Los Angeles Stories. Ry Cooder

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Fifteen people were injured in a freak explosion in a quiet neighborhood on Berendo Street, near downtown Los Angeles. The blast originated at 39 Berendo, a record shop operated by one Don Brown. The building was completely destroyed. Police and firemen at the scene found the charred and fused remains of what must have been an exten­sive stockpile of shellac recordings. Sergeant Blaine McClure, of the Los Angeles Police Department, speculated that chemicals may have triggered the blast. “In a case like this, we overlook nothing. Our science boys are very alert, I can assure you.” When asked if the FBI had been notified, Sergeant McClure replied, “The LAPD is on the job, buster.” When asked if Don Brown had been located, McClure said, “We are very interested in Mr. Brown. We’ll find him.”

      Off-­duty motorcycle officer William “Bill” Spangler was taken into custody yesterday after neighbors reported that he chased his wife, Mabel, down the sidewalk brandishing his service revolver. Spangler, who had been drinking, told police that his wife had served him a tuna sandwich for lunch that had paper in it, which he showed detectives. The paper was identified as the label from a 78 recording by Louis Armstrong, a colored singer with trumpet. Sergeant McClure of the LAPD speculated that it was flotsam from the recent explosion on Berendo, one block away. The Spanglers reside at 33 Catalina Street. Neighbors told police the couple quarreled frequently and often. Spangler was quoted as saying, “I’m expected to take it and like it and go out and do this stinking job?” Mabel Spangler was unharmed, and has been released.

      ‘My Dear Mr. Montalvo. I trust this note finds you well. I have found a new home here in Spokane. I find I am enjoying new things, for instance, music! Thanks to Mr. Billy Tipton, who has proven to be a real gentleman, and you know how rare that is! Please remember me to your friend Herman. Kindest regards, Ida Kirby, General Delivery, Spokane, Washington.’

      The manager of the Bundy Theatre at Pico Boulevard and Thirty-fourth Street in Santa Monica stood outside eating a candy bar and watching the traffic. It was Wednesday, a slow night for neighborhood movie­going. The manager was a big man, three hundred pounds easy, from eating candy bars on the job. A Santa Monica city bus pulled up across the street, headed westbound toward the beach, thirty-four blocks away. A solitary rider got out and unlocked the front door at number 3406 West Pico. A sign in the window read “Jazz Man Records.” The manager watched the man enter the store and close the door. “New guy,” he said to himself. “Who the hell cares about records?” Above his head, the marquee lights stuttered on and off, making a buzzing sound like Morse code. God­damn salt air, like I don’t have expenses, he thought, and the thought made him hungry. He turned and walked back inside the theater.

      The new owners at 968 East Thirty-third Street loved the house. It was in perfect shape and priced just right for a young couple. It was after they’d been in the place a little while that the problem arose. Their dog hated the garage. He wouldn’t even go out in the backyard. He stayed in the house and shook and wouldn’t hardly eat. It drove the man crazy. “There’s nothing out there, Jerry,” he told the dog. Jerry whined and shook. Just to prove it to himself, the man got his flashlight and went out to have a look around. When he came back, he was spooked. “Honey, there’s a man in the garage sitting in the big chair. I went up to him, but he was gone. The chair was warm. I don’t know, maybe Jerry’s right after all. What the hell . . .” The woman watched the man and said nothing. Christ, she thought, I was doing all right in Spokane.

      La vida es un sueño

      1950