s right after all. What the hell . . .” The woman watched the man and said nothing. Christ, she thought, I was doing all right in Spokane.
La vida es un sueño
1950
A TRIO MAN is a man who stands on a stage, in the spotlight. He plays the requinto, he sings the bolero, and he watches. He watches you, señor, and you, señorita — especially you. He observes the audience, a nocturnal conveyor belt of lovers, haters,
