Low Road (21 page)

Things hadn't always been quite as bad for people of color in L.A. As far back as the turn of the century, the city was becoming a multicultural destination. Caucasians and those of African descent found themselves in the midst of a much broader ethnic makeup. The city's Spanish roots, combined with its relative proximity to Asia, made it attractive to Mexicans, Chinese, and Japanese. While black folks dealt all alone with white hatred in other regions of the country, here it was the newer citizens who often found themselves sharing the brunt of the pain. Competition between the cultures for opportunities added an element of difficulty that was largely unfamiliar to the experience of folk with common heritage. Negroes who discovered life on the West Coast and migrated early on often found what they'd been looking for. Between 1900 and 1920, there was relative prosperity. About 36 percent of the black population owned private homes, compared with just 11 percent in New Orleans and less than 3 percent in New York. Black-operated businesses popped up along Central Avenue downtown, and in 1903 businessman Theodore Troy set up the Los Angeles Forum, an agency designed to direct community growth and help black migrants in their transition. Forum members helped train others in the conduct that increased Caucasian tolerance, as whites tried to contain growth of the ghetto territory that formed around the Central Avenue Hotel.

Though black folks inhabited various L.A. neighborhoods earlier on, housing covenants eventually pressed them out of white residential areas. By 1930, the city's vast majority of Negroes were located in the overcrowded community of South Central. They were largely relegated to domestic and service jobs. But like Detroit's Black Bottom, the Avenue area developed into a place that became known for its nightlife, drawing comparisons to Harlem on the East Coast, and was home to churches, restaurants, and other businesses. Politically, there were also black leaders who emerged from the consolidation of the constituency. Supported by the large numbers of Negro voters in their district, officials like state assemblymen Frederick Roberts and Augustus Hawkins enjoyed long careers in government. As of 1940, the city ranked as America's fifth-largest, with about 1.5 million residents. In fewer than 100 years of existence, Los Angeles had grown more rapidly than most of the other municipalities in the nation.

Along with black residents, Asian and Mexican immigrants had contributed to the increase. In 1943, around the time when young men began sporting the flashy, oversized zoot suits as they walked the streets, they managed to attract the wrong sort of attention. The ensemble had become popular among Negroes, largely because of its association with jazz culture. Mexican fellows picked up the trend, fashioning their hair into ducktails to complete their slick, head-to-toe look. Zoots were considered luxury items at a time when fabric was being rationed for the war effort and were often worn for special occasions like birthday parties or dances. Their wearers might be heading into downtown L.A. to the Million Dollar Theater on Third and Broadway, or the Orpheum Theater between Eighth and Ninth, where the big bands showed up. They occasionally crossed paths with servicemen, who checked out the penny arcades where ladies worked the bar. Or they might amble down to Main Street to enjoy a burlesque show. The zoot owners, who proudly wore their hipster suits like knights in the armor of defiance, were negatively portrayed in the media. Newspapers often presented them as hoodlums in articles printed close to the latest war coverage. Perhaps that was what provoked white soldiers and sailors to physically assault the colorfully attired blacks and Mexicans without provocation. The ensuing clashes would become known as the Zoot Suit Riots. They started just about two weeks before similar hell broke loose on Detroit's Belle Isle. A June 9, 1943, article in the
Los Angeles Examiner
offered a look into the peculiar conflict:

… Harold Tabor, 32, Long Beach sailor, was severely beaten by a gang of zooters at 103rd and Graham St. He suffered a broken nose, serious facial cuts. He told officers at Georgia St. hospital that he had been visiting his sister, Dorothy Edmonson, 1133 East 103rd St.

“I was passing a pool hall en route to a grocery store when the gang hopped me,” he said.

George Lorigo, 19, was arrested on a charge of battery after Tabor's beating. The sailor was later transferred to Long Beach naval hospital for X-ray examination.

Two soldiers and a Negro zoot suiter were taken into custody after a riot at the corner of Second and Spring Sts. And police, cruising throughout the city in scouting forays, dispersed mobs, hunted for others. Police ordered groups of more than three to “break it up” everywhere in the downtown area, and the presence of armed officers on every street resembled martial law rule. Two officers were stationed on every corner of Main, Spring and Broadway, between First St. and Pico Blvd. Two more officers were in the center of each block.

Squads of riot breakers, packed 18 in a truck, roamed the city, investigated mob reports, arrested suspects. Traffic on Main St. was bumper to bumper, moving slowly as city officials tried [sic] to solve the zoot suit problem.

Navy shore patrol officers and Bagley army military police added to the martial law resemblance. They walked in and out of bars, dancehalls, drug stores, bus stations. They kept servicemen on the move, asked for proof of leaves and liberties.

One of the most serious outbreaks of terrorism occurred in Watts. There, three PE trains were stoned. At least three passengers were injured by shattered glass windows … Gangsterism in Watts continued into the early hours of today. Twelve Negroes ambushed a 17-year-old white high school student, asked him if he was a “zoot suiter” and when he said “no,” the fight started. The victim, Joe M. Steddum of 8834 Banders St., Watts, received a five-inch cut on his left forehead, requiring six stitches at the emergency hospital, 3060 Slauson St., to mend.

Police took Daniel Malone into custody at Sixth and Main Sts. when they discovered a long club hidden down his pants leg.

Servicemen continued to roam the city's streets through all this hectic night despite the “out of bounds” order issued at 3:15 yesterday afternoon. It came from Rear Adm. D. W. Bagley, a commandant of the 11th Naval district in San Diego, and addressed to all activities, it read: “Until further notice, except for special occasions approved by the commanding officer, the city of Los Angeles will be out of bounds for all enlisted personnel of the naval services not attached to the stations within this city, or in travel status. Activities located in the city of Los Angeles will, except in special cases, grant liberty to married men or those subsisted off stations.”

Augmented police forces continued their roundup of riot suspects, meanwhile. Arrests of zoot suiters were reported in all sections of the county … But zoot suit panty gangs of hoodlums continued to lose their trousers to servicemen, and in many cases nearly lost what was in 'em.

The slanted coverage continued, often depicting zoots as the aggressors. Largely in response to the episodes, a multiracial coalition was formed among Mexican and Negro activists. This alliance included newly formed special-interest groups that joined in the effort to prevent additional violence against the zoots. They also protested job discrimination and assisted Japanese in America as they relocated from confinement camps. The cultural aesthetic of L.A. had changed, of course, by the 1970s. Though it was still a multicultural mecca, long hair, halter tops, and bell bottoms were among universally popular choices in fashion. When Donnie and Shirley arrived in Los Angeles, they settled in the Western Avenue area, composed of mainly apartments and some individual home dwellings.

With his lady along, Donnie met with Bentley Morriss at the Holloway House office. He struck the publisher as being very different from the type of material he submitted. Donnie was quiet and unassuming, with no outward resemblance to the characters he crafted. Morriss found Donnie pliable and receptive. Holloway House bought Donnie an electric typewriter. They knew he wrote longhand, and without Joanie available to provide her services, making his work presentable for publication would be a big hassle if he weren't handed the proper tools. Knowing that he was still fairly new to the game, the editors handled Donnie with care. They would discuss things like scene-setting and how to flesh out his stories. There had been no contractual stipulation about the number of books Donnie was to write. Needing the money, he would simply say something like, “I've got an idea…” and the process would begin. They never required an outline. Now and then, Donnie would head over to 8060, and he and Morriss would go to lunch together. As Morriss had cultivated a relationship with Iceberg Slim, he liked to believe that he and Donnie eventually became friends.

Shirley came across as a supportive and devoted partner. When she got the opportunity, she would often share her concern about Donnie with his newfound colleagues in the business. L.A. had its own smack connections, and, in spite of his efforts, it didn't seem to take long before Donnie discovered them. Unlike any number of addicts who would drift off into oblivion after injecting themselves with heroin, Donnie would generally nod out for a couple of minutes, then wake up and immediately find his way to the typewriter. Wong had become like medication; its high, the equivalent of relief from a severe illness. Drugs still had a hold on him, and, with added stress, all he could do was continue to fight. With the cost of his habit added to their combined budget, money became tight for Donnie and Shirley. Every now and then, he would do something that reflected a lapse in judgment. As had been his way for a good while, he liked to gamble on occasion. At least once, he traveled from L.A. to Las Vegas. For whatever changes he made in his conduct, Donnie never quite shed that hustler mentality. He continued hoping for the big payoff. And so far, books didn't appear to be the means by which he could expect to receive it. But things didn't go well during the Nevada trip. Donnie blew all his shit. It hadn't been the same as playing cards and shooting craps the way he did as an adolescent. Folks in Vegas were unsympathetic. Holloway House had to bail him out. Back in L.A., Bentley Morriss pondered the writer's missteps and problems. Donnie seemed to have a constant affinity for drawing tragedy to his life. As a result, Holloway House was constantly faced with the possibility of receiving that desperate and unexpected phone call. Morriss accepted the trade-off of occasional trouble in exchange for the author's talent. In the end, it was a choice he wouldn't regret.

Conversely, Donnie had already been having misgivings about his relationship with the publisher. It may have been irrational, but he felt the company wasn't supporting him enough. One neatly typed, undated letter to an unidentified publishing house representative, or perhaps written as a general query, revealed his thoughts:

Sir,

I am trying to find a publisher who might be interested in handling my work. At this time, I have twelve novels on the market. As far as sales are concerned, I think they are selling quite well.

He stated that his two best novels,
Whoreson
and
Dopefiend,
were each approaching 100,000—
Whoreson
at 80,753;
Dopefiend
at 88,276 copies sold. The third fastest moving, he wrote, was
Black Gangster,
with 45,652. Out of either a watchful paranoia or a seldom displayed business sense, Donnie had checked on the figures.

Now what I am interested in is getting a better contract. I won't mention what I'm getting now, but you more than likely have a very good idea of what I'm knocking down. If you are interested in doing business with me, please write and let me know how much you would be willing to pay. If we can come to terms, I'll send you a novel in about a month.

Sincerely, Donald Goines

He signed in pen but never sent the original. More curiously, despite the fact that he chose to relocate, it listed 17186 Maine as the return address, suggesting that it was written before he ever left Detroit. But the market for black readership wouldn't have provided him with many other options, and Holloway House was pleased with his progress. Where the book sales were concerned, there appeared few reasons for them not to be. Still, they knew there was another issue. On a day when Donnie and Shirley showed up at the office together, Bentley Morriss thought he would try his hand at intervention. When Shirley excused herself, he pulled Donnie's coat about the heroin problem.

“Look,” he started. “I'm not a saint and I'm not a psychologist, but I think what you're doing, Donald, is not good for you.”

Donnie always behaved like a perfect gentleman in their meetings. He wasn't rude at all with his response.

“I've got it under control,” he said. But he lied. He hadn't managed to truly get it under control since the first time he encountered smack. There remained, however, an entirely different element that Donnie found even more impossible to manipulate in his favor. Befitting its tradition, the LAPD remained an oppressive presence in the community. Having been a criminal, it was fair to say Donnie had developed a natural aversion to police officers. But there was something about this particular element of cop that seemed more hateful to him. These cops didn't even know who the hell he was. His frequent drug possession notwithstanding, he hadn't committed the types of crime that attracted most of the attention he received from police back home. It seemed that Los Angeles officers fucked with him simply because they could. Combined with the money trouble, it was all beginning to be too much for him. He vented his frustrations into the typewriter. This time, there was no fiction in any of the words. Across the top of the first page, Donnie scribbled “Private Thoughts on a Lonely Sunday, Sept. 1, 1973”:

This is just a brief account on this Sunday afternoon … To awaken broke, without enough money to buy smokes is a feeling that I [know]. To awaken without enough money to buy cigarettes is just about rock bottom, which is a form of life that I can't ever seem to overcome. I have been poor so long that its become sickening. Today, I fussed with my woman over ten dollars; I needed the money to get a fix so that I could type. True, I really need a fix to be able to write. If I don't fix, my mind comes to a standstill. The only thing I can think about is, “Where and how can I get a fix?”