Los Angeles Stories

by Ry Cooder

  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 call a floater — he’s never in one place for very long. I’m from down around the District. It’s been mixed for a long time — black, Mexican, and Italian. I’m what you might call mixed, myself. Momma is from the West Indies, 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 chulita!” Smiley whistled.

  “I know you got some fine, healthy mamacitas, and that’s a fact,” Herman said.

  “Healthy?”

  “You know, solid.”

  “Solid?”

  “Man, dig it and pick up on it!” Herman motioned for quiet while poor Johnny’s last platter got moving on the radio — a slow-­thudding blues, the horns sustaining in big harmony blasts, like the Southern Pacific Daylight pulling into Union Station:

  Got me a fine healthy mama, she’s long and she’s tall

  Built­ up solid, like the L.A. City Hall

  From the top of her head right down to her feet

  She’s a high­-grade load of sugar freightin’ up Main Street

  Fine and healthy, yes she fine and healthy

  So doggone fine and healthy, boys, and she ain’t no hand­-me­-down!

  “High-­grade load of sugar?” Kiko pronounced it sookar.

  “As in, juicy!” Herman said.

  “Sólido!”

  Herman began. “All right, then. John Mumford. Born, Los Angeles, 1923; died, 1949, cut down in his prime. The prodigal son was a forward child; his mind was not to obey. But he gave his all. The band would lead off so as to get the beat planted in the mind. At the turn­around, Johnny would move up to the front. Very smooth. But on the chorus, he might start slappin’ his left knee in time whilst holdin’ the microphone in his right hand. Ol’ Johnny’s gettin’ ready! On the second verse, John hold back just a little, walkin’ around and shakin’ his shoul­ders out, like a fighter. Next chorus, he tighten up! He grab a handful of Ray’s gabardine, ’bout mid­thigh! Clutchin’ at it! Them little gals run for­ward as close as they can get. He let the guitar work. He back up. Last chorus, he commence to stompin’! He grab his waistband and jerk his pants up, on the beat! All the gals throw pocketbooks, handkerchiefs, anything they ain’t gone need later on. They don’t throw they hatpins or they guns, nossir, they don’t throw that! Heh, heh, nossir, they don’t.”

  I said, “Was it a woman got him killed? You know he didn’t do it.” Herman had the inside dope on all subjects known heretofore and as yet undesignated.

  “Right now, I got to make my rounds. What good it is, I don’t really know. Look like a newspaper building to you? It’s a Temple of Secrets, the High and Mighty Church of the Next Dollar, and ain’t nary a one of ’em mine. What they need a watchman for? Our Lord and Savior had a marvelous trick bag, I’m told, but even he couldn’t break in here.” Kiko and Smiley crossed themselves. Herman laughed. “Don’t you boys be concerned, I’m strictly spiritual! My mind is stayin’ on Jesus! I’m a deacon in the Church of the Rapid Bible and the First Born, on Thirty-third. Worship services are spontaneous and unscheduled, but all are welcome! Right now, you folks better sit tight and let me have a look around on the boulevard. I’ll be back.”

  Kiko said, “Man, he’s been at a lot of shows.”

  “Actually, no. You dig Herman right here, every night. No need to go further. He’ll be on the radio in a little while. We don’t check him with no light­weight stuff.”

  Saturday and Sunday nights it was Leon the Lounge Lizard’s radio show, The Rump Steak Serenade. Leon featured the cool sounds of jazz from midnight to 3:00 a.m., broadcasting live from Doctor Brownie’s Famous Big Needle, the jazz record shop on San Pedro open twenty-four hours a day. At two o’clock, Herman came on for a fifteen-minute interlude: “It’s time once again for Dig It and Pick Up On It, with Herman the Human Jukebox!” Folks would call in with questions and try to stump Ju­Ju, but it had never been done. If a caller asked about a record, he could name all the players, the label color, matrix number, and chart position. He’d know how many suits Billy Eckstine had and what brand of gin Fats Waller preferred. Tonight Ju­Ju was sharp and on the money, as always. A white man in Glendale, who wouldn’t give his name, asked, “Is it legal for colored men to call them­selves ‘King,’ ‘Duke,’ and ‘Count’?” Ju­Ju answered politely, “Yes, if jazz is legal. If not, all bets are off, and you had better stay right there in Glendale!” Next came a brother from Watts, one Horace Sprott. “How many times has guitarist Irving Ashby been stopped by the LAPD on his way home from the nightclub job with Nat Cole?” Answer: “Eighty­-seven times to date, and always by the same motorcycle officer, William ‘Bitter Bill’ Spangler, badge 666. Officer Bill asserts that John has been entertained in their home by his wife, Mabel, repeatedly and often, whilst he is out on patrol. ‘She plays those records by that spade, Cole. I hate music! Every time I come in from work, the place stinks like fish. I hate fish!’” The third caller was
a white woman with an East Tennessee drawl that made a question out of everything: “Hello, Herman? This is Ida from Thirty-third Street, and I have a garage full of old 78 records? They belonged to my husband; he liked that music you like? I’m moving to Spokane, so what should I do?”

  “ ’Scuse the hat, Miss Ida, ma’am, but that’s me you hear a-­knockin’!” Ju­Ju laughed. “I declare now, don’t you go answering that door for nobody else!”

  We were sitting in front of their house in Chavez Ravine, up in the hills behind Chinatown. Kiko got a jug from the house and we passed it around, listening to Billie Holiday on the communal jukebox that was wired up to the lone streetlight.

  My man, he don’t love me, he treats me awful mean

  He’s the lowest man I’ve ever seen

  “Help me out, lay something on me,” I said. “Like, ‘May I ask your name?’, ‘When do you get off work?’, ‘Would you like a drink?’, that kind of thing.”

  Kiko laughed, “Man, pick up on theese and dig it!”

  “What you wanna do, man?” asked Smiley.

  “I want to take this girl out, man, what do you think?” I said.

  “You wanna take out one of our girls, pendejo?”

  “Yeah. You know, for a drink.”

  “A drink?”

  “Yeah, just for a drink.”

  “Oh.”

  He wears high­-drape pants, stripes of lovely yellow

  When he starts in lovin’ me, he is so fine and mellow