At one point, Donnie had made his way out there before, appearing as an extra in the film Soylent Green, which reached theaters in the seventies. Set in 2022, it was a sci-fi flick starring Charlton Heston. He played a cop named Thorn, who uncovered the chilling source of a government-manufactured food after investigating a murder. Donnie’s screen time in the film was nothing worth mentioning, but the experience probably contributed to the final motivating factor in his decision to relocate: Donnie wanted to see at least one of his books become a movie. His work would have been a good fit for theaters, with the recent arrival of what the trade publication Variety dubbed “blaxploitation” flicks. A combination of the words black and exploitation, the phrase described works that largely depicted characters in stereotypical images but who often operated entirely outside of the social order. Hundreds of derelict, downtown-area theaters in urban cities beckoned these releases and the audiences who would pay admission to appreciate them. Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, which opened in 1971, was described by the Los Angeles Times as “a series of earthy vignettes, where [director Mario] Van Peebles evokes the vitality, humor, pain, despair and omnipresent fear that is life for so many African Americans.” Along with Shaft and 1972’s Superfly, the release helped open the door to an era of story lines in which, through whatever means, the black characters would win in the end.
This time, Donnie’s trip to the West Coast would have greater longevity and more sense of purpose. He who hesitated was lost, and Donnie no longer felt lost in his goals. Again, he told friends he wanted to kick; the trip to Georgia hadn’t done it for him as he’d hoped. They chipped in to help him do what he felt led to do. The day when he and Shirley prepared to fly out of Detroit was one to remember. Donnie must have decided he would need to show Los Angeles that Detroit was hip to fashion because he threw on a suit and a sharp, wide-brimmed hat resembling the popular style that had been worn in Superfly. And sexy Shirley was looking the part as Donnie’s woman: A red mini dress and thigh-high boots that she wore the hell out of made up her ensemble. The family saw them off at the airport. They knew this could be a flight into what might become Donnie’s most life-changing success yet.
Los Angeles had seen its share of devastation in the black community. Two years before Detroit caught fire behind the police raid, residents in the South Central neighborhood of Watts participated in the first major race-related uprising of the 1960s. A twenty-one-year-old man was arrested that August, after a cop flagged down his vehicle on suspicion of intoxication. Not unlike the scene outside the after-hours joint in Detroit, a crowd of observers taunted the officer, and so a second cop was called to the scene. As elsewhere in the nation, the air had already grown thick with racial stress, not to mention a late-summer heat wave. There was good reason for those in depressed neighborhoods to be tense. Black folks numbered around half a million by that time, but with the western emigration, much like the northern movement, plenty found themselves out of work and living in overcrowded ghetto sections. In another unfortunate parallel with the urban centers elsewhere, L.A. cops had begun to develop a reputation for brutality that would linger in their ranks for many years. Eyewitnesses said it was the second officer who became overly aggressive when he showed up to assist with the suspected drunk driver. The cop swung his baton at members of the crowd, unnecessarily, they said. Soon, news of the altercation spread through the streets and alleys of South Central, leading to violence on a massive scale. During the rebellion, there were four days of burning, looting, and wreaking wholesale havoc, then another three days of sporadic outbreaks as an estimated 35,000 people participated. The toll, after a combined effort of city, county, and National Guard members to end the disturbance, was thirty-four dead—all but three black—at least a thousand wounded, 4,000 arrested, and $200 million in property damage. It all began only five days after the Voting Rights Act was signed. Proof that symbolic legislation was no substitute for treating men and women with dignity.
Los Angeles city administrators first tried to pin the blame for the eruption on outside agitators. There was no discontent among the good Negroes of Watts, they contended. Later information, however, revealed that most of those involved with the rebellion had lived there their entire lives. The rage they expressed had been set off by police but had grown as a manifestation of their resentment of Caucasian shopkeepers in the neighborhood, another element in a relationship with the black community that would remain contentious long after the last ashes had lost their glow. It was not by mistake or coincidence that black churches, neighborhood libraries, businesses, and homes were virtually untouched. The destruction was actually applauded in circles containing those who saw it as a necessary signal to the powers-that-were. It helped to define political camps in the next phase of social struggle, though the community never completely recovered. And the fallout was more far-reaching than the boundaries of Watts: A number of political careers were damaged, including that of Edmund G. “Pat” Brown, the liberal governor, who was assigned his share of the blame by conservative politicians. It was to become a tired and pitiful, yet recurring, scenario. Wherever black men and women lived in unofficially segregated, so-called inner-city areas, there loomed the likelihood that one form of head game or another would be played—with white insecurity as a primary rule.
Things hadn’t always been quite as bad for people of color in L.A. As far back as the turn of the century, the city was becoming a multicultural destination. Caucasians and those of African descent found themselves in the midst of a much broader ethnic makeup. The city’s Spanish roots, combined with its relative proximity to Asia, made it attractive to Mexicans, Chinese, and Japanese. While black folks dealt all alone with white hatred in other regions of the country, here it was the newer citizens who often found themselves sharing the brunt of the pain. Competition between the cultures for opportunities added an element of difficulty that was largely unfamiliar to the experience of folk with common heritage. Negroes who discovered life on the West Coast and migrated early on often found what they’d been looking for. Between 1900 and 1920, there was relative prosperity. About 36 percent of the black population owned private homes, compared with just 11 percent in New Orleans and less than 3 percent in New York. Black-operated businesses popped up along Central Avenue downtown, and in 1903 businessman Theodore Troy set up the Los Angeles Forum, an agency designed to direct community growth and help black migrants in their transition. Forum members helped train others in the conduct that increased Caucasian tolerance, as whites tried to contain growth of the ghetto territory that formed around the Central Avenue Hotel.
Though black folks inhabited various L.A. neighborhoods earlier on, housing covenants eventually pressed them out of white residential areas. By 1930, the city’s vast majority of Negroes were located in the overcrowded community of South Central. They were largely relegated to domestic and service jobs. But like Detroit’s Black Bottom, the Avenue area developed into a place that became known for its nightlife, drawing comparisons to Harlem on the East Coast, and was home to churches, restaurants, and other businesses. Politically, there were also black leaders who emerged from the consolidation of the constituency. Supported by the large numbers of Negro voters in their district, officials like state assemblymen Frederick Roberts and Augustus Hawkins enjoyed long careers in government. As of 1940, the city ranked as America’s fifth-largest, with about 1.5 million residents. In fewer than 100 years of existence, Los Angeles had grown more rapidly than most of the other municipalities in the nation.
Along with black residents, Asian and Mexican immigrants had contributed to the increase. In 1943, around the time when young men began sporting the flashy, oversized zoot suits as they walked the streets, they managed to attract the wrong sort of attention. The ensemble had become popular among Negroes, largely because of its association with jazz culture. Mexican fellows picked up the trend, fashioning their hair into ducktails to complete their slick, head-to-toe look. Zoots were considered luxur
y items at a time when fabric was being rationed for the war effort and were often worn for special occasions like birthday parties or dances. Their wearers might be heading into downtown L.A. to the Million Dollar Theater on Third and Broadway, or the Orpheum Theater between Eighth and Ninth, where the big bands showed up. They occasionally crossed paths with servicemen, who checked out the penny arcades where ladies worked the bar. Or they might amble down to Main Street to enjoy a burlesque show. The zoot owners, who proudly wore their hipster suits like knights in the armor of defiance, were negatively portrayed in the media. Newspapers often presented them as hoodlums in articles printed close to the latest war coverage. Perhaps that was what provoked white soldiers and sailors to physically assault the colorfully attired blacks and Mexicans without provocation. The ensuing clashes would become known as the Zoot Suit Riots. They started just about two weeks before similar hell broke loose on Detroit’s Belle Isle. A June 9, 1943, article in the Los Angeles Examiner offered a look into the peculiar conflict:
… Harold Tabor, 32, Long Beach sailor, was severely beaten by a gang of zooters at 103rd and Graham St. He suffered a broken nose, serious facial cuts. He told officers at Georgia St. hospital that he had been visiting his sister, Dorothy Edmonson, 1133 East 103rd St.
“I was passing a pool hall en route to a grocery store when the gang hopped me,” he said.
George Lorigo, 19, was arrested on a charge of battery after Tabor’s beating. The sailor was later transferred to Long Beach naval hospital for X-ray examination.
Two soldiers and a Negro zoot suiter were taken into custody after a riot at the corner of Second and Spring Sts. And police, cruising throughout the city in scouting forays, dispersed mobs, hunted for others. Police ordered groups of more than three to “break it up” everywhere in the downtown area, and the presence of armed officers on every street resembled martial law rule. Two officers were stationed on every corner of Main, Spring and Broadway, between First St. and Pico Blvd. Two more officers were in the center of each block.
Squads of riot breakers, packed 18 in a truck, roamed the city, investigated mob reports, arrested suspects. Traffic on Main St. was bumper to bumper, moving slowly as city officials tried [sic] to solve the zoot suit problem.
Navy shore patrol officers and Bagley army military police added to the martial law resemblance. They walked in and out of bars, dancehalls, drug stores, bus stations. They kept servicemen on the move, asked for proof of leaves and liberties.
One of the most serious outbreaks of terrorism occurred in Watts. There, three PE trains were stoned. At least three passengers were injured by shattered glass windows … Gangsterism in Watts continued into the early hours of today. Twelve Negroes ambushed a 17-year-old white high school student, asked him if he was a “zoot suiter” and when he said “no,” the fight started. The victim, Joe M. Steddum of 8834 Banders St., Watts, received a five-inch cut on his left forehead, requiring six stitches at the emergency hospital, 3060 Slauson St., to mend.
Police took Daniel Malone into custody at Sixth and Main Sts. when they discovered a long club hidden down his pants leg.
Servicemen continued to roam the city’s streets through all this hectic night despite the “out of bounds” order issued at 3:15 yesterday afternoon. It came from Rear Adm. D. W. Bagley, a commandant of the 11th Naval district in San Diego, and addressed to all activities, it read: “Until further notice, except for special occasions approved by the commanding officer, the city of Los Angeles will be out of bounds for all enlisted personnel of the naval services not attached to the stations within this city, or in travel status. Activities located in the city of Los Angeles will, except in special cases, grant liberty to married men or those subsisted off stations.”
Augmented police forces continued their roundup of riot suspects, meanwhile. Arrests of zoot suiters were reported in all sections of the county … But zoot suit panty gangs of hoodlums continued to lose their trousers to servicemen, and in many cases nearly lost what was in ’em.
The slanted coverage continued, often depicting zoots as the aggressors. Largely in response to the episodes, a multiracial coalition was formed among Mexican and Negro activists. This alliance included newly formed special-interest groups that joined in the effort to prevent additional violence against the zoots. They also protested job discrimination and assisted Japanese in America as they relocated from confinement camps. The cultural aesthetic of L.A. had changed, of course, by the 1970s. Though it was still a multicultural mecca, long hair, halter tops, and bell bottoms were among universally popular choices in fashion. When Donnie and Shirley arrived in Los Angeles, they settled in the Western Avenue area, composed of mainly apartments and some individual home dwellings.
With his lady along, Donnie met with Bentley Morriss at the Holloway House office. He struck the publisher as being very different from the type of material he submitted. Donnie was quiet and unassuming, with no outward resemblance to the characters he crafted. Morriss found Donnie pliable and receptive. Holloway House bought Donnie an electric typewriter. They knew he wrote longhand, and without Joanie available to provide her services, making his work presentable for publication would be a big hassle if he weren’t handed the proper tools. Knowing that he was still fairly new to the game, the editors handled Donnie with care. They would discuss things like scene-setting and how to flesh out his stories. There had been no contractual stipulation about the number of books Donnie was to write. Needing the money, he would simply say something like, “I’ve got an idea…” and the process would begin. They never required an outline. Now and then, Donnie would head over to 8060, and he and Morriss would go to lunch together. As Morriss had cultivated a relationship with Iceberg Slim, he liked to believe that he and Donnie eventually became friends.
Shirley came across as a supportive and devoted partner. When she got the opportunity, she would often share her concern about Donnie with his newfound colleagues in the business. L.A. had its own smack connections, and, in spite of his efforts, it didn’t seem to take long before Donnie discovered them. Unlike any number of addicts who would drift off into oblivion after injecting themselves with heroin, Donnie would generally nod out for a couple of minutes, then wake up and immediately find his way to the typewriter. Wong had become like medication; its high, the equivalent of relief from a severe illness. Drugs still had a hold on him, and, with added stress, all he could do was continue to fight. With the cost of his habit added to their combined budget, money became tight for Donnie and Shirley. Every now and then, he would do something that reflected a lapse in judgment. As had been his way for a good while, he liked to gamble on occasion. At least once, he traveled from L.A. to Las Vegas. For whatever changes he made in his conduct, Donnie never quite shed that hustler mentality. He continued hoping for the big payoff. And so far, books didn’t appear to be the means by which he could expect to receive it. But things didn’t go well during the Nevada trip. Donnie blew all his shit. It hadn’t been the same as playing cards and shooting craps the way he did as an adolescent. Folks in Vegas were unsympathetic. Holloway House had to bail him out. Back in L.A., Bentley Morriss pondered the writer’s missteps and problems. Donnie seemed to have a constant affinity for drawing tragedy to his life. As a result, Holloway House was constantly faced with the possibility of receiving that desperate and unexpected phone call. Morriss accepted the trade-off of occasional trouble in exchange for the author’s talent. In the end, it was a choice he wouldn’t regret.
Conversely, Donnie had already been having misgivings about his relationship with the publisher. It may have been irrational, but he felt the company wasn’t supporting him enough. One neatly typed, undated letter to an unidentified publishing house representative, or perhaps written as a general query, revealed his thoughts:
Sir,
I am trying to find a publisher who might be interested in handling my work. At this time, I have twelve novels on the market. As far as sales are concerned, I think they are selli
ng quite well.
He stated that his two best novels, Whoreson and Dopefiend, were each approaching 100,000—Whoreson at 80,753; Dopefiend at 88,276 copies sold. The third fastest moving, he wrote, was Black Gangster, with 45,652. Out of either a watchful paranoia or a seldom displayed business sense, Donnie had checked on the figures.
Now what I am interested in is getting a better contract. I won’t mention what I’m getting now, but you more than likely have a very good idea of what I’m knocking down. If you are interested in doing business with me, please write and let me know how much you would be willing to pay. If we can come to terms, I’ll send you a novel in about a month.
Sincerely, Donald Goines
He signed in pen but never sent the original. More curiously, despite the fact that he chose to relocate, it listed 17186 Maine as the return address, suggesting that it was written before he ever left Detroit. But the market for black readership wouldn’t have provided him with many other options, and Holloway House was pleased with his progress. Where the book sales were concerned, there appeared few reasons for them not to be. Still, they knew there was another issue. On a day when Donnie and Shirley showed up at the office together, Bentley Morriss thought he would try his hand at intervention. When Shirley excused herself, he pulled Donnie’s coat about the heroin problem.
“Look,” he started. “I’m not a saint and I’m not a psychologist, but I think what you’re doing, Donald, is not good for you.”
Donnie always behaved like a perfect gentleman in their meetings. He wasn’t rude at all with his response.
“I’ve got it under control,” he said. But he lied. He hadn’t managed to truly get it under control since the first time he encountered smack. There remained, however, an entirely different element that Donnie found even more impossible to manipulate in his favor. Befitting its tradition, the LAPD remained an oppressive presence in the community. Having been a criminal, it was fair to say Donnie had developed a natural aversion to police officers. But there was something about this particular element of cop that seemed more hateful to him. These cops didn’t even know who the hell he was. His frequent drug possession notwithstanding, he hadn’t committed the types of crime that attracted most of the attention he received from police back home. It seemed that Los Angeles officers fucked with him simply because they could. Combined with the money trouble, it was all beginning to be too much for him. He vented his frustrations into the typewriter. This time, there was no fiction in any of the words. Across the top of the first page, Donnie scribbled “Private Thoughts on a Lonely Sunday, Sept. 1, 1973”:
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