Los Angeles Stories

by Ry Cooder

“Oh really, is that so,” Betty said. “ ‘Officer, Billy Tipton paid this man to bring me here from Arizona in his car. He pretends to be white but he’s a Mexican. He gave me liquor; he took advantage while I was asleep. Mexicans do dirty things to girls. I’m so ashamed.’ ”

  Billy looked over at me. “What’s all that about, Al?”

  “Fuck you both,” I said.

  I headed for downtown. Destination: Bunker Hill, home of no questions asked. Once, Ray and I put up in the Clover Trailer Park on Court Street. The trailers were not bad and you could rent by the week. You can stand anything for a week.

  The office was in the old house next door. A little bald guy in a sleeveless undershirt answered my knock. He was carrying a ukulele.

  “I’m looking for the manager,” I said

  “You’re talking to him.”

  “Where’s Hector?”

  “Hector’s dead, two, three years.”

  “We want to rent a trailer.”

  “When and for how long?”

  “Now, and I don’t know.”

  “Ten dollars a week.”

  “It’ll break our backs, but I think we can swing it.”

  “All right, follow me.”

  “What are we, the poor relations?” Betty said when she saw trailer number eight. “What about some of those places back there?” The nicer ones had little awnings and geraniums in boxes, but they all looked sad in the rain.

  “This is all I got left. Take it or leave it, ten bucks a week.” I gave him my last ten-dollar bill. I went out to get the bags, and the manager followed me. “I don’t want any trouble in this camp,” he said.

  “Then don’t start any.”

  “Any business with the girl, I touch half.”

  “You’re a smooth operator. Half, it is.”

  The trailer looked lived ­in, but by what. No hot water, no stove, just a sink and a hot plate and three narrow bunks. You had to walk across the muddy yard and down the wooden stairs to get to the bathrooms. “What’s for dinner?” Betty asked.

  “Steak, baked potato, string beans, apple pie,” I said.

  “I don’t smell anything. Where is it?”

  “Grocery store. Get it yourself.” I left them there and walked down the hill to Temple Street. I needed to get away from white people.

  The rain had stopped and it was nice to walk. I passed the City Hall at Main, then Los Angeles Street and San Pedro Street. The cafes on Temple were getting crowded for dinner. I smelled cheese­burgers, spaghetti, pork, and undesignated. I had about two dollars, so I kept walking. I walked south on Central Avenue, past three liquor stores, an all-­night second­hand clothing store, a Chinese herb shop, and a penny arcade. Up ahead, I heard a saxophone, a tenor, blowing a one-­note riff, like ba-­ba­-bada, over and over. I caught up to the sound — a pachuco in a purple zoot suit walking in rhythm as he played, followed by two drunk sailors with a midget hooker in between them, another Filipino with too much snap in the brim and too much point in the shoes, and a Fifth Street wino in an overcoat tagging along with the party. The sax player turned into a bar called the Club Rendezvous, and the party went in with him. The wino came stum­bling out a moment later and fell in the gutter. I gave him a hand up, and he thanked me politely and went on his way. I went in.

  The place was narrow in front with a bar along one wall. The customers were mostly Filipino, drinking beer and talking in Spanish and Pinoy. It opened up in back with tables and a stage and a little dance floor. A five­-piece band was trying to maintain a three­-chord progression behind the saxophone riff. Piano, bass, drums, guitar, and trumpet. They were about to keel over, like it had been going on for a week. The sax player tagged it, and the tune, such as it was, stopped. The two sailors clapped. The band shuffled off the stand.

  The sax man put his horn on the bar and sat on a stool. I walked over. “Gimme five, Johnny,” I said. Recognition seeped through. “Al Maphis! Que pasó, carnal!” We hugged.

  “Good to see you, Johnny,” I said. “What’s with the horn, you’re a singer.” I knew Johnny from the old days. He called himself “Johnny Dolor and the Five Pains,” and his thing was crying on stage.

  He sobbed, he moaned, he collapsed on the floor and kicked his feet. Women, a certain kind, dug him, but he had never made it off Central Avenue.

  “This is my new act. I play only the B-­flat. The cats play the changes. They sing ‘I want pussy.’ I answer back ‘ba-­ba­-bada.’ Dig this. I started walking around in the joint with the horn, just for a gag. I sat at the tables and blew. You got to get the women, Al. Then, I went out on the sidewalk. I took a streetcar, rode two blocks, got off and came back, blowing. The band stayed with it, and I was right on the tip! Twenty people followed me! I says, ‘Who wants pussy?’ They go, ‘We want pussy!’ It’s a hit, Al!”

  “Got to give the public what they want, Johnny,” I said. One of the sailors passed out, and the hooker was trying to keep his buddy from falling out of his chair. The band was nowhere around.

  “Well, it’s a little slow right now, the rain scares people off, you dig,” Johnny said.

  “I’m traveling with Billy Tipton,” I said.

  “Very uptown, Al.”

  “Let me pull your coat to something interesting. Our last engage­ment was in Kingman, Arizona. A girl came down to the gig. She wanted to sit in. You know, sing.”

  “All the chicks think they can get a drink and do it like Anita.”

  “That’s right. But Billy is kind, so she let this girl get up. Now, I’m going to be straight with you. She isn’t great. But she has an act, I found out later. I want you to pick up on it. I can’t do anything with her, but you have the perfect set­up here.”

  “Lay it on me!” Johnny’s big eyes were wet.

  “She’s athletic, and she has a routine that just won’t stop. She bounces. While she sings, mi carnal. On this little springy platform that lets her get altitude. In a place with high ceilings like this, she could really bounce. But here’s the pay­off, Johnny. This will kill you. She features this Little Bo­Peep dress, and she don’t wear no panties.”

  “Simón, ese! This is la verdad? Tits?”

  “I swear to you. The tits come out.”

  “Órale! Man, where is she, bring her right over here!”

  “She’s resting now. How about tomorrow?” We hugged. The Filipino with the sharp clothes drifted by the bar and Johnny gave him the handshake. “Eyes?” he said. I shook my head. “See you tomorrow,” I said. Johnny eased off the stool and drifted out the back. I drifted out the front. Step one.

  Step two was a ten-­cent phone call to Ramildo of Hollywood. Ramildo ran a little custom tailor’s shop across the L.A. River in Boyle Heights. He was always available, since musicians keep odd hours.

  “Speak,” he answered.

  “Al Maphis. How’s my credit?”

  “Your credit is good, Al, but I got Jorge Negrete opening at the Million Dollar in three days. Ten full­-dress charro suits. Solid gold buttons, silver thread, matching hats. It’s a big order for me, I had to bring in an extra seamstress.”

  “I got a chick that needs a trick outfit for a dirty act with Johnny Dolor. The tits have to pop on cue.”

  “Twelve noon, sharp. Don’t be late.”

  Betty was subdued after a night in the trailer. “Don’t make me go back there,” she said.

  “Maybe you won’t have to. I got a little thing going, but you got to cooperate. Bandleader friend of mine is looking for a girl singer. He agreed to give you an audition. We’re going to see a tailor friend of mine. He designs clothes for all the big acts in town. He’s booked up, but he’ll see you as a favor to me. You got to get outfitted.”

  “What am I going to sing? Billy said I wasn’t ready.”

  “Johnny is going to be the judge of that. Forget about Billy.”

  “I suggest gold lamé, it is very sympathetic, very chaise­-lounges,” Ramildo said, turning Betty this way and that, sizing her up. />
  “What about one like that?” Betty said, pointing to Jorge Negrete’s charro suits hanging everywhere. “I like black.”

  “That’s a Mexican ranchera ­singer’s type of thing, Betty,” I said. “You don’t want to look like a Mexican, do you?”

  Ramildo held up his hand. “Au contraire. I think she has la inspiracion. I think it could be most . . . interesting.” Pat, the butch-looking seamstress, nodded and smiled.

  “Meet me at the Club Rendezvous, on Central.” I said. “Six o’clock.”

  “She’ll be there,” Pat said.

  I drove over to Central. I found a pay phone in a second­-floor boxing gym that was quiet at that time of day. I put in a dollar’s worth of nickels. Berta’s Pollo Encantado didn’t have a phone, the Otro Lado didn’t have a phone, but the Kingman Championship Lanes had one. Hazel the cashier answered. I disguised my voice as best I could and asked if an overweight brunette named Joyce was in the place. There was a pause, then Joyce came on the line. “Mom?” she said.

  “Al Maphis. Say, ‘Oh, it’s you, Dad.’ Say it.”

  “Hi, Dad,” she said.

  “Memorize this number. Go to a pay phone and call me back. Say, ‘See you later, Dad.’ ” I gave her the number of the pay phone in the gym. I hung up and waited five minutes. The phone rang.

  “This is Joyce. What happened to you, where are you? Where’s Betty? Where’s Billy Tipton?”

  “Joyce, listen. We had to leave in a hurry. Betty’s all right now, she’s staying with friends. I want to know if the cops have been around there.”

  “Well, I’ll say! The police talked to everyone, they were looking for Mr. Tipton. I didn’t know anything, so I didn’t say anything.”

  “That’s good, Joyce. Did they ask about me?”

  “No. All your friends disappeared right after you did. Mr. Spivak and Mr. Bowling are dead, they were gangsters, did you know? The police wanted to close the bowling lanes, but everyone made such a fuss, they left it open, as long as there isn’t any more dancing. When is Betty coming back? Is she there, can I talk to her?”

  “She told me to tell you she’s going to write you very soon.”

  “Where is she? Where are you?”

  “Hasta la vista, Joyce. Don’t worry about Betty.”

  I was back at the rendezvous by five. I took a seat at the bar and watched the door. At six o’clock sharp, Betty walked in and the Pinoy chatter at the bar came to a dead stop. She was wearing her new outfit: black boots with four-­inch heels, a black brocaded sombrero and a gun fighter’s belt, with bullets. The bolero jacket was cut very short and open to the waist, and she was naked underneath. The pants fit low and tight and made her ass stick out like a bullfighter’s. She was carrying a horsewhip.

  “Where’d you get that?” I asked.

  “Pat gave it to me,” she said.

  “Sammy,” I said to the Chinese bartender, “say hello to your new star, Miss Bunny Rae.”

  “Har­yew, Bunnylay?” he said. Betty set the whip down on the bar.

  “I want a Coke.”

  I introduced Johnny to Betty. He was suave, Latin­-esque. He huddled with Betty in a booth, making diagrams in the air with his hands: I go from here, you come from there. They went onstage and did some steps. Johnny spun her around. He threw her down and picked her up. Betty was a cheerleader, she got it. He counted off “Hernando’s Hide­away” — a pop tango for straight-­life moms and pops. Johnny gave it the twist — a domestic scene from the dark side of town. The man is aroused, the woman is coy. He slaps her around a little just to get a mood going. He preens, checks his attitude. They embrace, they dance, she stabs him in the crotch with a big prop knife. Olé, thank you ladies and gentlemen, especially you, ladies.

  A man walked in. He stood and watched the stage. He was a black man, five­-feet­-five in elevator shoes, wearing a green sharkskin suit and a green snap-­brim. He meant business and he wasn’t drunk. Johnny waved his arms for applause. The Filipinos banged their glasses on the tables.

  The man turned to me. “That girl belong to you?” His voice was deep and menacing and seemed out of place in his small body; but his face was bland and his eyes, which were hooded, seemed amused.

  “I’m her manager,” I said.

  “I’ll give you five hundred.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of money like a hay bale.

  “She’s not for sale.”

  “Everything got a price tag,” he said. Betty walked up.

  “Bunny, this man wants to buy you. What do you think of that?”

  “How much?” Betty said.

  “I’m John Lee Hooker. I got the number-one record in De­troit right now. I’m a stranger in yo’ town. Jus’ because I’m a stranger, everybody wants to dog me ’round. I need somebody to tell my troubles to.” He peeled off five hundred more. “Got a big ’un,” he said to Betty.

  “Bunny Rae is appearing with Johnny Dolor and the Five Pains, nightly and indefinitely,” I said.

  “That’s one too many Johnnys,” Hooker said. He went up onstage. The cats were lounging around, smoking. “Hey, mister guitar­ man,” he said, “let me have it for a little while. I won’t do you no harm.”

  He took the guitar and sat in a chair. He brought the vocal micro­phone down and spoke to the audience.

  “Right about now, I’m goin’ to do a solid number that is hit bound, and I want you to dig it and pick up on it, and it’s called ‘Too Many Johnnys.’ ”

  He cranked up the knob on the guitar. He grooved in the key of E: Chunk-­chunk-a-­chunk-­a-­chunk, tapping both feet in straight-­four time. “Need somebody to help me on the drum! Take it!” he hollered. I took it. I went up on the stand and set a little blues shuffle behind him. Doo­-cha-­doo-­cha-­doo-­cha doo-­cha. His voice sounded like trouble, and it made you listen:

  Too many Johnnys, ’bout to drive me out of my mind

  Yes, too many Johnnys, ’bout to drive me out of my mind

  It have wrecked my life, an’ ruint my happy home

  When I first got in town, I was walkin’ down Central Avenue

  I heard people talkin’ about the Club Rendezvous

  I decided to drop in there that night, and when I got there

  I said yes, people, man they was really havin’ a ball, yes I know!

  Boogie!

  The Filipinos stopped yakking and started paying attention. Sammy came down to the end of the bar and watched. Betty watched.

  I might cut you, I might shoot you, I jus’ don’ know

  Yes, Johnny, I might cut you, I might shoot you, but I jus’ don’ know

  Gonna break up this signifyin’,

  ’Cause somebody got to bottle up and go

  He tagged it on the guitar: ka-­chunk-­ka-­chunk-­ka-­chunk-­ka-­chunk-­doo-­daaa, said, “Thank you,” put the guitar down, and left the stage. First time I ever heard “thank you” sound like a reprieve. The Filipinos banged their glasses harder this time, I thought.

  Hooker strolled up to the bar and put a twenty down. “Bartender, I want one scotch, one bourbon, and one beer.”

  Sammy looked at me. “He mean, at same time?”

  “Line ’em up,” Hooker said. “I want all my friends to drink. Long as I got money, I got friends almos’ every day.” The Filipinos ran for the bar. The wino in the overcoat had been standing in the door, and he looked over. Hooker pointed at him. “Give him as much as he wants to drink, I’ll pay fo’ it. Give him the whole jug, I don’ mind. I have been down, and a good friend was hard to find.”

  Johnny smiled. “That was good, man. Very suavecito. I dug it the most. Entonces, we gonna try something I trust you will enjoy.”

  The band followed him onstage. He adjusted the microphone. “Es una canción muy sencilla, and it’s been berry good to us here. “Loco Amor.” One, two, threes, quatro.” Clink-­clink-­clink­-clink­-clink­-clink, went the piano. To-­to-­to-­ta-­to-­to went the drums, a slow-­dance bag. Six over four in a
minor key. The place got quiet.

  Este, este, loco amor. En la sangre, me hierve

  No puedo estar, no puedo estar sin tu amor

  Este, este loco amor. El amor de mi vida

  No puedo estar, no puedo estar sin tu amor

  Es loco amor, lo que en mi corazón, siento por ti

  Toma, toma, todo mi amor, amorcito querido,

  No puedo estar, no puedo estar sin tu amor

  Loco amoooor, loooocoooo amooor

  Crazy love. It’s in the blood. I’m going crazy, I can’t make it without your crazy love. Johnny got on the title phrase and wouldn’t stop: “Loco, loco, loco, loco por tu amor.” He started crying, he pulled his hair. He fell on his knees clutching the microphone stand in both hands. He was doubled up in pain. He gasped, he shook. “Loco, loco, loco, tan loco . . .” He raised his head. Tears of grief rolled down his face. The band pushed at him, they worked him. The out-­of-­tune piano pounded, the spacey guitar jangled. The Filipinos banged their glasses down hard and whistled.

  Then Betty made her move. She strolled across the stage and stood over Johnny, brandishing the horsewhip. He looked up and whimpered, “Loca?” and she brought the whip down. He screamed, “Loco!” and the whip came down again and again. The bolero jacket came apart each time and her tits popped. The Filipinos went mad. They rushed the stage, they threw money — bills, change, whatever they had that they weren’t going to need later.

  Hooker turned to me. “I can’t top that,” he said. He walked down the bar and out the door. The wino followed him. Winner: Johnny Dolor and the Five Pains, hands down.

  “Titties, oh boy!” Sammy said.

  Johnny came and sat at the bar. “She doesn’t hit you with that thing?” I asked.

  “No, no, vato. I told her, pa’ el lado, chica, behind me! You think it looks good?”

  “Very good. You got something there, Johnny.”

  “Gracias por todo, you are a great friend, Al. Where is the man of the blues?”

  “He had to cut out. Told me to tell you you’re the man on Central Avenue now. By the way, I moved Betty in with Ramildo’s seamstress, over in Boyle Heights.”

  “The dyke? Betty does not object?”

  “No, she’s used to it. She doesn’t want to live with colored people. Work is something else. Nothing personal, I think she likes you. There’s just one thing. Betty can be, let’s say, temperamental, if she doesn’t get what she wants. I’ve seen it.”