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.
Who do you know that I don't?
1949
THE 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
