Dusk became darkness as the train entered the city of Los Angeles. Union Station was minutes away. Now the ramshackle houses with sagging fences were jammed close. In the night only their lights, not their meanness, could be seen. A happy excitement was in the boy as the train slowed. He was among the first to enter the domed vault of the station, the most beautiful in America, built less than a decade before passenger trains became obsolete.
This evening the station was nearly deserted in the area where he disembarked. The big blond woman and the husky man almost had to be his father’s sister and her husband. Anxiety made his stomach queasy, but he moved toward them, at first slowly, and then when the woman waved, he picked up speed.
“Alex?” she asked when he was close.
“I’m … uh … he … him?”
The woman laughed, releasing some tension of her own. Her eyes, however, studied the nephew without laughter, sizing him up.
“Well, glad to meet you,” the man said. “I’m Ray.” The barest trace of a Scandinavian accent was discernible. His hand was calloused and his grip firm. “We’d better get the car,” he said. “We’re in a no parking, and I wouldn’t want to get towed away.”
They walked silently through the huge train depot. Ava Hammond Olsen indicated the package under Alex’s arm. “Is that all you’ve got?”
“All my worldly goods. Grown-up ex-cons do better.”
She turned her face away quickly, affected by the sentence. “Let’s hope that’s all behind you now,” she said reasonably. Everyone knew the message and what had caused it.
“Are you hungry?” Ray asked, filling the vacuum.
“I can’t really tell with all the butterflies in my stomach.”
“We’ll go home,” Ava said. “Eat there if we’re hungry.”
The car was a prewar Plymouth sedan, well cared for. When Ray unlocked it, Alex got in the back seat, feeling the upholstery and looking at the symmetry of the dashboard’s dials. He wondered if they would lie about his age so he could get a driver’s license. He’d be fifteen in a couple of months, and even if that was technically too young, certainly Ava and Ray would see he was older than his years—see how urgent a car was, and he’d pay for it from working in the café. He wanted forty dollars a week, one dollar an hour, after they’d deducted for room and board. He’d save ten a week for clothes and another ten for the car. It wasn’t too much to ask.
In Union Station he’d had no chance to really study the couple, his aunt and her husband. Now they were silent, dark silhouettes lighted momentarily by splashes of street lamps. Did they like him, or were they just doing “the right thing”? Maybe they wanted the Aid to Dependent Children money the state would pay them for his care. That wasn’t likely; she’d indicated he had a place to go before she knew the state provided money for him.
The Olsen residence was a rear bungalow on a long, narrow lot. Instead of coming in the driveway past the side of the front house, Ray turned down a rutted alley behind the property. He parked next to the back door.
As Ray turned the key in the door, Ava said, “We’ve only got one bedroom, but we fixed up the porch.” It was where they were stepping, the foot of the bed directly to the right. It was identical with the surplus army cot he’d been sleeping on. But he hadn’t had a dresser, even a small, old dresser, with a mirror. If it was small, it was larger than some places he’d been. The window had no bars; it was big and had a screen outside the glass. He could let in the night and keep out the insects. The way it was arranged he had some privacy. Someone going from the kitchen door out the back door would pass by the foot of his bed. It was more privacy than he was used to.
“We thought about a larger place,” Ray said, “but”—he shook his head—“but there’s a terrible housing shortage since the war started. Now that it’s over, they should start building.”
“We even considered buying a two-bedroom a couple of blocks from the beach, but they wanted eight thousand. It’s better to wait until new construction brings prices down.”
While they passed through the kitchen to the tiny living room, Ray asked, “What would you like to eat?”
Alex shrugged.
“How’s a bacon and tomato sandwich sound?”
“Great.”
“I’d like one, too,” Ava said. Then to Alex, “Ray does our cooking, you know. We don’t keep much here … what with the café just across the way.”
Ray had opened the front door and picked up a folded newspaper. The bloated headline read: BUGSY SIEGEL SLAIN. Ray obviously wanted to read the story, but he had to leave to make the sandwiches, so he gave it a cursory scrutiny, commenting, “They all get caught … one way or another,” and he left for the café.
Alex picked up the newspaper. A photo showed the gangster’s body twisted in death, the blood black in the picture, covering the upper part. The room was plush, and Alex noticed the hundred-dollar shoes Bugsy wore. “It paid for a while,” the boy muttered.
“What?” his aunt asked. She was putting her coat on a hanger.
“Nothing.” He dropped the newspaper, planning to read it later. In Preston the boys talked about the famous criminals—Dillinger, Capone, Luciano. Bugsy Siegel had always interested Alex. Someone, maybe Big Zeke, had told a story that Alex remembered. Bugsy had been in Sing-Sing on Death Row, two weeks from meeting the electric chair for gangland killings. It was part of “Murder Incorporated,” a press name. Anyway, Governor Dewey had gone to see Bugsy, offering him a commutation if he’d turn state’s evidence and cooperate. Bugsy replied, “I’ve been icing stool pigeons all my life. I ain’t changin’ now.” Dewey went away red-faced. Before the execution (Lepke and others burned), an appeals court reversed Bugsy’s conviction. The state was unable to convict him in a retrial. Alex had believed the story, and for him it had as much courage as Nathan Hale’s famous line when facing the hangman. More, in fact: Bugsy had been offered a reprieve.
The story was untrue, but Alex didn’t know that yet.
Ava returned from the bedroom closet. They sat down, he on a stuffed chair, she on the sofa, and there was an empty moment of the kind that must be filled.
“Tomorrow morning you’ll go sign up for school. It’s four blocks right up the street.” She gestured to indicate which direction.
School! He’d refused to think about it before, though he knew it was demanded by law. He loved learning but had always loathed attending school. And it had been so long since he’d gone. Reformatory classrooms weren’t the same thing. “Tomorrow’s Friday, Aunt Ava. Can’t I wait until Monday?”
“Yes, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. It might be good for you to have a few leisurely days right now.”
“Another thing. I want to go part-time … with a work permit … and work for you and Ray in the café.” The last words were softer and less vigorous, for the wrinkles had perceptibly deepened on her forehead, and her mouth wasn’t responding favorably either. “We’ll talk about it later,” he finished, but his stomach was knotted with worry.
Ray had the sandwiches and small bags of potato chips in a sack.
“I’ll put them on dishes,” Aunt Ava said, taking the sack and disappearing into the kitchen. “Alex … milk or coffee?”
“Milk, please.”
Ray eased the slight tension by making a face—distended cheeks and rolling eyes. Then he shrugged as Alex smiled and picked up the newspaper. “I have to know what’s going on in the world—as if I could do anything about anything.”
The sandwiches had been halved and stuck with toothpicks. “Watch for crumbs,” she said. “We usually eat in the kitchen.”
“No, honey,” Ray said, “we usually eat across the street. We have morning coffee here, sometimes.”
“But when we do, we eat in the kitchen?”
“Okay.”
Alex would have eaten carefully, conscious of it, even without the admonition. Institutions developed the habit of wolfing down food with slight concern for amenities (more than
once he’d spat some terrible concoction on the mess-hall floor, napkins not being provided), so now he had to watch himself. When he was through, he relaxed, and without thinking he fired up a cigarette. Indeed, he failed to look around for an ashtray until the match had nowhere to go except the plate. He dropped it there; then his gaze came up to meet theirs. Their blank faces and flat eyes made him color.
“Do that outside, please,” Ava said. “We don’t smoke, and that foul smell stays in the house. Don’t you know they’re coffin nails?”
“Yeah, sure,” Alex replied, now standing up, deciding. “I’ll go without this time,” he said, then went into the kitchen, doused the cigarette in the sink, and deposited it in the garbage can. The kitchen, like everything else, was obsessively clean. Even the bottles of Windex, bleach, soap, and polishes were arranged precisely in a floor-high cupboard. Everything was so neat that he was apprehensive about touching anything. He was already feeling boxed in and uncomfortable. About them, so far he had no feeling of like or dislike.
The serious talk about specifics was put off that night. The Olsens went to bed virtually at sundown, especially in midsummer. Ray was up at four-thirty A.M. to prepare the café for a six A.M. opening. Ava rose an hour later. She worked both the breakfast and luncheon rush, plus did the bookkeeping and paperwork. The café employed one full-time waitress and one part-time; also a dishwasher.
In his porch-bedroom Alex opened the window. Insects scratched on the windowscreen, seeking admittance. But only the night air, laden with the ocean scent, came in. Alex dropped trousers and shirt on the floor and lay down on the cool sheets, planning to mull over his situation, to make decisions. It was obvious that their reality was different from his. What did they expect of him?
Before he could do much thinking, he fell asleep. It had been a subtly exhausting day.
* * *
The bungalow was empty when Alex woke up at eight-thirty. After a quick shower (he carefully wiped up splattered water) he dressed in the clothes of yesterday.
I gotta get some more, he thought. His wardrobe consisted of what he wore—slacks, shirt, windbreaker—and one extra set of underwear and socks. He had enough for a pair of Levi’s and tennis shoes; he’d go today. He also had to see his parole officer within the week.
When he went out, he saw even more clearly how small and jerrybuilt the bungalow was. If it hadn’t been so well-arranged and immaculate it would have been another slum shack. The café across the street was also smaller than he’d expected. What he wanted wouldn’t be a financial burden. Ava and Ray would surely understand.
The sunlight was already so bright on the sidewalk that he narrowed his eyes against the glare. Later the hot, dry air would feel weighted, draining energy and shortening tempers. His stomach called for food. He went in through the back door, a shed added to the building. Here the dishwasher worked and vegetables were peeled. At the moment it was empty. Through its door was the kitchen. Ray was there, a bandanna around his forehead so sweat wouldn’t trickle into his eyes. The kitchen was sweltering. Ray didn’t see Alex for a minute, and Alex watched the smooth, expert motions of spatula and spoon as Ray readied eggs, pancakes, bacon.… Ray had a spare tire of fat around his waist, and Alex was as tall, but beneath the fat the man was powerful, much more so than Clem had been. His white T-shirt was soaked through and stuck to his torso. He was pushing plates of food through the slot so Ava and the waitress could deliver them.
“Hey, kid,” Ray said. “Hungry?”
“Sure am.”
“We don’t have much, but you never have to worry about having plenty to eat. How’s steak and eggs sound?”
“I’d rather have a waffle and ham.”
“So be it. Go out front.”
The café had thirty stools in a horseshoe shape, half of which were occupied, as were three of the four booths along the front windows. Most of the patrons were local workingmen, men with calluses and grease embedded in their hands. They came from two machine shops, and two new-car dealerships down the block.
Alex perched on the end seat of the counter, next to the passage behind it and to the kitchen. The waitress, who had very large breasts that popped one button on her uniform, obviously knew of him—her wide smile and wink of greeting told him so. Ava stopped for a moment. “What do you want to eat?”
“I told Ray already.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“I dunno … not exactly.”
“I think you should go sign up for school. Ray does too.”
Her tone nicked his suspicions. Sure the two of them talked about him. That was to be expected. But something told him to be careful; the reference to Ray had vague implications, as if they intended to make the decisions governing his life. They wanted to perform the role of parents; he wanted them simply to supply room and board—for work and state money—and let him go his way. It had been so long since he’d had parents, for ten years. He was used to doing what he wanted when outside institutions. It would come out badly if they tried to take over as parents according to standards followed by most fourteen-year-olds—or even fifteen-year-olds, which was just around the corner.
“Where is it?”
“Not too far. Go down to Sixteenth Street, that’s two blocks, then turn left and it’s about four blocks.”
“Okay.”
Two men in shirtsleeves and neckties came in the front door. As soon as they were in a booth, Ava had glasses of water and menus in front of them. Before she could return to Alex, three men in overalls came in and took another booth.
The waitress brought Alex his breakfast. It was delicious. For three years he hadn’t eaten a waffle, since before he ran away from the Valley Home for Boys. Institutions never served real syrup, or else diluted it grossly with water. Now Alex gulped down the waffles, syrup, and ham; it was too good to savor slowly. When he was through, the café was busy. Aunt Ava was too rushed to talk for more than a quick good-bye. He promised to be back before dark.
When he stood in the sunlight on the sidewalk he nearly skipped with joy. Without thinking about it, he’d started toward the high school, but before covering the first two blocks he decided that he would postpone that ugliness. The day was too beautiful; he felt too good. He’d tell Ava and Ray that they wanted him to come back on Monday. Today he’d enjoy himself, visit Teresa and JoJo, find out how to locate Wedo, maybe even look up Miss Coupe de Ville after dark; he’d never find her during the daylight hours. His stride had a bounce as he headed for the streetcar line. He felt glorious as he rode for fifty minutes on the big red trolley. The ride itself was a joyful excursion past an exciting sight—the bizarre but beautiful Watts Towers. The sun was behind the towers, fringing them orange. Plaster curlicues with bottoms of Coca-Cola bottles implanted glistened in the sunlight, while arabesques of steel gave the towers great strength. They somehow reminded Alex of pictures of Angkor Wat in Indochina. Engineers, he remembered reading, had examined Roda’s towers and declared them safe. Dozens of times he’d ridden by on the streetcar, often thinking he’d someday visit them. It could not be this day; he had serious matters waiting for him.
His destination was ten minutes away when the streetcar rattled past the oil refinery—a gigantic tangle of pipes, valves, wisps of steam, and giant tanks. Next were the shipyards, now nearly deserted compared to his memory of them. Finally, he smelled the stench of fishing boat docks and canneries, an odor that could nauseate but which now excited him. In minutes he’d be walking up the hill to the house.
He got off the big red streetcar. Front Street’s denizens kept holed up during daylight. The neon signs were out; for all their brilliance they couldn’t compete with sunlight. The hot-dog stands still had their graffiti-emblazoned shutters down; the box offices of burlesque theaters and triple-feature movie houses were closed; the latter had dumped their bleary-eyed lost souls on the sidewalk about seven A.M., and they had scurried for cover. Shanghai Red’s, the Top Hat, and most of the other bars we
re open, but nobody was in them except a bartender and janitor, one rinsing glasses, the other mopping the floor. Alex strolled along with a bounce, looking into the dark doorways, feeling wonderful.
But he knew it was too early. Those he might want to see came out closer to twelve midnight than twelve noon. Even the pool hall was empty, the manager counting the change in the cash register. He was new—or at least newer than the eighteen months that Alex had been gone. Alex wanted to stop and ask him about JoJo, but the house was just a few minutes away. Someone there would tell him all he wanted to know. Teresa would be in school, but JoJo himself might be there if he’d gotten out, and if nothing else, Lorraine would know. He would take her something to drink; just some beer would be okay. Lorraine would like that.
Alex circled through the side streets and alleys, and found whom he was seeking—actually three of them together—sucking wine from a bottle in a paper bag. For fifty cents one of them got him the bottle he wanted.
He headed toward the house, a stupid grin on his face as he went up the front steps and rang the bell. Immediately the family dog barked. Moments later the curtain moved, exposing the flash of a face—and then the door opened wide. It took some blinking moments to recognize Lisa: the eleven-year-old was now thirteen, and her metamorphosis into a young woman was nearly complete. Curves had replaced bony angularity. She had breasts instead of flatness.
“Alex!”
Little Boy Blue Page 33
