Wedo knew his way through the back stairways of the newspaper building. Alex waited in a stairwell until Wedo came back, shaking his head. Hank was out on his job for the next hour or so.
“Fuck it,” Wedo said. “Let’s go fuck around Main Street for a couple of hours. Check out the fruiters and hustling broads. We can come back later.”
“That sounds okay, man.”
Fifteen minutes later they were at Sixth and Main, where the neon was most garish and music spilled from the opened doors of sawdust-floored cocktail lounges. Some music was Mexican, heavy with guitars, raucous voices, and sadness; some was rhythm and blues; some was country and western, and some was the popular music of the era—Jo Stafford and Frankie Laine. The sidewalks were crowded with servicemen, whores, and homosexuals—and with those who preyed on all of them. The pungent odors from hot-dog stands mingled with the music. Alex inhaled the sights and sounds of raw life beneath the miltihued, flashing signs. He wanted to look at the photographs of strippers outside the Burbank Theater, L.A.’s burlesque house, but Wedo kept moving and Alex followed. An apron-garbed Negro at a shoeshine stand greeted Wedo by name, grinning to show a solid-gold front tooth. His own shoes were obviously very expensive, and a moment later Alex saw why. The shoeshine man slipped something into Wedo’s palm, and then Wedo asked Alex for five dollars. “I copped some joints and a roll of bennies. Ever take any bennies?”
“Just once,” Alex lied, certain that Wedo meant Benzedrine.
At the next hot-dog stand they shared an orange drink and washed down the flat, white tablets with the X on them. Alex hid his mild trepidation while waiting to feel whatever was coming.
“I know what we can do,” Wedo said. “See a camarada of mine. He’s an old vato about forty. He’s been in the joint twice. Him and his old lady stay in a hotel over near Angel’s Flight. Wanna do that?”
As with everything concerning Wedo so far, Alex agreed without a hesitant thought. They trudged more blocks, out of the bawdy area, through a darkness-abandoned financial district, and then up a sloping alley in a zone of seedy resident hotels. Wedo led them through a side door and up the rear stairs. The hallway’s carpeting was worn beyond threadbare; one of the two bare light bulbs was burned out. Wedo moved silently despite the metal taps on his shoes. He scratched softly rather than knocked. Alex knew a hard knock would upset those within. He expected a man in a shoulder holster to crack the door, but when it was opened, it was by a haggard woman in her thirties. She wore a cheap cotton dress, and a dirty-faced toddler was holding the hem. In the corner a baby gurgled with its bottle in a dresser drawer converted to a crib. Through an open door the bathroom was visible; next to the door was a table with bread, eggs, canned food, and an electric hot plate.
“Hi, pretty Alice,” Wedo said, giving the woman a hug and a peck on her cheek. “Where’s your old man?”
“Charlie? God knows,” she said, a note of bitterness in her voice. “He cut out two hours ago … said he’d be right back. He’s probably waiting for the connection.”
“Oh, Alice, is he fuckin’ around with that shit again?”
She nodded and snickered. “We’re in this goddamn bustout hotel with two kids, I go out hustling my ass, and he’s fuckin’ around with that needle again. I swear—”
“But he’s your old man, baby.”
“I don’t wanna talk about it, especially around strangers. Who’s this kid?”
“My pal Alex. You don’t mind if we wait, do you?”
“No, find some room and get comfortable. Sit on the bed if you want.” She started toward the bathroom, gathering an outfit of clothes from the bed, obviously intending to put them on. “There’s just some wine, if you want a drink. Over there.”
They poured one glass (they found just one glass) of unchilled white wine to share and sat on the edge of the pulldown bed, waiting for Charlie. During the wait, the Benzedrine tablets exploded, sending nearly electrical energy through Alex’s body and brain. It wasn’t like being drunk or on marijuana, but it was definitely “high.” He felt more alive than ever before in his life. Thoughts raced through him pell-mell, but cleanly and precisely. He wanted to chatter like a magpie, but Wedo obviously felt the some way, and he got the floor first. The occasional stutter and the street Mexican inserts fell away for the most part. In slums, barrios, and ghettos, and even more so in reform school, there was a high premium on being able to fight, to “kick ass and take names.” Conversation often revolved around violence. Alex now had his own tales of brawls and sneak punches to tell—but he’d never listened to anyone like Wedo, who apparently was the “baddest motherfucker” around, according to his stories. Now he was apparently incensed at someone named Don but neglected to say why. He got more fired up while talking, as if his own voice and the Benzedrine added to his fury. “I’ll kick that punk motherfucker’s ass … cocksucking punk!” He compared what he was going to do with other exploits in the past, describing in detail and with great relish how he’d punched this guy or stomped that one. Initially Alex listened without question, but twenty minutes later, when Wedo’s mouth had foam at the corners, Alex felt that the talk was too extreme. Alex lacked an interpretation, but he wondered if something was wrong with his friend in this particular area. Wedo seemed obsessed with convincing the world how tough he was. Alex found his attention wandering to the dirty-faced toddler, who was playing with a toy truck on the carpet.
The knock on the door was nearly the same as Wedo’s, a soft scratching. Charlie’s voice followed, calling, “Alice.”
Wedo opened the door and Charlie came in quickly, followed by a light-skinned, tall black man in a raincoat and processed hair. Charlie was small-boned, with a hooked nose and shifty eyes. His voice was slurred and husky as he was introduced to Alex. Wedo caught Alex’s eye and winked.
Now the hotel room was crowded. The black man, introduced as “Dog” Collins, perched on a hard-backed chair near the door—and moments later his head sank on his chest. The cigarette in his hand dropped to the floor. Charlie picked it up and put it out.
“Hey, baby, I’m back,” Charlie said, knocking on the bathroom door. The woman answered, but the words were muffled.
“So whaddya been up to?” Charlie asked.
“Fuckin’ around. How you doing?”
“Same old shit, tryin’ to make a buck. But the heat’s on and we can’t work the bus station.”
“Charlie’s one of the best short con men on the West Coast,” Wedo explained. “He plays The Match and The Strap.”
Alex nodded as if he knew what they were. “I know a couple colored guys who play con games. They were in the joint, too.” When nobody said anything, Alex added: “Red Barzo and First Choice Floyd.”
At those names, the nodding black man raised his head. “You know them suckers, huh?” (“Suckers” was said fondly.) “Where’d you meet them?”
“In Camarillo. They were takin’ a cure.”
“What were you doin’ there?”
“Seein’ if I was nuts. I shot some guy and the judge wanted to see what was wrong with me.”
The Negro junkie grinned. “After fuckin’ with them fools you probably went crazy.”
“Alex split from reform school,” Wedo offered. “Him and my chick’s brother.”
“Say, Wedo,” Charlie said, “you said you wanted to learn to play short con. What happened?”
“Ah, Charlie, man—you know that ain’t me. I can use force, but I ain’t got the right kind of nerves for playin’ no con game.”
“What’s ‘short con’?” Alex asked.
“It’s any con game that takes place all at once. I mean, you knock the mark in for whatever he’s got in his pocket. We work the sheds, the train station and bus depot. People traveling usually have cash in their pockets. Ain’t many of ’em come back across half a dozen states to testify. They don’t get any money back. What’s wrong now is that the bunco squad’s got everybody’s picture. The motherfuckers know us on sight so
we can’t work the sheds. I wanted to school Wedo so he could steer the suckers out to us.”
Alex smiled and nodded as if thoroughly understanding; actually he had a mere glimmer of what Charlie was saying.
“I’d like to learn that shit—how to play bunco.”
“No bullshit?”
“Sure. I’m interested in learning everything.”
“Once you qualify a sucker, make sure he’s right, it’s like a script. You say something, your partner says something, you say the next line, and so on. Want me to run it to you?”
“Damn right—but I couldn’t learn it this fast. We ain’t got time right now. Can you write it down for me?”
“Yeah, in a day or two.”
Alice came out of the bathroom and poured herself a glass of white wine. Alex ignored what Wedo and Charlie were saying, for he was glancing at the woman. She’d metamorphosed from drab slattern to brazen hussy. Clothes and makeup did it. Close inspection showed a pot belly pressing the satin dress, but she was still sexually attractive. Her body was good, her ass round, and the line of her panties showed. Alex trembled between his legs.
Finishing the wine, Alice put on a long coat, kissed Charlie on the cheek, and headed for the door. When she was gone, Wedo said, “Hey, Charlie, how come you stick that shit in your arm? It’s killin’ you. You could be drivin’ around in a Caddy and livin’ in a choice pad. Instead you’re in this flophouse and your old lady’s out turning tricks.”
“Hey, hey!” Charlie said. “Get off my back, man.”
“I know I got better sense than to fuck with that shit.”
“You ever take a fix?”
“No.”
“So how can you judge what it is?”
“I ain’t been dead yet either—but I can dig when I see the maggots eating somebody’s body. I don’t like it. And I can see what happens to everybody who gets hooked on heroin.”
Charlie made a flatulent noise with his lips, making Wedo blush. For several minutes they sat in silence, watching the Negro “nod.”
“We gotta split,” Wedo said finally.
As they approached the door, Charlie said, “Alex, man, if you really wanna learn to play The Strap, short con, get in touch. Like I said, we need somebody to catch the suckers and steer them outdoors.”
“Yeah, man, that sounds like something I’d wanna learn.”
Going down the stairs Alex asked, “What’s she cost?”
“Who’s that? Oh … Charlie’s old lady? Alice? She’s ten and two. Ten for her and two for the room.”
“Man, she’s worth that. She’s got a fine body for an old chick.”
Wedo stopped, grabbed his arm. “Hey, carnal, back off. We don’t do things like that. He’s a partner.”
“But she’s a whore, ain’t she? She sells herself.”
“Right—but we still don’t do that shit. Tricks are that—tricks. Not friends, or friends of her old man. Buyin’ pussy is okay, there’s plenty of young, fine whores around—if you wanna be a trick. But you don’t trick with a friend. No sirree, carnal. Bad scene.”
Alex understood about Charlie’s woman, but about being a trick, he again remembered Red Barzo saying, “I’m laying to be rich enough to pay a hundred dollars for pussy.”
Wedo missed the implication. “A trick’s a trick.”
“I just want to fuck—anybody.”
“You act like you’ve never had any pussy before.”
Night and neon hid Alex’s fiery blush. “Sure, man, whaddya think? But I’ve been busted for almost two years.” Alex thought his own voice had a croak of confession. Wedo’s gust of laughter made him feel even more stupid and embarrassed. It was so bad that he started to become angry.
“I forgot,” Wedo said, snapping his fingers in inspiration, laughing more. “Yeah, ese, I got an idea to get you some fine pussy for free.”
“Where, man?”
“Down the road. It’s a hustling chick, young and tender … if you don’t mind burning some coal.”
“What’s that? I don’t want some scag.”
“She’s a nigger—but just a little. Coffee with lots of cream in it. We’re gonna tell her you are a cherry, a full cherry, plus you just split from reform school. I’ll bet she gives you a play, carnal!” With that, Wedo tugged Alex’s sleeve to change their direction, ducking through the increasingly seedy crowd of pedestrians as they went east on Fifth Street toward Central Avenue.
Every block was a seedier world than the last. Garish transvestites with their boisterous mannerisms seemed to be everywhere on one block, overflowing the fag bars to make little groups on the sidewalk. Their rouge and lipstick and affected movements created grotesque parodies of women—and for some reason Alex remembered a short story, maybe by Poe, where there was a masked bacchanal during a plague—maybe it was smallpox—and when the masks were removed all the people were really dead. Exactly how the macabre tale related to drag queens in downtown L.A. was beyond Alex, but it was what came to mind. He would never admit it, but he had a sneaking respect for some faggots he’d met, not any as flamboyant as these but still very obvious ones. He’d found them better-educated and more intelligent than most of the others he met in cages. So far he hadn’t found a partner who ever read a book; when he mentioned books, their faces looked as if he’d said cod-liver oil.
On the next block, the faces were nearly all black. The music spewing from the open doorways was rhythm and blues, raising Alex’s mood, so he popped his fingers and bounced while he walked.
“It’s on the next corner,” Wedo said.
Although the block showed rampant black poverty, it also had a form of conspicuous consumption: pimps sat in the new, fin-tailed Cadillacs, dark hands with diamond pinky rings resting on the steering wheels. The flash of the street pimp, crude as it seems to those preferring understatement, has the same function as the fanning feathers of the male peacock: it attracts a certain kind of female, telling her that she can share the Cadillac and have pretty clothes.
It was an issue of pride in stables of streetwalkers that their old man had the longest, prettiest Cadillac, the biggest sapphire or diamond (or several), the brightest plumage. The pimps sat and watched their turn, trying to out-floorshow their brethren.
A block from Central Avenue, amid the wine-devoured minds and the hopelessness of impoverished old age, was a nightclub, grossly out of place. Cadillacs filled the parking lot beside it, and a canopy extended from the entrance to the curb. A uniformed doorman was on duty, assisted by youths to provide valet parking.
“It’s a hangout for high-rolling pimps, gamblers, and dope dealers,” Wedo said. “Most of ’em are niggers, but a few white boys and Chicanos fall in. They have good jazz groups sometimes.”
“I wonder how a guy gets chicks to sell their pussy and give them the money.”
“Quien sabe, ese?” Wedo said. “I guess they make it good to ’em.”
Alex grunted, dissatisfied. The answer was oversimplified—but this wasn’t the time to speculate.
When they were thirty yards away, a prewar, silver Rolls-Royce pulled up. It was the first Rolls-Royce Alex had ever seen. Exiting first from the right-hand drive side was a tall, slender man who would be classified Negro only in the United States. His skin was olive, and his hair had tight curls, not kinks. His beautifully tailored clothes seemed conservative compared to those worn by the others. What really impressed Alex, however, was his two women; one black, one white, yet they were a matched pair. He watched the white girl, who had gleaming raven hair spilling around her bare shoulders. She wore a simply cut dress of red silk, its hemline falling nearly to her ankles in the “new look” style of the postwar era. Her figure was outlined by the clinging material.
Alex and Wedo walked by while the girls stood waiting for the man to explain something about the car to the attendant. Alex could smell the girl (she wasn’t much older than himself), and for a moment their eyes met.
“Those hookers don’t walk the stree
t, what you bet?” Wedo said. “Those is call girls, ese.”
“In a whorehouse?”
Wedo’s face registered disbelief. “You’re jivin’ me. You don’t know the difference between whores and call girls? They’re all whores, but call girls make appointments by phone. They live in classy pads out on the Strip. They make big money … keep that vato pushin’ a Rolls-Royce and eatin’ filets.”
Alex glanced back while Wedo talked and saw the raven-haired girl take the pimp’s arm. Alex felt a sharp pang of envy and desire. For a long time he would remember her image as an ideal of beauty, and she would be the focus of longings and fantasies.
“Where are we going?” Alex asked; they were beyond the canopy.
“Just follow me.”
Wedo led them around the side and through the parking lot to an alley, dark and foul-smelling with a row of big garbage cans against the opposite brick wall. Alex heard a bustle of noise and scurrying, the inevitable rats of the slums.
Ahead was a sheet-metal door with a small light bulb over it. The rear entrance was less ostentatious than the front. Two men were in the shadows near it, passing a cigarette back and forth. Alex could tell it was marijuana from the smell. The sound of music came faintly through the closed door.
Suddenly Alex stopped. He realized that he didn’t want to go inside. He didn’t want to be in a room with an experienced whore and not know exactly what to do. Even if she withheld her laughter, he would know his own ridiculousness. During the walk he’d become so interested in the life he saw that his tingling sexual desire had gone away. He hadn’t even been aware of it.
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