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over, and his mother chose the purple. Oopie McCurn, the bass singer with the Pilgrim Travelers, took me aside after the service. “The suit was a nice gesture, Ray. We all agreed. Ray does shoul­ders, no need to go further.” He gave me a look. “If you take my meaning, brother.” The Travelers did their rendition of “See How They Done My Lord” for Johnny. Little Cousin Tommy took the lead on “Somewhere to Lay My Head,” and Johnny’s mother and sister fainted and had to be carried out. Tommy is a short man, five feet in shoes, but he has a big voice and he can use it. “Overreaches,” as Bill Johnson of the Golden Gates observed later on at the repast, and you don’t dispute a man like Bill.
    A police Ford was situated outside the church. Two plainclothes stepped up, looking plain. “Have a seat in the office,” one said. Breezy. No sense kickin’, as Jimmy Scott says, and he should know. I sat.
    â€œI’m Detective McClure. You been stirring things up a little, haven’t you? Some people we know are getting a little concerned. You should concentrate more on your little tailoring job, that’s our line of thinking.”
    â€œI’ve been trying to get at the truth. Nobody seems interested.”
    â€œYou were seen talking to that boy from the Sentinel . What’d he offer you, ’cause we can top it.”
    â€œYou can top the truth?”
    â€œVery definitely. We can let you breathe. Have a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Montalvo.”
    â€œRay Montalvo, Custom Vootie Tailoring! If It’s All­ Vootie, It’s All Rootie!” That was Slim Gaillard’s idea, he likes everything strictly all ­rootie and reetie­ pootie. Slim is a very good-looking, well-set-­up man, and talented, but he’s what you might call a floater — he’s never in one place for very long. I’m from down around the District. It’s been mixed for a long time — black, Mexican, and Italian. I’m what you might call mixed, myself. Momma is from the West Indies, and Daddy was a Sicilian — Pietro, or Pete, as he was called. Daddy came out here to play professional baseball, but he was under­built and passed over. He worked as a stonemason until he died, a frustrated little man with a wicked fast pitch, wasted. I learned tailoring from Uncle Gustavo. Gus, as he was called. Gus was an expert in charro outfits for the mariachis that hang out over in Boyle Heights. That’s a very good clientele, very reliable. If they dig you, they stay with you. And the style never changes! You just keep doing the same short black coat and tight pants with no pockets, silver buttons, brocade, and big hat.
    Gus would shake his head at me and say, “Looka, Ray, whadda you wanna do, eh? Why you don’ wanna work for me, I don’ know! I gotta good business, the Mexicans. Good boys, they pay alla time on time. Whadda you got, jazza musicians! They don’ pay, I know! I’m an old man. I got no sons a passa the job! Big waste! Whatsa matta you, Ray?” Two weeks to the day after Johnny Mumford’s funeral, he had his third heart attack, the big one. No pockets in a shroud, Uncle Gus.
    Maybe I was wrong, but I never could see it — a black­skinned man with an Italian name cutting charro suits for the rest of my life? Thing is, I liked music! Jazz, jump, jive, rhythm and blues! I tried, but I couldn’t play anything very well. I studied harmony and all that, but you can’t get tone out of a book. Down around the District, you got to get hot or go home, so I made clothes for the players instead. Gus was right about the money though. Jazz musicians are a little unreliable, they’re always leaving town, they float.
    My mother told me I had a responsibility to Gus’s family, so I went over to talk to his wife, Graziesa. She was in bad shape, hysterical, and the girls were terrified. I said I would