Los Angeles Stories. Ry Cooder

me ask you something,” I said.

      “Fire away, Frankie.”

      “How long can fingernails grow if you don’t cut them?”

      “Who knows? They keep growing, like hair. It’s molecular.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Why?”

      “I see this woman in Pershing Square every day where I eat lunch. Her nails are about a foot long, but curved back around.”

      “Tell her to drop in for a manicure, I’ll give her the professional discount.”

      “Thanks.”

      “You’re a very thankful guy, Frankie. Go get yourself a new pair of glasses.”

      I walked back to Pershing Square. The woman in black was gone. It was getting on toward evening, and I closed my eyes and fell asleep. When I woke up, she was back. “Precept upon precept, line upon line, here a little, there a little.” She seemed to be in a relaxed frame of mind. “Of money, some have coveted. They have erred from the faith and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.” I waited, hoping to hear more. I tried to give her a quarter, but she hid her face behind the Bible and wouldn’t look at me. I left.

      There’s a bar at the top of Grand Avenue called the Los Amigos. They have a coin-­operated player piano, a shuffle­board table game, and booths along the side. The bartender’s name is Russell. It was late, and the place was quiet. Russell saw me come in.

      “Hiya, Frank. Haven’t seen you around lately. The usual?”

      “No. I want a whiskey sour. That’s a good drink, right?”

      “Sure, Frank, sure. One whiskey sour.” There was a woman alone in a booth, and she looked up when she heard my voice. It was the manager from Beauty by Rene.

      “Thankful Frankie,” she said. I sat down across from her.

      “How are you this evening, Rene? I guess I’m surprised to see you in my neighborhood.”

      “Don’t be.”

      “How’s it going with the landlord?” I asked, just trying to be delicate.

      “That ball­-busting son of a bitch? I can’t move now, things are just starting to pick up. Downtown’s gonna take off when the war hits.”

      “War?” I wasn’t sure what she was talking about or how many drinks she’d had.

      “War, kiddo. As in Adolf H.? You heard about him?”

      “I’m not sure. I haven’t seen the papers lately. Where is the war?”

      “Get lost. Nobody’s that out to lunch, but nobody. You better get your nose out of that book. Get yourself a girl, there’s one on every corner.”

      I was starting to pick up a slight drawl in her talk. “Where are you from, originally?” In Los Angeles, it’s a harmless question.

      “Amarillo, Texas. I caught the first thing smokin’. End of story.”

      “How’d you get started in the beauty line?” I asked.

      “I was a bartender in Amarillo. The L.A. cops won’t let a woman tend bar in their precious town. I went to cosmetology school, I’m legal.”

      Russell brought fresh drinks. “This whiskey sour is not bad,” I said.

      “Look, I can’t figure you out. I mean, you’re all right, aren’t you? Upstairs?” She pointed to her head and made a circle with her finger. “It’s no act — the book and your job and all that?”

      “It’s no act. I work very hard. My boss is a bastard, like your landlord. I’ll tell you a little story if you want to hear it.”

      “Fire away, Frankie. Fire away and fall back.”

      “I had one friend here on the Hill. Mr. John, an Italian opera singer. But he doesn’t sing anymore, and you want to know why? Because he’s dead, that’s why. He jumped off the roof of the New Grand Hotel.”

      “A jumper.”

      “You come back to my place and I’ll show you something you never seen in a month of Sundays. I can’t believe it myself.”

      “I got to get down the Hill before the train stops. Tomorrow is another day to be beautiful, right, Frankie boy?”

      “You don’t believe me. You think I’m one of those mad dogs, like you said.”

      “Maybe, maybe not. Whiskey sour is a damn good drink.” She got up and left, just like that.

      Russell walked by, checking tables for tips. “Can’t win ’em all!” he said, clapping me on the back so hard I almost choked. I thought about leaving, but then Louie Castro walked up. Louie is a very fat, oily man with a fat, oily voice. Not the kind of man you’d care to know too well. He owns the Los Amigos and lives upstairs.

      “Nice to see you, Frank. Always nice to see an old friend.” He slid into the booth. “Of course I heard about Mr. John. Tragic.” I nodded, like I was too sad to say anything. “I understand you came into a nice little bequest. That’s the kind of man he was, generous to his friends.” Louie makes it his business to know about things; he likes to know the value of people and things. He sat there, looking at me, sizing me up.

      I had to say something. “That’s right. Records and books, Italian stuff. I don’t understand Italian.” Basically true.

      “Sentimental, that’s the kind of man Mr. John was. And I’m very emotional, Frank. That’s why I’m so upset about Mr. John.” Louie waited for a reply, but I couldn’t think of anything emotional, so I kept quiet. “I’m glad we had this little talk,” he said. He maneuvered his big body out of the booth and went upstairs. Russell fussed around for a while. “Gotta close, pal. See you real soon!” I left.

      Down below, the city sparkled and hummed like a giant beehive. I walked home. My apartment building is the oldest wooden structure on Bunker Hill. Each floor has a covered porch across the front, and the rooms open out onto it. At night, you can see the lights of the city stretching away to the east. The river, the train tracks, the gasworks, Lincoln Heights, El Sereno, and beyond. I like living there, even though the showers are downstairs. When I got back I checked the directory to make sure the money was all there. I listened to some opera records and looked at the poetry books. I hadn’t been doing so well with my lessons. I knew some of the words but I didn’t understand the poems. “Try harder,” Cousin Lizzie kept saying.

      Next morning I went out to buy a paper from Lou Lubin, the gray­-haired newsboy who hangs out by the Angel’s Flight platform. “ ’Lo, Lou.” I said. I always use that line with him. “What’s this I hear about war?”

      “Where you been, in the jug?” He’s short, and he cocks his head to the side, looking up.

      “I’m a working man, Lou, I don’t have time to know all these things. Fill me in.”

      “Hitler and Mussolini got it all sewn up tight. I haven’t heard from the family in two years, don’t know where they’re at. It’s all sewn up tighter’n Aunt Fannie’s girdle.” Lou used to be a nightclub dancer and an extra in the movies.

      “Sorry to hear it, Lou. I hope they’re okay.”

      “Thanks.”

      “You know anything about Mr. John?”

      Lou turned so that his back was to the street. “Some guys were talking to him. Very tough guys in a Cadillac. A Cadillac sticks out.”

      “What’d they want?”

      “I’m just the newsy on the street here. Gotta keep the nose clean. You were a friend of his. It was something they thought he had. Something small, something he had hidden in his place. They didn’t