Los Angeles Stories

by Ry Cooder

  “This dead girl keeps coming up, she bothers him,” I said. “I can’t follow it. Have you got anything to eat here?”

  “No. And I think you had better leave, it’s getting late.”

  “Why? I’m a night man, I’m used to it. I thought we were just getting acquainted.”

  “If the doctor comes back, there’s going to be trouble. I can make you a cup of coffee, that’s all there is,” she said.

  I was getting light­ headed. The army doctors had warned me about low blood sugar. There were too many doctors in Los Angeles. If you laid them end to end, they’d reach all the way from Chavez Ravine to the Belfont Building.

  “I think Houseley’s in some kind of danger, and I’m going to take him with me. I have nothing to offer you, but why stick around here? Los Angeles is the land of the brighter day.”

  “Well, thank you,” she said, but she didn’t budge. It was time to go. I went back to the bedroom. Houseley was sleeping. I got his arm over my shoulder and stood him up. Leaning hard on my cane, I dragged him over to the French doors and got them open. By that time, I was sweating. Then there was the yard. It wasn’t a big yard, but it was big enough. “If you’re going to make a move, make it,” the CO used to say. I moved.

  It was cold and damp outside. The ground was soft and my cane didn’t help much. It was a snail’s pace, but we managed. Around the front there was gravel, and it was easier. I got Houseley up to the Olds and rested him on the front fender, trying not to throw up on him. Then suddenly the headlights snapped on, nailing us like coyotes on the road. Someone got out of the car and walked toward us on the gravel, stopping behind the lights.

  “Órale. Buenas noches, amigos.” The words trailed off like wind in the trees.

  “What are you doing in my car?” I said. It was a stupid thing to say, but my pulse rate was up too high and I couldn’t think.

  “I like these ones, the tranny es coool.”

  “What do you want?” I said

  “I am known as Cousin Beto.”

  “You work for Dr. Cross?”

  “Si. Claro. It’s so tranquilo in Palo Verde en la noche. Why you have to rush away?”

  “I’m taking this man out of here. Step aside.”

  “ ‘Step aside’? Is this hospitable? Is this polite? You, mi amigo, are in no position to give orders.” Behind the lights, he was just a shape. In the darkness, other shapes joined him.

  “We’re leaving.” It was a stupid thing to say. I wasn’t going any­where. Weak as I was, I couldn’t even drive the car fifty feet.

  “Watch the left hand. Knife,” Houseley whispered. The shapes darted forward.

  “Pa’tras, cabrones!” Cousin Beto hissed, and the shapes moved back. He stepped into the light where I could see him. He was short, but his pachuco hair­do gave him an extra four inches. He was wearing a white undershirt and a long coat that didn’t match his pleated trousers. “You are expected,” he said, bowing like a maître d’ in an Olvera Street taco joint.

  Beto and the boys locked us in what seemed to be Cross’s office. “El doctor is busy just now, pero he will attend you very soon,” Beto said. He tended to keep his left hand out of sight in his coat pocket.

  Houseley came to life and started going through Cross’s desk drawers. “Cross is a doper, but he might have something around for medicinal purposes.”

  “I never knew you were in the army, Houseley.”

  “ ‘Disarm the world,’ they said. Ah, but first, they wanted some­thing to demonstrate their power, something big and showy. I told them, fine, no problem, I’ll get the amplitude up so high, their eyes will vibrate right out of their sockets for hundreds of miles! They loved it! Told them, charge the booze and I’ll do it! Idiots! No such thing, of course.”

  “Disarm the world? Who, the army?”

  “Used to be called ‘Mankind United.’ Got into trouble during the war. Got a new moniker now, can’t think what it is. Cross is slipping. I don’t make mistakes.”

  “What’s Cross up to around here?”

  “‘Divisional Superintendent,’ he calls himself! Wasn’t supposed to have a lady friend, the faithful didn’t like it. F.B.I. claimed the organ­ization was seditious, tried to subpoena her. Cross put it out that she died as a result of the operation.”

  “But she didn’t die,” I said. “Where’d she go?”

  “Made a deal with Cross. Silence in trade for a new name, new face. I did the job. Damn good work, I don’t mind saying.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “You need to sharpen up the old gray matter there, Sonny. Pay attention, start taking vitamins, if you’re going to come to work for the organization. They have a use for everybody, even Mexicans.” Houseley started going through the medicine cabinets. “My opinion? Diabetic,” he said, looking over at me.

  “I’ve got to eat something, I can’t stay here,” I said. There was another door in Cross’s office, and it led out into a dark hallway lined with a few doors with glass windows. One showed light. I looked in, and it was a tiny room with padded walls and a narrow bed. A man was lying on the bed trussed up in a straitjacket. He must have felt me looking at him, because he turned his head toward the door. I figured the window was one-­way only. I could see Woody, but he couldn’t see me.

  The door was unlocked. Woody panicked when he saw the door open, but then he recognized me. “Mr. Kloer! Help me, for God Almighty’s sake!”

  “Who tied you up?”

  “They kidnapped me, the Sponsors think I’m a spy for the Hidden Rulers. They hurt me! I’m not a spy, Mr. Kloer. I been a faithful servant all these years, make them stop!”

  “The police are looking for you. Who was the girl, Woody? I’ll help you, but tell me the truth. Don’t bullshit me that you didn’t know her. ”

  “I swear I didn’t!”

  “I’m leaving, Woody. I’m going to find Nurse Bari and tell her you been lying.”

  “No! Not her, not that! She’ll tell Dr. Cross, and he’ll take me to Ward Seven! Don’t let them take me to Seven,” Woody sobbed. He was terrified. My CO used to say, every prisoner you take alive is a mad dog from hell unless proven otherwise. The point being, there was no positive proof available on short notice. I told Woody I was going to do a little recon. With the door closed, you couldn’t hear him crying and begging.

  There was one time we made a mistake that cost plenty. A Jap soldier was badly wounded and the medic said he was dying. The medic spoke a little Japanese, and he said, the man was begging to commit hara­-kiri with a sword for the sake of family honor. He had lost so much blood, we didn’t see any harm, so Clark gave him his bayonet. He managed to spring off the stretcher and stab Clark in the stomach. Me and two other guys tried to grab him, but he was too quick for us, and he ran past us with the bayonet, screaming “Banzai!” and slashed the medic, whose back was turned. I brought him down with my army .45, but he had done plenty of damage. The CO really chewed us out that time.

  Down the hall, Nurse Bari and Dr. Cross were in a room with the door open. I was curious about Bari’s voice and the way it could change, like her eyes changed. One minute, she was just a nurse, and the next, she was the boss, the one with the chops, like we say in music. You need chops to play good, or to think fast, or control the situation. Joaquin Murphy has chops, Sonny Kloer doesn’t have chops, never did. I listened, and it was quite interesting, especially on an empty stomach.

  “You’re a fool, Richard, you’ve always been such a fool. You’re tall, and that look in your eyes makes people want to believe what you believe, but you’ve become entangled in the physical world. The Sponsors are displeased. I’ve done all I can.”

  “I’m tired, I’ve been under a very great strain.” Cross was a ham actor at heart, but his voice was a real instrument too, like a radio bishop.

  “The Sponsors have ordered me to find a new location immediately. I can’t keep making excuses and lying to people. I didn’t fool the man with the cane, he came ba
ck, you see. He even propositioned me, in a way.”

  “The man’s nothing but a simpleton. You never tire of throwing other men in my face, it seems.”

  “Oh, I don’t know; he’s some kind of a man. Brave, even. You, on the other hand, remind me of a bowerbird who collects shiny things so he can admire himself. I’m sure the Sponsors won’t object to your staying here, and you can play doctor to your heart’s content. The Sponsors have ordered me to move, not you.”

  “And you expect me to step gracefully off? ‘Thanks ever so much, don’t mind me?’ I rescued you, I brought you into the organization, I’m still Divisional Superintendent!”

  “The Sponsors have decided to close down the division. We need to move the organization forward. People are frightened of Communism; it’s a perfect time for us to reappear,” Bari said. “And as far as throwing men in your face is concerned, at this point in my life, I just might prefer the simpleton with the cane to a spiritual cripple like yourself. In any case, I’m leaving.”

  “What about Atkins? The police are looking for him. What would the Sponsors like me to tell them?”

  “Woody is like a bad dog that wants to sleep on the couch. Tell him if he doesn’t get down off the couch, you’ll take him to Seven. The police aren’t coming here, why would they?”

  “My dear, you are perfect, promise me you’ll never change. Stephenson did a magnificent job. The Sponsors have nothing to fear.”

  Nurse Bari and Dr. Cross finished their talk, and there was silence for a while. They seemed to understand each other. I walked back down the hall to the office. The window was open and Houseley was gone. It was just getting light in Chavez Ravine.

  The day I left the army hospital for the last time was a great day. It had been raining, and the clouds were big and fat over San Diego. I picked up my duffel bag from the redistribution station and caught the first thing smoking, which was a Greyhound bus bound for Los Angeles. A buddy of mine had given up his place on Monte Vista Street, in Highland Park. It was just a two-­room shack behind a grocery store, but I wouldn’t have to climb stairs, and the rent was so low, I didn’t have to worry. Riding north on that Greyhound, I felt like a million, who knows why. I didn’t have a job, or a girl, or friends, or anything except my old Fender Stringmaster, but I felt good just to be alive. All us G.I.’s thought we’d licked the bastards for good, and the world could stop worrying about Hitler and Hirohito and even Joe Stalin.

  I drove down the hill and headed for Chinatown. A double order of pork ­fried rice will just about fix it, I thought. I had heard about Communism, but I didn’t understand it, so I wasn’t going to worry about that, or anything. I had made up my mind to quit worrying. Los Angeles was the Land of the Brighter Day, something good was bound to turn up.