So here I was, a .38 in the hip pocket of my Levi's, its butt hidden by the tail of a charcoal tweed sport coat. It had the abundant buttons of Ivy League garments.
His red (with white trim) two-seat Ford Thunderbird appeared. A car waiting to park kept him from jockeying into the curb lane. I made sure the pistol was snug — I didn't want it to fall onto Hollywood Boulevard at eight in the evening - and slipped between cars onto the street. He leaned over and opened the passenger door, and we were already moving when I slammed it shut. "What's up, brother?" I asked. "You don't have me in a killing squabble, do you?"
"I dunno. We gotta go see."
He drove south on Vine and east on Fountain past Cedars of Lebanon, where I was born. He parked on Fountain and we walked down an alley and up an exterior stairway to the door of a small apartment over a garage. The door was covered with sheet metal and had a lock like the ones usually found on the back doors of liquor stores endangered by burglars. A small black man of undetermined years, a pinched face and exaggerated femininity let us in. The left side of his face was grossly swollen and discolored. "Oh, man, I'm so glad to see you. That fiickin' nigger Pinky," he began; then sniffled as if ready to cry.
"Awww, man," Denis said, "freeze on that shit and tell me what happened."
"He bought a gram, man. A couple hours later he come back with some other gutter ass black motherfucker an' say the stuff was no good and wanted his money back. I told him if it was bunk why in Mary's name did he shoot it all. He said he wasn't gonna argue ... he wanted his money. I told him no and he started punchin' on me. He put a knife on my throat an' said he was takin' everything . . . money . . . smack . . . everything ..."
"What'd he get?"
"Shit ... he got it all . . . everything."
Denis shook his head. "Goddamn it's hard to make any dough. Do you know how to find him?"
"I don't know where he hves, but he's got a white girl works as a cocktail waitress in that. . . uh . . . hotel. . . Roosevelt Hotel right on Hollywood Boulevard. One night we had to wait for her to get off work so he could get money to score. I'll bet you can nail him through her."
"Do you know her name?"
"I think it was Elaine ... a littlebitty blonde with a country accent."
"Let's go check it out," Denis said to me.
"Hey, D., can you do something for me? I don't have anything for a getup. I'm gonna be sick in the morning."
From Denis's pocket came a bankroll that would choke a horse. It was before the age of credit cards when cash was still king. Denis tore off a couple of $20 bills and handed them over. "You know where to score, don't you?"
"I gotta go down to the ghetto."
"Better'n bein' sick. Get outta this place first thing in the morning."
"Can you front me an o.z. so I can get back on my feet."
"Call me when you get moved. Let's go."
We went to the Roosevelt Hotel on Hollywood Boulevard across the street from the Chinese Theater. The club off the Roosevelt's lobby was the site of the first Academy Awards, but in the subsequent decades the hotel had gone downhill. So had its club.
Denis was a step ahead of me as we crossed the lobby toward the club's open door. As we reached it, he stopped and I bumped into him. "Get back," he ordered. He pushed me away from the open door.
"What's up?"
"He's in there with her."
"The guy we want?"
"Yeah, Pinky."
"You know him, huh?"
"Not really. I've seen him coming down from Dixie's when I was makin' a delivery."
"Does he know you?"
"I don't think so."
"Would he recognize you?"
He shook his head, but it was less than emphatic.
"Let me check him out," I said.
"I'll wait out front."
He went out and I entered the cocktail lounge. It was dim and nearly empty. Two men were together at a table, two more, each by himself, were perched on bar stools. I took an empty table near the entrance and thought to myself that Denis had made a mistake. There was no black man in here.
The cocktail waitress delivered drinks to the pair at the table then came to me. Her name tag said "Ellie." That was close enough. "Gimme a shot of bourbon and mix another one in 7-Up for a chaser."
She nodded and went to tell the bartender. She stood beside one of the men at the bar while waiting for the drink. The seated man put a possessive arm around her waist. I got up and went over to the bar. I handed the waitress some money. "Here. I'm going to the john. I'll be right back." The seated man turned to look at me. His skin was at least as white as mine, and only in America would he have been considered black. Yet his features, especially the wide flat nose, declared that some of his ancestors had taken the Middle Passage to America. He swung his gaze past the girl onto me. I winked, but his reaction was coldly blank.
I walked out, but instead of crossing the lobby to the rest room, I headed down the short hall to the door onto Hollywood Boulevard. Pedestrians were moving back and forth, a tour bus was disgorging tourists in front of the Landmark theater across the street. I looked around. Denis came out of a doorway.
"That's him all right." The sidewalk was full of pedestrians, the street with cars - and a black and white went slowly past. "We can't do anything here. Too many witnesses. We'll wait for him to come out and see where he goes. Maybe come back later."
"Like 6.30 in the morning." I liked early morning jackups. The suckers often staggered to the door rubbing their glazed eyes.
"Right," Denis said; then: "There! Freeze!" It was soft but sharp. I froze.
A figure passed us from my rear. The scent of men's cologne. Denis had seen him coming. He grinned at me. "Sometimes even a blind dog gets lucky. Come on."
Pinky walked along in front of the hotel and turned right at the corner, going along its east side. We followed at some distance, far enough where he was unlikely to look back and get suspicious. I was going along with this, but my heart wasn't in it. It wasn't my trouble; I wasn't angry. Pinky was big, too, probably 6'3" and a couple hundred rangy pounds. No doubt Denis and I in tandem would kick his ass pretty quick, but it was also probable that he was tougher mano a mano than either of us. In short, I guess, my adrenalin wasn't pumping enough yet.
I expected him to continue to the parking lot behind the hotel. Instead he stepped between cars at the curb and crossed the street at an angle; then turned into an alley running parallel to the boulevard.
Denis was ahead of me. I expected him to stop and wait for me. Instead he speeded up and entered the alley. When I made the turn, Denis was calling, "Hey, Pinky! Wait up!"
Pinky looked back and stopped. Although his face was shadowed, his body was ready to run. Before he could decide, Denis had closed the distance to him. I stopped a few feet away.
"Yeah, what?" Pinky asked.
"I'm not lookin' for trouble . . . but you owe me some dough."
"Some dough? Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm the motherfucker that owned that shit you took off littleDixie."
"I don't know you ... an' I ain't got shit to say to you."
Pinky's hostile scorn now had my anger rising. Who'd he think he was fucking with? I stepped forward. "You sure have a . . . bad attitude, man." I had to catch my breath in mid-sentence. My temper used to interfere with my conversation, a half stutter I lost when I was a little older and somewhat calmer. I moved around so we had him boxed between us.
Pinky's head turned to look deeper into the dark alley. It made me glance that way. A figure was getting out of a car parked thirty yards away and started walking quickly toward us. "What's happenin', man?" he wanted to know.
I was closest to him. He was the size of an NFL linebacker and outweighed me by about eighty pounds, or more. I eased the pistol out of my back pocket with my left hand, using my body as a shield so neither black man could see it.
"These peckerwood motherfuckers be tryin' to muscle—"
The big man was upon me, sticking his finger in my chest. I could see he was older, with a shiny bald head except for gray around the ears. He still looked like a grizzly to me. The alley was dark and neither of them saw the small black pistol in my hand. "Litde white motherfucker," he said.
I said nothing. This was no time for me to talk. I raised the pistol close to my body and shot across my stomach. I could feel the heat of the muzzle (and later found powder burns on my shirt) as the barrel spit fire. I deliberately aimed downward (I didn't intend to kill him) and the bullet hit him just above the knee. It went through and kicked up sparks on the concrete. He yelped in pain, grabbed his leg and went down to a kneeling position. I stepped back. I wanted to be clear enough to shoot him good if he lunged for me. He didn't. I turned to Pinky. "You want some?" He was waving his hands, shaking his head and backing away.
"I want my dough, asshole," Denis said.
I didn't want anything but to get away from the scene. It was a block from Hollywood Boulevard. To me the shot sounded like a howitzer going off. "C'mon . . . c'mon," I said. "Let's get outta here."
We turned and ran. When we got to the car, Denis started laughing. "I thought we were in big trouble with those bucks. I forgot you had that piece."
Denis never got his money back. Pinky left the area. Ten years later, in 1967,1 was in Folsom and the big black'man came in on the Department of Corrections bus. I recognized him immediately, a recognition confirmed by his limp. While he was still locked up on fish row, on the fifth tier of #2 building, I sneaked up to his cell and talked to him. I told him who I was and that I didn't want any trouble . . . but I would try to kill him if I got the idea that he wanted any revenge. He said it was forgotten; he had a parole date seven months away — and Pinky was a stool pigeon anyway. It was a mistake to back a stool pigeon no matter what his color. It made me grin; his was the attitude all outlaws should have.
More than a year had passed without an arrest. Of course for nine months I hadn't done anything besides smoke some grass. I didn't feel the wheels that were starting to shake under me. Life was too exciting. The tide started turning against me on a typical LA night, which is cool no matter how hot the day, when I went to meet Joe Morgan at the Club El Sereno on Huntington Drive. It was an old-style cocktail lounge, big booths of red leather, wood-paneled walls, soft light. It was a hangout for high-rolling Chicano drug dealers of the era. On this night it had a full house of various kinds of Angelenos all attracted to Art Pepper's trio. Pepper was perhaps the best white alto sax man of the time. As with his idol Charlie Parker, Pepper loved junk, smack, ghow, heroin ... In the argot of a certain underworld, he was a "hope to die dope fiend." Bui he sure could play that saxophone.
The club was full and quiet. Pepper was blowing "Body and Soul." He could play the soul of the saxophone, and his audience was rapt.
Of course not entirely. The owner was at the rear on the phone, and at the most distant booth two couples were laughing. Not seeing Joe, I found an empty space at the bar, and when the bartender arrived and leaned toward me, I did the same and ordered a shot ofjack Daniel's backed with a bourbon and 7-Up. I downed the shot and sipped the highball. It seemed a good way to drink at the time.
I knew several people in the room. The cocktail waitress, an exotically beautiful Eurasian girl who was most attractive. She was also quick-witted and hip. I was very interested until I found out she had two children. I wasn't ready for that, so what had been a pursuit of lust for a few days was now simply flirtatious banter while she delivered drinks. Jimmy D. was there with his wife. She must have held a gun to his head, or at least raised hell, to make him take her out. He traveled alone; he liked new adventures and new pussy. I could understand all that. Alas, he had two very young children. He often complained that life weighed a ton, "... and my old lady ..." He shook his head. His pain was on his face.
At the front end of the bar stood Billy the Bouncer and Russian Al. They were both about fifty, and neither had done time for twenty years. They were expert safecrackers, back when the safecracker was the most respected of thieves. It is nearly impossible to convict anyone of burglary unless they are caught on the score, and that happens rarely. Russian Al had gone to prison once back in the '30s. He had been staying in a third-rate hotel across the street from a small department store in Modesto. Between Saturday night and Sunday morning, he entered the store, opened the safe and took almost $40,000, a fantastic score at the time. He returned to the hotel and changed from the clothes he was wearing into an expensive suit. When he came off the elevator, two detectives were in the lobby investigating a report of a drug dealer in the hotel. They spotted Russian Al in his expensive clothes, stopped him and asked what was in the suitcase he carried. They were looking for narcotics, but they were happy with what they found. He did nine years for "burglary with explosives," a special category of burglary. An acetylene torch had been deemed to fall within the statute. They hadn't touched him in twenty years.
Billy the Bouncer had served one county jail sentence for the misdemeanor offense of possessing burglary tools.
I felt the spreading warmth of two drinks. That called for two more; again I threw one down and sipped the other, watching each time the rear door opened. Joe was still a no-show when Art Pepper's trio finished the first set and went out into the parking lot for a cigarette or, more likely, a few tokes on a joint. I'd been waiting more than an hour, and if it had been anyone but Joe Morgan, I would have left after half an hour. Joe, however, was different. I gave him the utmost respect.
Pepper was halfway through his rendition of "When Sunny Gets Blue" in his second set when the cocktail waitress came down the bar, touched my arm and pointed to the club's owner at the rear. He was holding a telephone, and he extended it toward me. I had a phone call. I went to see what it was about.
It was a female voice: "Are you Eddie B.?"
"I dunno. Who're you?"
"Big Joe told me to call you."
"Uh huh. What's up?"
"They came and got him."
"Uhh . . . who . . . who came for him?"
"FBI. They wouldn't tell me what it was for. When they were taking him away, he said, 'Call Eddie B. at the club and tell him.' So that's what I did."
"Thanks." I hung up. The feds. It wasn't about his drug operation. J. Edgar Hoover didn't let the FBI do narcotics busts; there was too much temptation for corruption. It would be several years before I saw Joe again. Initially he was charged with the bank robbery, but the government never took it to trial. They had no evidence. Instead the Department of Corrections sent him back to prison as a parole violator. The violation was for leaving the State of California; they had a record of him renting a car in Las Vegas. Those were events that would unfold in the months to come. That night I only knew he was busted.
Half drank from six drinks in two hours, I went out to my car, a 1955 XK140 Jaguar, with a Dodge Red Ram V8 under the hood, instead of the stock Jaguar six-cylinder engine. The Jags of that model were long and sleek and beautiful. But though it was less than three years old it was already frequent trouble, including tonight. The starter turned, but the engine refused to kick over and catch. I opened the hood and fiddled with the wires even though I had no idea what I was looking for. I found nothing I recognized.
The pay phone was in a short corridor to the rest rooms. I was calling the tow track when Billy the Bouncer passed by on his way to take a leak. Coming out, he stopped and waited until I hung up. "You need a ride?" he asked.
"Yeah . . . but you know where I live?"
"Out near Hollywood, don't you?"
"Near Wilshire and LaBrea."
"We're goin' pretty near there ... so if you don't want to pay that cab fare ..."
The cab fare would cost plenty. Taxis are not economically viable in Southern California. The streetcar would take a couple of hours, first to downtown; then I'd need to take a bus. I was happy to get the ride with Billy and Russian Al.
While rolling through the
city, they told me they were going to Beverly Hills to check out a score. "We're not doing anything," Al said. "Just gonna look at a couple things."
In Hollywood we stopped at Tiny Naylor's, a big and bright drive-in restaurant on the corner of Sunset and LaBrea where I knew one of the waitresses. She was Betty by name. She got off work in about two hours, at 1 a.m., and a musician friend told her about an after-hours jam session down on 42nd and Central Avenue. Did I want to take her? We could use her car. It was decided that I would come back in two hours. I would go with Russian Al and Billy the Bouncer — who weren't going to do anything tonight — and they would drop me off on the way back. If a littleearly, I could sit inside and eat a piece of pie.
Santa Monica Boulevard was less gay than it is today, but the sidewalks outside the clubs were crowded.
Beverly Hills was not. Its skyline was low, almost nothing over three floors, and it had an aura of quaint wealth displayed in southwestern and Mediterranean architecture. Restaurants were few, nightclubs nonexistent.
Billy was driving. He turned into an alley behind Beverly Drive. In mid-block he found an empty parking space and stopped. They got out and I remained in the car as they stood and talked. The glare of a flashlight illuminated the interior of the car as its beam highlighted the two figures. I sat up and turned to look. A policeman. Oh shit!
Then the flash of fear disappeared. We weren't doing anything.
"Turn around. Come here," the officer ordered. I leaned back and closed my eyes. Whatever happened, I would claim to be the drunk in the back seat.
Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade Page 28