Los Angeles Stories by Ry Cooder Page B

hotel.”
    â€œOh, sure, that’s the fun part,” said the blond, “I’ve never been. Wait ’til Maxine hears!”
    â€œSure,” Billy said right on top of it. “Wait till your friends hear about who you got to meet. Hey, Al Maphis, tell them who’s going to be there!” Billy gave me the look. I took it.
    â€œGirls, pick up on this. There is a VIP here in town to see Billy about a very big deal. I’m sure I can rely on you to keep it under you hat.”
    â€œMums the word!” said the blond, getting excited.
    â€œHis name is Johnny Dollar, and he is a top gambler in Los Angeles. When he meets a person for the first time, he gives them a silver dollar just to remember him by, and that goes for you, me and the lamppost. Johnny digs people, he wants everybody to have a blast when he’s around.”
    â€œA gambler?” asked the brunette. Her resistance was fading. Free drinks and food were winning out.
    â€œJohnny’s the man with the action-­packed expense account,” Billy said. “You never can tell. Everything will be in the line of hilarity.” She put her arm around the blond and gave her a squeeze. Deal closed, I could smell it.
    Hick-­town hotels are a real pain in the ass, as you know. No coloreds, no unescorted women, no drinking, no gambling. Billy had a suite on the top floor, the fourth. The management was not with it. It was “Right this way, Mr. Tipton. A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Tipton,” et cetera. I rode up with Billy and the two girls.
    Billy sent the bellhop out for liquor and sandwiches. The girls checked out the suite. They dug the king-­size bed; they bounced up and down on it, laughing and carrying on. Billy sat there and watched. The blond, her name was Betty Newlands, had nice juicy little legs, and she could really bounce. “Betty’s a cheerleader at school,” Joyce, the brunette, explained. Betty really bounced. She lifted her dress up like cheerleaders do, showing off her underpants. “Betty, put your dress down !” Joyce said. Suddenly I was back in Oklahoma. I saw the white sheets, the burning cross, I felt the heat.
    â€œAl, why don’t you take Joyce over to the sitting room and get her something to eat and drink?” Billy told me. Billy had eyes, she was juked.
    I steered Joyce out and closed the bedroom door. “Let’s see. There’s ham, cheese, ham and cheese, and some of these little cocktail tamales, Joyce, honey. Here’s scotch, bourbon, and ginger ale. Bet you’re ready for a plate and a drink. I’m feeling a little warm, how ’bout a tall cool one? How’s that going to be? Let’s play the radio. Look, we’re all the way up on the fourth floor, look out there.” Two blocks past the hotel, Kingman quit trying. The desert stretched out for a hundred miles, maybe more.
    Joyce got a tamale plate. “I never tried these before,” she said. I fixed her a weak high­ball and made myself a stiff one.
    â€œThose are Mexican tamales. Pork on the inside, corn on the outside.” Just like you , honey . I was getting a bad feeling, like when the sax player solos in the wrong key and there’s nothing you can do about it. Schoolgirl held captive . Public demands justice .
    â€œMy daddy told us to always stay away from Mexicans.”
    â€œThat’s good advice. Drink your drink, honey.”
    â€œWhere is everybody? When does the party start?” Joyce asked. In the bedroom, it was quiet. The party had started. Right on cue, there was a knock at the door of the suite. I knew it was a bad mistake, but I opened it. There was a man in a Western-­cut sharkskin suit, polished black cowboy boots, and a Stetson city ­brim like gamblers wear. His clothes cost more than I make in six months of steady work. Six-feet-four, narrow and hard like a telephone pole. Just kill me, por favor , I thought.
    â€œI heard