by Ry Cooder
“Sunset time. We played the radio.”
“What radio?”
“Hunter Hancock.”
“Don’t leave town.”
“Say, just a minute.” The second man hadn’t asked any questions, but now he had a look. “Are you ‘Atomic Bomb’ Saunders?”
“I was.”
“My kid brother had your records. He liked that spade music. He was killed in the war.”
“Sorry to hear it. So was mine.”
“Don’t leave town.”
The two policemen left in their Ford. “A spade and a Mex woman?” said the younger officer, shaking his head.
“I live in South Gate, we keep it clean. Those two don’t know nothing.”
Andrena and Herb sat for a moment. “Thanks,” Herb said. “De nada, amigo,” Andena said. Talking to the police was nerve racking but driving always calmed him down, so he got the Muntz Jet out of the garage. Scrubby jumped in the passenger seat, ready for the road.
The Cadillac motor purred, steady and deep. In a car as lightweight as the Muntz, it was the bomb. They drove east on Pico Boulevard: a pink Muntz, a black man, and a white dog like an old rag mop.
“Ned’s lot is closed up tight, the Gresham Building is closed up tight,” Herb said to the dog. “Ned’s gone and George is off somewhere. George knows I made that delivery last night. George had the canal man staked out, but he’s no stakeout man. Ned is doing some business with the canal man, but he’s not rough, he just sells bad cars. Truth is, Ned and George are a couple of squares from Santa Monica, the little city of squares.” Scrubby sat straight up in the seat, fur blown back, eyes fixed dead ahead, listening to the steady rhythm of Herb’s voice as he thought out loud. “What do the cops want with Ned? You can rob the working man blind, they don’t care about that. ‘Don’t leave town,’ the standard line. I’m not going anywhere, I like it here in square town. It’s pretty easy on a man. I got an agreement with Andrena. She’s going to bury me in her backyard, and I’ll do the same for her, whoever goes first. Woodlawn Cemetery is strictly for white folks. No fun allowed, no barbecues, no Hunter Hancock. Lucky for us we got a little something put by under the mattress, right, Scrubby?”
“Ralph!” Scrubby agreed.
Tuesday morning was foggy and cool down by the pier, but Ned Hillael was starting to sweat. His hands were clammy, and the steering wheel was getting damp. His mind was starting to wander to more pleasant things, like the luxury of his Cadillac’s air conditioning, new this year. Cadillac, the standard of the world.
“Hey, you listening to me? Doesn’t this interest you?” Lonny Tipton was sitting in the passenger seat, his .38 resting on his knee.
“Definitely, Lonny, most emphatically.”
“The money just went up. My knees hurt on account of your shit car.”
“Right, and you are going to get your money, I’m happy to say.”
“What about a doctor, you said you knew the right one for me. That was the deal.”
“You are going to be taken care of 110 percent.”
“See, a guy tailed me last night. He picked me up down in the canals and tailed me over to Santa Monica. A big fat guy. Tell me what you know about that, Ned.”
“Nothing, not a thing. That Chrysler is clean and sharp, I checked it out personally.”
“You are the one that knows where I been at, and the fat guy knew right where I was at. Was that a little something of yours, Ned? Friend of yours? Don’t you trust me?”
“My partner and I are very happy with your work. What if I say, same time next Tuesday? The money, the doctor?”
“What if I use this gun right now? Gut shoot, that’s what I’m thinking about. I’m gonna do it slow, nice and slow. Here, and here . . . you want to listen to the radio while you bleed to death in the Cadillac?”
“My word is my bond.”
“I’m not feeling so good, I don’t like being followed. You get me a doctor, or you are going to need a doctor worse than me.”
“I’ll be calling you, we’ve got definite business. I’m known as a pretty big man in Santa Monica.”
“Big, legitimate man. How would a big, legitimate man like you feel about two slugs in the belly? Just a teeny little push?”
Lonny got out of the car and walked down the hill to the pier.
The fog was burning off and it was going to be a nice spring day in Santa Monica. Breezy, about sixty-five degrees, light chop, good visibility. From where he was parked up on Ocean Avenue, Ned could see the KTLA broadcasting truck. Ten or twelve cars were lined up diagonally, and the television announcer was getting started with the broadcast, which consisted of selling used cars on live TV. The announcer had a way of introducing each car in the animated style of a talk-show host. The cars tended to be flashy and bright colored, the kind celebrities might drive. Ned gave the finger to the TV crew. “Bastards! Trying to undercut a local man, jacking down the price on television, like I don’t have expenses!” he shouted.
Ned drove up Ocean Park Boulevard and parked in front of the Airport Center on the corner of Eighteenth Street, across from the Douglas plant. It was a new arcade-style complex of offices and shops catering to the needs of the working man: doctors, dentists, lawyers, and the office of Airport Equity Home Loans, upstairs in the back. “I want to see Bill O’Leary,” Ned told the receptionist.
“Mr. O’Leary is in the field all day, sir.”
“Well, find him in the field and tell him it’s Ned Hillael, and I’m going to sit right here.” There was a large map of Santa Monica on the wall behind the receptionist with the Sunset Park development outlined in red: “Airport Equity is Airport Friendly.” Ned sat there, aware of his stomach trying to crawl out of his body backwards. “Where’s the bathroom?” he asked the girl.
“Down the hall, right, then right again, third door on the left.”
Ned went left when he should have gone right. By the time he found the restroom, he was sick. He made it to a stall and threw up all his bacon and egg breakfast and part of his prime-rib dinner. He was hanging on to one of the sinks trying to clean up when Bill O’Leary walked in.
“Ned, where you been at, you look terrible.”
“Bill, I’m sick. Lonny Tipton is crazy, he’s going to kill us.”
“Kill us? Well, I don’t think that’s quite right, Ned.”
“Yes it is, goddamn it. He wants money and doctors. This is all your doing, your idea. ‘Home equity foreclosures, real American money,’ you kept saying. George Gresham’s gone, I don’t know where.”
“That was your mistake, Ned, not mine. First you told me you had Lonny Tipton under control, then you told me you didn’t and you needed the detective to watch him, and then the detective wanted in. Now you tell me your man is out there going crazy. Your mess, you clean it up.”
Ned’s mind was starting to work a little. “Oh no, Bill. You told me, ‘Find a Douglas man who wants something bad enough, and then make him get you the employee credit records.’ If we don’t get this doctor for him I definitely think he’ll stop at nothing.”
“Not we, Ned. You. I’m a respected member of the Santa Monica business community. You are barely legal, a loan-sharking used car dealer under a cloud of suspicion, so I hear. I’ll deny all this, Ned. I never met him; don’t even know what he looks like. Don’t come here again. I get in touch with you.” Bill O’Leary turned and walked out of the restroom.
Ned wiped his face and stood there looking at his reflection in the mirror. Not good, he thought. The new suit from Desmond’s looked terrible. He walked down the stairs and out to the sidewalk. His Cadillac sat waiting at the curb: emerald green and gold two-tone, with green leather seats, factory air, and AM/FM WonderBar radio, both exciting new options. “Shmuck! Putz! Goddamn Irish pig!” he shouted. That made him feel a little better, but he knew it didn’t solve anything, so he went next door to the Skywatcher’s Lounge and sat at the bar.
“Ned, what’ll it be?” said the bartender.<
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“Whiskey sour. And bring me the phone, I’ve got definite business.”
“Sure, Ned, sure,” said the bartender. Ned dialed and waited.
“Herb, Ned. Got a job for you. Never mind where I’ve been. I’ll be at your house in twenty minutes.” A girl walked up and sat at the bar next to Ned. A big blond, on the heavy side.
“Well, Ned.”
“Charmaine.”
“Well, buy me something,” she said.
“Whiskey sour,” Ned called out to the bartender.
“I don’t like whiskey sours,” said the blond. “Make it a Ramos gin fizz.”
“Ramos gin fizz, coming up,” said the bartender.
“Where you been at, Ned?”
“I been very busy, Charmaine, and I’m very busy right now.”
“Busy Ned, screwing the poor working man.”
“Maybe you ought to try it sometime.”
“Screwing?”
“Working.”
“You call it what you want, Neddy.”
Ned’s eyes went from slack to hate in two seconds. “Don’t call me Neddy,” he said through his teeth.
The girl slid off the stool and walked toward the restrooms in the back. “So don’t call him Neddy,” she said over her shoulder. The bartender came over to Ned, wiping down the bar. “My opinion? One of these days that stool is gonna stick to her ass like a continental kit,” he said. Ned put some bills on the bar and walked out to the street. It was lunchtime on Ocean Park Boulevard. Workers in overalls and Red Wing boots were drifting across the street to the hamburger stands, and the office types in cheap suits were headed for the cocktail joints. “Don’t call me Neddy,” Ned Hillael said again as he drove away in the Cadillac, a standout car in Sunset Park.
In the early part of the century they built wide front porches on little frame houses in poor districts, as if a working man was entitled to some relaxation and comfort. But Herb wasn’t taking any comfort from his porch, not just now. Ned Hillael had been hiding out, and now he was on his way over. It sounded like a long-distance call for sure this time. The Cadillac pulled up in front. Ned got out and walked up the steps to the porch and sat down.
“So, Herb, we got a problem.”
“Stop right there, Ned. Anything you need me for, it’s a new deal.”
“This is going to take a very smart man.”
“Just tell it,” Herb said.
“It’s like this, Herb. I have a deal going with this friend in real estate, a close friend, a partner. We’ve put loans together for folks over at Douglas, some friends up there. Home loans. I’m getting into some business here in town, not just the car line. Things are definitely moving forward. This other friend helped us meet clients up at Douglas. His name is Lonny, a very good man to know, very helpful. But he has a medical problem we didn’t know about. We could have taken a closer look, but things were moving rapidly. So now, we feel responsible. He helped us, we should help him! It’s the right thing. Let me put it in this way. He says being a man is not working out for him. He wants to change over and be a woman. He needs a doctor that can do the job right, and I need to find this doctor or there might be some trouble.” Ned sat there, out of breath.
“Why come to me, Ned? Tell me, this I got to hear,” Herb said.
“Herb, you know and I know that you know people. You’ve been around, an entertainer like yourself, in the nightlife. I’m just a business man from Santa Monica.”
“And I’m just a black man out there on the fringe where the freaks are. Matter of fact, I do know. But, now, why should I help you? The cops are after you, I don’t know why. I have had all the trouble with cops a man can stand, but that’s past and gone.”
“You will help me because you are with me. If the police ask, tell them I am the boss and I back you up, 110 percent.”
“I am not ‘with’ you, Ned. I do jobs for you on the car lot, but I am not at all ‘with’ you. I’m a car mechanic, not an errand boy for trouble. What is this man holding on you?”
“This is a problem I got to take care of. A problem for me is a problem for you.”
The two men sat quietly. Here is a fork in the road, Herb thought. The sign points two ways: “shortest” and “best.” No second chances in the land of a thousand dances, the valley of ten million insanities.
“I can take care of Lonny, but I want something, too, Ned. Somebody in Santa Monica owns this house and Andrena’s house next door. Who, I don’t know. We pay rent to a company up on Ocean Park, called Airport Equity. I want the deeds signed over to us, free and clear. Easy for a smart man like you. Little old properties like these aren’t worth anything compared to getting this guy off your back, I expect. Deal?”
“You have a deal, very definitely.”
“Every time you say that, I get nervous.”
“I am being perfectly truthful.”
“Well, that’s all right, then. Where’s our man?”
“He’s waiting down on the pier at the far end. Little guy, sandy colored hair, tan jacket, hat.”
“Where’s George Gresham?”
“I am very worried about George. He was working on a job for me. I don’t know where he is.”
“Man, this is going to cost you. It isn’t just a case of new points, plugs, and condenser.”
“Please sit down, in the light. Let me look. You know, I am an especialiste, Herb has told you. But, in the way to the man, that is my work. Actors who must look strong in the tight pants! Ha ha, yes, I have done well, I think. But you, you desire the opposite, no? That is more difficult, more . . . more . . . como se dice? . . . complex, like the woman. Well, we will see.”
“Don’t give me any of that ‘we will see’ shit, I’m telling you — ” Lonny started to say.
“Stop! Do not raise you voice to me! Do not make threats, my friend. You know, there is nothing so terrible as a bad job in this work, eh? You remember Tony, Herb? Tony, he threatened me, he put his hands to me. What did the boys call him afterward? Needle Dick! Ha ha, yes, needle dick, the chicken fucker. So you see, you must remain calm. You have good eyes to be a woman, I think. And a good mouth. These are the important attributes, no? What do you say, Herb? Will I make the success?”
“You know what you’re doing, Doc. Esquerita was good work.”
“Oh yes, and he went on to do great things. I was happy for that. Pianiste. So, I accept, I will do!”
“Doc, I got a good place for him to recover. My neighbor. She’s always home, works at home. She can take care of him. Her.”
“Your name is Lonny, so we will say Lonnie and change only the spelling. Ha, that bodes well, no, Herb?”
“Sure, Doc, it can’t miss.”
Herb made arrangements with the doctor. He would pick Lonny up in three days. Payment due on delivery. Recovery time two weeks. Herb walked down the old wooden stairs. A sign over the front door read “The Edwin Apartments, 1914.”
“Not much of a front,” Lonny had observed. “What’s this guy do, scrapes?”
“Exactly,” Herb told him, “but he’s got a sideline. He did some work on a friend of mine a few years back, did a great job.”
“What’s his name, Dr. Frankenstein?”
“Doctor Mario.”
“Mex?”
“Cuban, but don’t be put off, you’ll walk out of here a free woman.”
Herb explained the deal to Andrena. “This isn’t work for hire, this is an exchange. The deeds would mean security for us. You can’t throw a homeowner out of his home, that’s what America is all about.”
“Yes. But either way, I am happy here. When Arturo was killed, I thought God had turned his back on me. Now, I feel he has opened a new door.” They were sitting in the tiny living room where Andrena did her sewing. Day and night, she worked at the machine, creating the marvelous designs that made the women of Brentwood and Beverly Hills so happy.
Lonnie slept in the bedroom, Andrena slept in the living room. Doctor Mario sent
along a powder to be taken with meals. Light meals. “Do not tax the body. Do not contact me unless it is very bad, I must insist. I am an artiste, but my art is concealed. A secret! Ha, the Edwin. You see, I am disguise.”
Ned brought a satchel full of money. The handle was wet. “Four grand. It makes me sweat, I can’t help it,” Ned said.
“I told you five, Ned. Four for the doc, one for Andrena to take care of Lonny,” Herb said.
“See you in two weeks, Herb,” Ned said.
Doctor Mario’s timetable was right on the money. Lonnie was up and around after about ten days. “She is helping me with the work,” Andrena told Herb, “She has good hands.” Herb stayed on his side of the hedge, at first. He was reluctant to intrude on the two women, on their rapport. There was no word from Ned Hillael. Herb spent more time in his vegetable garden trying out new things, like Kentucky red runner beans and giant tomatoes new on the market. He felt like he was on vacation not having Ned call five times a day. Lonnie was looking better. Her hair was growing out and her face had started to soften a little.
Herb thought they should have a barbecue. Cabrito, squash, guacamole, beer, and short ribs, Scrubby’s favorite. “I want to tell you a story,” Lonnie began, after dinner. “I love a story,” said Herb. He was in a good mood, the best in a long time.
“Four years ago, I got a job at Douglas Aircraft. They needed skilled machinists for the new interceptor guided missile design project. I had the background up at Lockheed in San Josey, so I was hired on as machinist, first class. That’s a good-paying job, even if Douglas is nonunion. The machinist’s union threatened to expose me as a scab, but I said, who knows if the defense work will keep going, it’s already ten years after the war. I moved down here, I got no family. But I had nervous problems, and it got worse after I moved. You understand now.
“Then, one day, I met Ned Hillael in a bar up on Ocean Park. He acted friendly and bought drinks, and we talked. He was interested in my problem and he said he could help me, but he wanted something. I said, we all want something. He was interested in the employee credit union at Douglas, as in, who was solvent, who was in debt, and how bad. I had security clearance from the missile job, I told him. He got very interested. Could I use the clearance to check out employee records in the credit bureau? I guess so, I said. So he said, if I could bring him the credit records, he would use his influence as a successful businessman to find me a doctor so I could have an operation. He said I would definitely make a really cute girl, and he was already attracted to me. Security at Douglas is pretty loose. Your security guards spend a lot of time in the Skywatcher’s Lounge. Now, listen to this. Workers are always living beyond their means, that’s nothing new. They start buying things like cars and get into debt and can’t pay their mortgage loan. Then, Ned and his partner foreclose and take possession and sell the house and split the money with the bank. Ned has a friend at this particular bank, the Airport Equity Home Loans. A nice little setup. But I found out something else, something I never told Ned. Douglas Aircraft is going out of business. They’re going to close the plant, because they’ve lost the Defense Department’s missile contract to Hughes. Everything else they make is obsolete, so they stand to make more money by closing the plant and selling off the real estate. Nobody knows this. Not Ned, not the bank, not anyone.”