Los Angeles Stories Read Online Free Page B

STOPPED on the corner to pick up a load of early risers on their way to the little piece of job. A solitary rider got out and walked south on Berendo, a dusty street in a dingy neighborhood just west of downtown. He unlocked the front door at number 39, a two-­story brick building in need of paint since elephants roamed the La Brea Tar Pits .
    â€œJazz Man Records” read the sign in the front window, unwashed since Joaquin Murietta shot up Laurel Canyon. The man stooped to pick up the circulars from the scarred linoleum floor and then closed and locked the door behind him. Shelves lined the walls. On the shelves were paper sleeves, one-­foot square, and in the sleeves were ancient 78­-speed records, thousands of them. There was a small desk covered with dust, a desk lamp designed by Abraham Lincoln, and a black telephone. The man pulled a curtain aside and walked back to another room lined with shelves. 78s, thousands more. A portable record player sat on a small table next to an over­stuffed chair salvaged from the Edwin Hotel fire of 1910. The man took a disc over to the table. “Clarinet Marmalade” with Johnny Dodds, on the Okeh label, recorded in 1927. He sat back in the chair, lit his pipe, and closed his eyes. The scratchy old record played, and the little tune got moving — an unsolved riddle from the past: 4/4 time on the bass drum by brother Baby Dodds, top melody from the clarinet, suggestive interplay on trumpet and trombone. Chank­chank­chank went the banjo. The man’s face settled into an uncon­scious mask. In four minutes the record was done, and the steel needle in the heavy stylus arm began to drag across the center grooves, making a sshh, sshh, sshh sound that went on and on.

    Nobody wants to get measured for a suit on Friday. Our people believe that the mortician dresses you on Friday for the last time. But still, in he came — Johnny “The Ace of Spades” Mumford. And he says, “Ray, I want the one-­piece back! I want the French shoulders! Three­-pleat pants all the way up, and I need my trick waistband, you hear me, Ray? Purple gabardine and cocoa brown, and I want ’em in two weeks!”
    â€œWho do you know that I don’t, Johnny?” I laughed.
    â€œLook, man, I got the number one rhythm-­and-­blues record right now. I’m so hot, I’m burnin’ up, and money don’t mean a thing,” said Johnny, a good looking, chocolate-­colored man, five-feet­-seven and rangy. I made an appointment to see him again in two Fridays. Johnny pulled away in his new Cadillac, all done up special for him in two-­tone lilac and cream, a beautiful car.
    I got the job done right to the day. I got his fit, and no doubt about it. Then Lenny, from the Stylin’ Smilin’ and Profilin’ barbershop, stuck his head in the door. “You get the news about Johnny Mumford?”
    â€œMan, what news?” I said.
    â€œJohnny shot dead, backstage, at the 5­4 Ballroom!”
    â€œThe 5­4? Somebody killed old Johnny?”
    â€œHe killed himself playin’ with a gun! Lawd, have mercy where’s the po’ boy gone!” I ran out for a paper. “Self­-inflicted,” it read. I closed the shop and went straight down there. I told them to let me talk to the reporter, that I had information about Johnny Mumford. They brought me to a fellow upstairs. I said, “Look here, you got it wrong. No chance Johnny did this, and I’ll tell you why. He had me make up two fancy suits, two weeks ago today. No way the Ace of Spades would order clothes like that and then go out and shoot himself in the head.”
    â€œLet’s have your name and address.” The newspaper man didn’t even look at me.
    The funeral was big. African Methodist on Twenty-fifth was packed. Ebenezer Brothers Mortuary did the best they could, what with Johnny’s head blown out in back. I brought the suits