Los Angeles Stories by Ry Cooder Page A

in the place. Blood was shed on a routine basis over who’d be next in line. One night, my dad walked in there and told her we were moving to California. A big man, probably some oil­ field roustabout, told Daddy to get out of Dodge. Dad was in uniform, and he drew his service revolver and told the man to step aside in the name of the law. The man grabbed the gun and beat my daddy over the head with it, and he beat him down to the floor while the crowd watched. That was the end of my parents’ marriage and my dad’s career in law enforcement. He drifted off and we never saw him again, only heard tell. Mamma died of a busted liver five years later. I got the news of her death in Catoosa, Oklahoma, while I was onstage. A man in the audience passed a note up. I played on, what else could I do? Mamma loved rhythm. One thing I learned in Tulsa was that things go better if you can front as a white man, daddy’s example notwithstanding. Doesn’t always work, but that’s my theory. I told Smokey when we started traveling together: let me do the talking. “No problema, mi jefe,” he said.
    I washed up and went downstairs. Smokey was there with his nose in a bowl of tripe soup, the Mexican cure for hangover. “Too much pussy,” he said.
    â€œForget it. We got a real chance here. It’s going to fit together, it’s going to work.”
    â€œNo tengo that much jam, jefecito.” Smokey ate his tripe soup with a worried look.
    Harry Spivak said there was a group from the high school for the matinee and we had better act like gentlemen. Pianist Billy Tipton had just got into town. That was supposed to be hot, a personal appear­ance by a known celebrity in a hick burg like Kingman. I had worked a previous engagement with Billy in the Dallas–Fort Worth area, so we were acquainted. Billy had a career in show business that was unusual. She had been pulling it off working as a man for years. She wore her hair cut short and styled tailored gabardine suits with a bow ­tie, her trademark. A regular tie would stick out, you dig. Billy dug women — like who doesn’t? — and the word was she got more ass than a toilet seat. She had the hicks fooled but good. So Billy says, “Ladies and gentlemen, especially you ladies! Right about now, for your dancing and listening pleasure, the Billy Tipton Orchestra is pleased to offer you a rendition of a little number titled, ‘I Didn’t Know What Time It Was.’ Take it away, Al Maphis!”
    I took it. Billy was actually a very swinging piano man. “Falling in Love Again” was a special number featuring a vocal by Billy: “Love is my game, I play it how I may. Guess I was made that way, I can’t help it.” The high school girls were intrigued. Billy sat at the piano and signed autographs. That’s a square hustle, in my opinion. People think they want a memento to take away; then they forget all about it and lose the paper in the parking lot. The girls crowded around the piano and seemed to go wild for her. Him, I should say. They were just ordinary white kids; they didn’t know what time it was.
    Billy was suave, I checked her out. I loitered nearby. She picked up on two girls in particular, a blond and her friend, a plump little brunette. Two friends together, that’s good trolling. They feel safe with each other, and you can cut them out of the pack. Billy says, “I’m having a little party back at the hotel. Some friends of mine from town. How ’bout you girls ride with me in the limbo?” Billy had a husky voice for a woman.
    â€œWhat’s a limbo, Mr. Tipton?” asked the blond girlie.
    â€œI meant limo, that’s just musician talk, you know how it is with entertainers, how we like to kid around, you’re gonna know everyone at the party, we’ll have a ball!”
    The brunette said, “Well, I don’t know about going to a