Los Angeles Stories. Ry Cooder

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?”

      “Man, what news?” I said.

      “Johnny shot dead, backstage, at the 5­4 Ballroom!”

      “The 5­4? Somebody killed old Johnny?”

      “He 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.”

      “Let’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 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.

      “I’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.”

      “I’ve been trying to get at the truth. Nobody seems interested.”

      “You were seen talking to that boy from the Sentinel. What’d he offer you, ’cause we can top it.”

      “You can top the truth?”

      “Very definitely. We can let you breathe. Have a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Montalvo.”

      “Ray 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 look into it and see what might be done. The truth is you could almost see the cloud over my shop since Johnny died. Lenny the barber had stopped coming by for coffee when the two cops started parking out in front at lunchtime giving everybody the eye and tossing their cigarette butts all over the sidewalk.

      A custom tailor is sort of a confidence man. It’s a confidential job, and it makes a man watchful and a little lonely. Other people wear the clothes you make, they go out and drink and do the Hucklebuck. That’s all right, it’s in the nature of the work. But a tailor under surveil­lance is all through. The vout just ran out. T-Bone Walker stopped by in his new Lincoln Continental. He said, “I think you better mooove way out on the outskirts of town!” T-Bone was on his way up. I had heard something about a new tailor on Sunset Boulevard.

      “Ramildo of Hollywood! El Último en Charro!” read the new business card. I moved my sewing machine and the gabardine over to Gus’s place on First, two blocks down from the Mariachi Hotel in Garibaldi Plaza. I told everyone that I was taking over and discounting all work ten dollars just to get acquainted. They were all very polite and very sorry about Gus. He was family to them, but I am a different color, see, and they didn’t quite believe the whole nephew bit. You’ve noticed how furniture salesmen stand in the door and watch the street? I started doing the same thing, looking up and down the street for hours at a time. I announced a 30 ­percent discount and free hat, one to a customer. Folks waved and smiled, but nobody wanted a suit or a hat or even a belt buckle. I tried hanging out in Garibaldi Plaza, but every time they started up blasting those trumpets, it made my teeth hurt.

      One day, two pachuco kids came into the shop. They looked to be about twenty, five­-six and very skinny, not your charro body type. Kiko and Smiley, by name. They employed a trick handshake I wasn’t familiar with. “What can Ramildo of Hollywood do for you cats?” I asked cheer­fully. “The first sombrero is free!”

      “Queremos un zoot,” they both said at once.

      “Reet! I cut suits for the Ace of Spades, rest his soul. Maybe you heard of him?”

      “Ay te huatcho, vato.” Seemed like they had.

      “So, two full-­drape zoots. Color?”

      Smiley said, “Uno. We trade off.”

      “Oh, I dig you now, you want to share it. Well, it happens this is zoot special week, and I can do you a suit and two pair of pants for the price. That way, you’re dressed, you both look good.”

      “Órale! En púrpuro!” They laid twenty dollars in ones on me as a deposit without being asked and bopped off down the street. Two days later they were back with more ones and some silver, but I said make it twenty bucks total, a steal. They were ecstatic about it, and they both looked sharp and ready. “Fall by any time,” I told them. “Don’t be strangers.”

      The big deal in retail ready-­to­-wear was the Victor Clothing Company, at 214 South Broadway. Leo “Sunshine” Fonerow had dreamed up the idea of credit layaway. You could buy anything in the store for $2.50 down and $2.50 a week. It worked like a charm and Leo became a rich man dressing the poor. He kept six tailors working around the clock doing alterations. One old man, Daddy Bassey, dropped dead pinning trouser cuffs, and I hurried in to see if I could nail the position. I told Leo I would do the work at home at a discount, and he hired me. Alterations were due back Friday