Los Angeles Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

— compact and solid, about five-­four, with a big hair­do and a sly look. I tried to talk to her, but she didn’t speak English and I didn’t have the lingo down, so I just pointed and held up two fingers. “De qu é ?” she asked. “Make mine soft and easy, but I mean good and greasy!” I replied. She laughed; she got the message.
    I was motor­vating home late one Friday after dropping off a load of pants, when I came upon a police roadblock at Broadway and Second. It had been raining, and the street was glowing red from squad car lights. I made a quick right turn and saw two guys, one in a suit and the other in trousers and a sleeveless undershirt, running down the sidewalk. That’s what caught my eye in the dark, the under­shirt. I pulled alongside and shouted out the one phrase I knew from movies, “Vamos muchachos!” They jumped in. I ran the light at Spring, made a bad left and pulled up in the alley behind the Time s building. I cut the lights.
    â€œZoot patrol,” said Smiley. “They will catch all Mexicans wearing clothes!”
    â€œPendejos! Pinches gabachos!” said Kiko. Two police Fords went flying by on Spring, their sirens blasting.
    â€œI happen to have a friend here,” I said. “Let’s go say hello to Herman.” Herman “Ju­Ju” Doxey, the night watchman at the Los Angeles Times, spent most evenings in the backseat of his ’37 Buick, listening to the radio, off the street and out of sight. I knocked twice on the window. Herman rolled it down and peered out through a thick cloud of cigarette smoke.
    â€œHere we have Brother Ray and two young fellas,” Herman said. “I’m always glad to make the acquaintance of young people. Gettin’ hectic over on Broadway, it’s protrudin’ on my mood.”
    â€œWe have to get off the street for just a little while.” I said. I sat up front; Kiko and Smiley got settled in back.
    â€œYou boys just relax,” said Herman. “Listen, there’s Johnny Mumford on the radio, and now he’s crossed over Jordan. Ain’t that a shame?” He passed the Chesterfield pack around and we all lit up.
    â€œChonny was over there at the Big Union, we saw him!” Kiko said. “He sang ‘My Heart Is in My Hands.’ ”
    â€œWith his eyes to Florencia,” Smiley said.
    â€œFlorencia?” I asked.
    â€œQué chula chulita!” Smiley whistled.
    â€œI know you got some fine, healthy mamacitas, and that’s a fact,” Herman said.
    â€œHealthy?”
    â€œYou know, solid.”
    â€œSolid?”
    â€œMan, dig it and pick up on it!” Herman motioned for quiet while poor Johnny’s last platter got moving on the radio — a slow-­thudding blues, the horns sustaining in big harmony blasts, like the Southern Pacific Daylight pulling into Union Station:
    Got me a fine healthy mama, she’s long and she’s tall
    Built­ up solid, like the L.A. City Hall
    From the top of her head right down to her feet
    She’s a high­-grade load of sugar freightin’ up Main Street
    Fine and healthy, yes she fine and healthy
    So doggone fine and healthy, boys, and she ain’t no hand­-me­-down!
    â€œHigh-­grade load of sugar?” Kiko pronounced it sookar .
    â€œAs in, juicy!” Herman said.
    â€œS ó lido!”
    Herman began. “All right, then. John Mumford. Born, Los Angeles, 1923; died, 1949, cut down in his prime. The prodigal son was a forward child; his mind was not to obey. But he gave his all. The band would lead off so as to get the beat planted in the mind. At the turn­around, Johnny would move up to the front. Very smooth. But on the chorus, he might start slappin’ his left knee in time whilst holdin’ the microphone in his right hand. Ol’ Johnny’s gettin’ ready! On the second verse, John hold back just a little, walkin’