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 Último 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.”
“Órale! 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 qué?” 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 Times building. I cut the lights.
“Zoot patrol,” said Smiley. “They will catch all Mexicans wearing clothes!”
“Pendejos! Pinches gabachos!” said Kiko. Two police Fords went flying by on Spring, their sirens blasting.
“I happen to have a friend here,” I said. “Let’s go say hello to Herman.” Herman “JuJu” Doxey, the night watchman at the Los Angeles Times, spent most evenings in the backseat of his ’37 Buick, listening to the radio, off the street and out of sight. I knocked twice on the window. Herman rolled it down and peered out through a thick cloud of cigarette smoke.
“Here we have Brother Ray and two young fellas,” Herman said. “I’m always glad to make the acquaintance of young people. Gettin’ hectic over on Broadway, it’s protrudin’ on my mood.”
“We have to get off the street for just a little while.” I said. I sat up front; Kiko and Smiley got settled in back.
“You boys just relax,” said Herman. “Listen, there’s Johnny Mumford on the radio, and now he’s crossed over Jordan. Ain’t that a shame?” He passed the Chesterfield pack around and we all lit up.
“Chonny was over there at the Big Union, we saw him!” Kiko said. “He sang ‘My Heart Is in My Hands.’ ”
“With his eyes to Florencia,” Smiley said.
“Florencia?” I asked.
“Qué chula
