Little Boy Blue (33 page)

Wedo knew his way through the back stairways
of the newspaper building. Alex waited in a stairwell until Wedo came back,
shaking his head. Hank was out on his job for the next hour or so.

“Fuck it,” Wedo said.
“Let’s go fuck around Main Street for a couple of hours. Check out
the fruiters and hustling broads. We can come back later.”

“That sounds okay, man.”

Fifteen minutes later they were at Sixth and
Main, where the neon was most garish and music spilled from the opened doors of
sawdust-floored cocktail lounges. Some music was Mexican, heavy with guitars,
raucous voices, and sadness; some was rhythm and blues; some was country and
western, and some was the popular music of the era—Jo Stafford and
Frankie Laine. The sidewalks were crowded with
servicemen
,
whores, and homosexuals—and with those who preyed on all of them. The
pungent odors from hot-dog stands mingled with the music. Alex inhaled the
sights and sounds of raw life beneath the multihued, flashing signs. He wanted
to look at the photographs of strippers outside the Burbank Theater, L.A.’s
burlesque house, but Wedo kept moving and Alex followed. An apron-garbed Negro
at a shoeshine stand greeted Wedo by name, grinning to show a solid-gold front
tooth. His own shoes were obviously very expensive, and a moment later
Alex saw why. The shoeshine man slipped something into Wedo’s palm, and
then Wedo asked Alex for five dollars. “I copped some joints and a roll
of bennies. Ever take any bennies?”

“Just once,” Alex lied, certain
that Wedo meant Benzedrine.

At the next
hot-dog
stand they shared an orange drink and washed down the flat, white tablets with
the X on them. Alex hid his mild trepidation while waiting to feel whatever was
coming.

“I know what we can do,” Wedo
said. “See a camarada of mine. He’s an old vato about forty.
He’s been in the joint twice. Him and his old
lady
stay in a hotel over near Angel’s Flight. Wanna do that?”

As with everything concerning Wedo so far,
Alex agreed without a hesitant thought. They trudged more blocks, out of the
bawdy area, through a darkness-abandoned financial district, and then up a
sloping alley in a zone of seedy resident hotels. Wedo led them through a side
door and up the rear stairs. The hallway’s carpeting was worn beyond
threadbare; one of the two bare light bulbs was burned out. Wedo moved silently
despite the metal taps on his shoes. He scratched softly rather than knocked.
Alex knew a hard knock would upset those within. He expected a man in a
shoulder holster to crack the door, but when it was opened, it was by a haggard
woman in her thirties. She wore a cheap cotton dress, and a dirty-faced toddler
was holding the hem. In the corner a baby gurgled with its bottle in a dresser
drawer converted to a crib. Through an open door the bathroom was visible; next
to the door was a table with bread, eggs, canned food, and an electric hot
plate.

“Hi, pretty Alice,” Wedo said,
giving the woman a hug and a peck on her cheek. “Where’s your old
man?”

“Charlie? God knows,” she said, a
note of bitterness in her voice. “He cut out two hours ago… said
he’d be right back. He’s probably waitin’ for the
connection.”

“Oh, Alice, is he fuckin’ around
with that shit again?”

She nodded and snickered. “We’re
in this goddamn bustout hotel with two kids, I go out hustling my ass, and
he’s fuckin’ around with that needle again. I swear—”

“But he’s your old man,
baby.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,
especially around strangers. Who’s this kid?”

“My pal Alex.
You don’t mind if we wait, do you?”

“No, find some room and get
comfortable. Sit on the bed if you want.” She started toward the
bathroom, gathering an outfit of clothes from the bed, obviously intending to
put them on. “There’s just some wine, if you want a drink. Over
there.”

They poured one glass (they found just one
glass) of unchilled white wine to share and sat on the edge of the pulldown
bed, waiting for Charlie. During the wait, the Benzedrine tablets exploded,
sending nearly electrical energy through Alex’s body and brain. It
wasn’t like being drunk or on marijuana, but it was definitely
“high.” He felt more alive than ever before in his life. Thoughts
raced through him pell-mell, but cleanly and precisely. He wanted to chatter
like a magpie, but Wedo obviously felt the same way, and he got the floor
first. The occasional stutter and the street Mexican inserts fell away for the
most part. In slums, barrios, and ghettos, and even more so in reform school,
there was a high premium on being able to fight, to “kick ass and take
names.” Conversation often revolved around violence. Alex now had his own
tales of brawls and sneak punches to tell—but he’d never listened
to anyone like Wedo, who apparently was the “baddest motherfucker”
around, according to his stories. Now he was apparently incensed at someone
named Don but neglected to say why. He got more fired up while talking, as if
his own voice and the Benzedrine added to his fury. “I’ll kick that
punk motherfucker’s ass… cocksucking punk!” He compared what
he was going to do with other exploits in the past, describing in detail and
with great relish how he’d punched this guy or stomped that one.
Initially Alex listened without question, but twenty minutes later, when
Wedo’s mouth had foam at the corners, Alex felt that the talk was too
extreme. Alex lacked an interpretation, but he wondered if something was wrong
with his friend in this particular area. Wedo seemed obsessed with
convincing the world how tough he was. Alex found his attention wandering to
the dirty-faced toddler, who was playing with a toy truck on the carpet.

The knock on the door was nearly the same as
Wedo’s, a soft scratching. Charlie’s voice followed, calling,
“Alice.”

Wedo opened the door and Charlie came in
quickly, followed by a light-skinned, tall black man in a raincoat and
processed hair. Charlie was small-boned, with a hooked nose and shifty eyes.
His voice was slurred and husky as he was introduced to Alex. Wedo caught
Alex’s eye and winked.

Now the hotel room was crowded. The black
man, introduced as “Dog” Collins, perched on a hard-backed chair
near the door— and moments later his head sank on his chest. The
cigarette in his hand dropped to the floor. Charlie picked it up and put it
out.

“Hey, baby, I’m back,” Charlie
said, knocking on the bathroom door. The woman answered, but the words were
muffled.

“So
whaddya been
up to?” Charlie asked.

“Fuckin’
around.
How you
doing?”

“Same old shit, tryin’ to make a
buck. But the heat’s on and we can’t work the bus station.”

“Charlie’s one of the best short
con men on the West Coast,” Wedo explained. “He plays The Match and
The Strap.”

Alex nodded as if he knew what they were.
“I know a couple colored guys who play con games. They were in the joint,
too.” When nobody said anything, Alex added: “Red Barzo and First
Choice Floyd.”

At those names, the nodding black man raised
his head. “You know them suckers, huh?” (“Suckers” was
said fondly.) “Where’d you meet them?”

“In Camarillo.
They were takin’ a cure.”

“What were you doin’
there?”

“Seein’ if I was nuts. I shot
some guy and the judge wanted to see what was wrong with me.”

The Negro junky grinned. “After fuckin’
with them fools you probably went crazy.”

“Alex split from reform school,”
Wedo offered.
“Him and my chick’s brother.”

“Say, Wedo,” Charlie said,
“you said you wanted to learn to play short con. What happened?”

“Ah, Charlie, man—you know that
ain’t me. I can use force, but I ain’t got the right kind of nerves
for playin’ no con game.”

“What’s ‘short
con’?” Alex asked.

“It’s any con game that takes
place all at once. I mean, you knock the mark in for whatever he’s got in
his pocket. We work the sheds, the train station and bus depot. People
traveling usually have cash in their pockets. Ain’t many of ‘em
come
back across half a dozen states to testify. They
don’t get any money back. What’s wrong now is that the bunco
squad’s got everybody’s picture. The motherfuckers know us on
sight so we can’t work the sheds. I wanted to school Wedo so he could
steer the suckers out to us.”

Alex smiled and nodded as if thoroughly
understanding; actually he had a mere glimmer of what Charlie was saying.

“I’d like to learn that
shit—how to play bunco.”

“No bullshit?”

“Sure. I’m interested in learning
everything.”

“Once you qualify a sucker, make sure
he’s right, it’s like a script. You say something, your partner
says something,
you
say the next line, and so on. Want
me to run it to you?”

“Damn right—but I couldn’t
learn it this fast. We ain’t got time right now. Can you write it down
for me?”

“Yeah, in a day or
two.”

Alice came out of the bathroom and poured
herself a glass of white wine. Alex ignored what Wedo and Charlie were saying,
for he was glancing at the woman. She’d metamorphosed from drab slattern
to brazen hussy. Clothes and makeup did it. Close inspection showed a pot
belly pressing the satin dress, but she was still sexually attractive. Her body
was good, her ass round, and the line of her panties showed. Alex trembled
between his legs.

Finishing the wine, Alice put on a long coat,
kissed Charlie on the cheek, and headed for the door. When she was gone, Wedo
said, “Hey, Charlie, how come you stick that shit in your arm? It’s
killin’ you. You could be drivin’ around in a Caddy and livin’
in a choice pad. Instead you’re in this flophouse and your old
lady’s out turning tricks.”

“Hey, hey!”
Charlie said. “Get off my back, man.”

“I know I got better sense than to fuck
with that shit.”

“You ever take a fix?”

“No.”

“So how can you judge what it
is?”

“I ain’t been dead yet
either—but I can dig when I see the maggots eating somebody’s body.
I don’t like it. And I can see what happens to everybody who gets hooked
on heroin.”

Charlie made a flatulent noise with his lips,
making Wedo blush. For several minutes they sat in silence, watching the Negro
“nod.”

“We gotta split,” Wedo said
finally.

As they approached the door, Charlie said,
“Alex, man, if you really wanna learn to play The Strap, short con, get
in touch. Like I said, we need somebody to catch the suckers and steer them
outdoors.”

“Yeah, man, that sounds like something
I’d wanna learn.”

Going down the stairs Alex asked,
“What’s she cost?”

“Who’s that? Oh…
Charlie’s old
lady
? Alice? She’s ten and
two.
Ten for her and two for the room.”

“Man, she’s worth that.
She’s got a fine body for an old chick.”

Wedo stopped, grabbed his arm.
“Hey, carnal, back off.
We don’t do things like
that. He’s a partner.”

“But she’s a whore, ain’t
she? She sells herself.”

“Right—but we still don’t
do that shit. Tricks are that—tricks. Not
friends,
or friends of her old man. Buyin’ pussy is okay,
there’s
plenty of young, fine whores
around—if you wanna be a trick. But
you don’t trick with a friend. No sirree, carnal.
Bad
scene.”

Alex understood about Charlie’s woman,
but about being a trick, he again remembered Red Barzo saying, “I’m
laying to be rich enough to pay a hundred dollars for pussy.”

Wedo missed the implication. “A
trick’s a trick.”

“I just want to
fuck—anybody.”

“You act like you’ve never had
any pussy before.”

Night and neon hid Alex’s fiery blush.
“Sure, man, whaddya think? But I’ve been busted for almost two
years.” Alex thought his own voice had a croak of confession.
Wedo’s gust of laughter made him feel even more stupid and embarrassed.
It was so bad that he started to become angry.

“I forgot,” Wedo said, snapping
his fingers in inspiration, laughing more. “Yeah,
ese
,
I got an idea to get you some fine pussy for free.”

“Where, man?”

“Down the road.
It’s a hustling chick, young and tender…
if you don’t mind burning some coal.”

“What’s that? I don’t want
some scag.”

“She’s a nigger—but just a
little.
Coffee with lots of cream in it.
We’re
gonna tell her you are a cherry, a full cherry, plus you just split from reform
school. I’ll bet she gives you a play, carnal
!“
With that, Wedo tugged Alex’s sleeve to change their direction, ducking
through the increasingly seedy crowd of pedestrians as they went east on Fifth
Street toward Central Avenue.

Every block was a seedier world than the
last. Garish transvestites with their boisterous mannerisms seemed to be
everywhere on one block, overflowing the fag bars to make little groups on the
sidewalk. Their rouge and lipstick and affected movements created grotesque
parodies of women—and for some reason Alex remembered a short story,
maybe by Poe, where there was a masked bacchanal during a plague—maybe it
was smallpox—and when the masks were removed all the people were really
dead. Exactly how the macabre tale related to drag queens in downtown L.A. was
beyond Alex, but it was what came to mind. He would never admit it, but he had
a sneaking respect for some faggots he’d met, not any as flamboyant as
these but still very obvious ones. He’d found them better-educated and
more intelligent than most of the others he met in cages. So far he hadn’t
found a partner who ever read a book; when he mentioned books, their faces
looked as if he’d said cod-liver oil.