– those who came back at all –
every place full of people, all chasing something,
but no jobs for us, the guys who fought, y’know,
fought for freedom.’
He was pulling at the collar of his pearl-snap shirt,
‘The women are in charge at home –
they’re the ones who kept things going –
but the city’s run by the combinations, or the Mob,
with City Hall and the cops in their pocket.
Money’s all that matters. Money and the automobile.
And God’s a roll of C-notes.
Gotta break free. Beat the system.’
Billy stopped talking then, suddenly worn out.
‘So tell me about this city,’ Walker said.
*
They walked for hours.
‘This was always Skid Row. Always will be.
Just north of here’s Little Tokyo,
called Bronzeville during the war.
Anyone halfway Japanese got sent to the camps in ’42,
and the blacks came up from the South, looking for work
in the war industries, moved right in to those empty rooms;
eighty thousand, some say, sleeping in shifts –
hot-bedding in Bronzeville, it was called.
When the war was over, the jobs were over,
and the blacks moved south and the Japs were moved on.
Just like all the ethnics – all zoned out.
The Mexicans got pushed east and the Chinese north.
That’s what they do here – demolish houses and build freeways.
It’s the only city-planning there is – segregation.
And greed, of course.’
‘So what brought you to Los Angeles?’
‘You ever been to Idaho?’
‘No.’
‘Just potatoes and Mormons. White and cold.
And you’re from Nova Scotia, I guess.’
‘Cape Breton.’
‘Colder there, I’m sure.
‘So. Let’s show you downtown.
‘This is The Nickel – 5th Street from here to Pershing Square –
and these are our people: living free on the streets.
And this down here is Main. Where the fun is.’
‘Yes. We’ve been introduced.’
‘King Eddy’s on the corner. Friendly bar.’
He was swinging around like a tour guide, pointing things out.
‘And next is Spring Street – Money Street: banks and card-rooms,
gamblers, rich and poor.
Charlie O’s over there, in the Alexandria;
that’s another place to go.
And coming up is beautiful Broadway:
the Eastern Columbia, jewel of downtown,
all the great theaters, the top department stores,
they all run south of here
but we’re going north.
The next block, between 3rd and 4th, you got Grand Central –
best market in town. Go there just before closing
and they’re giving stuff away.
And get a load of this: the Million Dollar Theater. Some building.’
And then he stopped.
‘Now: turn left at the next corner, look right up 3rd.’
He did as he was told. There was suddenly a big hill up ahead
with houses at the top – real houses – fairytale houses –
the mouth of a tunnel sliding underneath and what looked like
little orange railcars running up one side.
‘That’s Angels Flight, my boy, and that is Bunker Hill.’
*
They sat in a bar, watching the orange cars go up and down.
‘You need to get things straightened out, son.
Gas. Food. Lodging. And a job, I guess.
How much cash you got?’
‘Fifteen bucks.’
‘Okay, you can get a week up on the Hill for six or seven,
and five’ll get you fed. Not much money for gas, though,
so this one’s on me.’
‘Thanks, eh. I owe you.’
‘What work can you do?’
‘Apart from shooting Germans? I don’t know,
I used to write stuff, before the war. I can do that.’
‘What kinda stuff?’
‘Oh, anything really. It comes easier than talking.’
‘Newspapers? Could you do that?’
‘Sure. I mean, yeah . . . I reckon I could do that.’
‘Try the Times, or the Tribune. Not the Examiner:
I don’t figure on you busting the Black Dahlia case.
Maybe the Press, though . . . Yeah,
you might get lucky with the Press.
Anyway, I gotta go. Take a look up the Hill. It’s shabby
but it’s got a heart. And you’re way up on top of the city,
up above the smog and the dust.’
*
From here you could see right through
to the other side of the hill, where 3rd Street went,
or you could ride on the little incline railway
or climb the sets of stairs on either side.
He saved his penny and walked,
counting a hundred and forty steep steps to the top.
Rooming houses all the way,
the Hulbert, the Sunshine, the Hillcrest, the Astoria,
which all looked good enough, with decent rates.
Up top, on Grand and Bunker Hill Avenue, it was another world:
Queen Anne houses with turrets and cupolas,
wrap-around verandas, balconies, porches, arches
with painted balustrades, turned columns,
cedar-wood shingles,
fretwork, spindle-work, bays and oriels
with leaded windows and luminous stained glass.
Blurred and flaking, but beautiful still.
Few cars, so almost silent at times except for the cooing of pigeons.
A drugstore, laundry, market, café, delicatessen – and old folk
standing, talking on the street, like they’re at home.
And then he felt a presence behind him. Turning round,
he saw the city, stretching out below.
*
There’s an old photograph, of all my father’s people ranked around his grandfather and grandmother, tiers of dog-faced Victorians in rounded white collars and black crinoline. So many breeds represented: Labrador, Newfoundland, setters and spaniels. Long-muzzled, heavy-jowled retrievers all of them, even the women, but, there at the bottom left, this human boy, my father, kneeling on a tartan rug, four or five in his shorts, his shirt and tie, bewildered by this kennel club of elders towering over him.
*
‘So howdya make out, kid?’
‘Pretty good. Got myself a bed for next week. On the Hill.
Well, the 3rd Street steps, anyway.
Looks okay for six bucks: a washstand and a hotplate,
use of the bathroom down the hall.’
‘Now all you need is a job. And maybe a drink.’
‘I brought this, eh. To say thanks. It’s not Mount Vernon, but it’ll do.’
‘Sure will, neighbor. Sure will.
Got a couple glasses upstairs. C’mon up.’
‘Say, Billy, you got a lot of books . . .’
‘There’s a lot of books to read.’
‘I know some of these . . . yeah . . . some real good things here.
Oh, this one, I love this one – the Lowry, eh . . .
“You like this garden?” ’ he recited, ‘ “Why is it yo
urs?
We evict those who destroy.”
. . . Anyway. Here’s mud in your eye!’
Billy raised his glass to the younger man, and nodded.
‘This garden’s being destroyed right now.
The city’s spreading faster than a man can walk,
chewing up the orange groves and dying from the center out.
Ten years, and downtown . . .
downtown will be strangled by freeways, I tell you,
because they’re cutting off the circulation, killing the streets.
And it’s not even a garden anyway, it’s a desert,
and if you pulled the water it’d be a desert again.’
‘I saw that on the train coming in, Palm Springs,
and there was this huge lake that was just dead fish . . .’
‘Salton Sea – just salt and farm run-off, DDT.
It’s the start of the tear – the San Andreas Fault –
that’ll open us up, one day, like a can of beans.’
‘Hey, Billy – have another drink.
You’re right, though. I’ve only been here – what? –
a day, and I see all these gaps in the streets:
parking lots or just empty lots, like a bomb’s fallen,
where it’s just left like that, abandoned, going back to desert.’
‘Well, Los Angeles was only a flag stuck in the sand –
they circled their wagons, built a camp
that became a pueblo, which became a city,
then a dozen cities sprawling to the sea.
But none of it’s real, and nothing’s from here. I’m not,
you’re not, nobody is – not even the palm trees are from here –
the buildings are all just sets and stage-flats
because no one can keep up with the city.
Los Angeles is like a fridge or a car now,
it’s built to break, so it’s temporary.
When you get tired of your world you just upgrade.’
He blew out his cheeks and poured the last of the bottle.
‘You’re sure making me feel at home.’
‘Just want to let you know what I know, kid, that’s all.’
‘I appreciate it, eh. I’ll feel better, though, if I get a job.
How do you get by? You work?’
‘Nah. I like to keep my head free, my body free.
’Sides, I want to read, talk to people, feel the sun on my face.
The mission looks after me, or I sleep on the streets.
You’ll always find me round here, my friend,
and I hope you will. Now get some rest tonight.
Tomorrow you take the city.’
*
He cut out early the next day, said goodbye to the Panama
and started north, bag over his shoulder,
a haze on the city
that held in a chill from the night before, which he liked.
As he climbed, he could see it burning off the roofs,
lingering through the streets like smoke.
A rooming house on the 3rd Street steps, just there –
looking out on Angels Flight, the little railway –
sitting high over the tunnel’s mouth, above Clay Street,
right next to the Hillcrest Hotel.
Monthly & Weekly Rates. Light Housekeeping.
Hot & Cold Running Water.
The Sunshine Apartments, it’s called.
A halfway house; half way up Bunker Hill.
He dropped his bag off, washed and changed, then
headed back down, bought a coffee at the bottom,
at the Ferguson Café – which he took for good luck:
Ewan watching over him, all the way from home.
*
That time, in the half-light of morning, when I saw, up ahead, a black Labrador pup squirming around with its legs in the air, then knew that the tail wasn’t right, that it wasn’t a dog, but an otter: an otter, using the road as a scratching post, brisking its fur before slipping back through the reeds to the pool, a skimmer of light in the blue-black water.
*
‘Have you worked on a newspaper before?’
‘Well, sir, I was in the war . . .’
‘Mr Walker, that’s not really the kind of experience I meant.’
‘I’m well-read. Well-traveled. And I can write.
I keep abreast of things.’ And here he pulled out
City Development: Studies in Disintegration & Renewal
by Lewis Mumford, which Billy had given him as he left.
‘Very impressive. Well. Let me see . . .
Perhaps we could give you a trial – unpaid, of course –
so we may discover if your . . . your talents . . .
meet the requirements, the high standards of the Press.
Miss Briggs – please take this gentleman up to Editorial
and ask if Mr Overholt is free.’
*
Everyone smoked, he was pleased to see,
but there were no sleeve-garters or eye-shades
or press-cards tucked into hatbands,
just the milling, the Brownian motion of people
all around, the noise:
the phones, the rattle of the Teletype – cross
between a sewing-machine and a drill – the clattering
and ching of twenty typewriters, the hiss
and rumble of pneumatic tubes, the shouts of ‘Copy!’
He studied the editor, Overholt: the still point in a turning room,
saw his staff’s deference, their devotion.
He flipped through back issues of Life and Gourmet,
looking at the pieces about the food and drink,
jotting down notes on what he saw around him:
No one was from here. The boss – Overholt – he’s from back east, Pennsylvania, say, somewhere like Yough River: slow as a farmer, but sure and steady and smart. Distant memories of dust and smoke and seasoning, rolling tobacco, then the sweet notes emerging: a hint of milk and cookies. Closed at the start, there’s depth and richness here: occasional tannins working against the sentimental to give a note that’s sharp but never sour. A dry finish: rather restrained, but clearly solid, oaky, from a sound cask. Well made, well balanced, with some loss of liveliness; a sense of getting old.
*
‘I’m Overholt. You wanted to see me?’
‘Good morning, sir. Yes, I was wondering if you needed a writer.’
‘What are your fields?’
‘Well. I’ve traveled a fair bit. The Canadian Maritimes,
that’s where I’m from; I know that coastline, down to Maine.
I signed up, trained in England, then fought in Normandy,
then on through the Low Countries. Germany.
After the war I worked in New York City for eighteen months
and now I’m here. I read all the time. Novels, history.
I’m interested in films and jazz. Cities.’
‘Cities?’
‘Yes. American cities.’
‘What about American cities?’
‘How they fail.’
‘Hmm. Why don’t we try you out on the City Desk, then, to start.’
*
‘I’m Sherwood.’
‘And I’m Rennert.’
‘Good to meet you.’
‘Let’s get a coffee.’
*
They were talking about their work. The murders.
‘The worst thing is finding them:
the way the bodies lie.
Never natural, you know? Legs
twisted up under the torso,
The head, thrown back at the wrong angle.
Like they’re dolls. Broken dolls.
One foot always missing a shoe.
One perfect hand, the other ground beef.
That the toes and fingers go black.
That the clothes sit so badly: the shirt open, skirts
rucked up, the hats tipped over the faces.
How they’re still holding on to something
that might save them – their purse
or their newspaper or a dollar bill.
The way they soil themselves.
That there’s so much blood in a body.
How quickly the dogs come.’
Then they stopped, and looked at him.
‘What’s your name again, pal?’
‘Walker.’
‘Johnnie Walker?’
‘No. Just Walker.’
‘Right. Let’s take you round town.’
*
They drove a gray Studebaker, and he sat in back
watching the city open up outside, listening to them talk.
‘So how’s that new gal of yours?’
‘Oh, man . . . I can get one on, just thinking about her.
Tall, pretty, great figure – I mean, really stacked . . .’
‘You seeing her tonight?’
‘Nah.’ Rennert looked out the window.
‘Why not?’
‘Ah. Y’know,’ he shrugged.
‘Huh? You find yourself a real honey and you don’t take her out?’
‘It’s just that . . .’
‘Just what?’
‘Well, I got a little tight last night . . .’
‘And?’
‘Some two-bit punk was hitting on her, and she didn’t seem to mind . . .
Like she was . . . putting out, you know?’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Slugged him.’
‘What did she do?’
‘Chewed me out, then ditched me. Gave me the air.’
‘Way to go, buddy. Way to go.’
*
The map of the city unfolded as they drove, and every day,
at every light or stop-sign he was noting down what he saw:
the theaters, bars and restaurants, hotels, stores,
bus stations, churches, banks and gyms, each street-corner
in every part of town.
North of the center was the highest land in the city limits,
Fort Moore Hill, and they’d been working on it
for years, Sherwood said, putting tunnels through it, digging out
the cemetery up top to look for Spanish gold.
The Long Take Page 4