Read Online Los Angeles Stories by Ry Cooder - Free Book Online

sacrifices her own happiness in order to support her younger sister in an upper-­class religious boarding school. By night, the woman earns a little money as a taxi dancer in the famous dance hall, Salon Mexico, a place we musicians know well. The principal male character was that of a sympathetic policeman, played by the great Miguel Inclan, who watches over her in a fervor of unrequited love. Que emoci ó n!
    A half­ hour had gone by when a latecomer arrived and took the empty seat next to Salazar. A man, slender, with wavy black hair worn long and heavy with pomade in the manner of the Filipino. His coat was wet, so it had begun to rain. A little time went by. I listened, I concentrated. The Marga Lopez character was trapped in a brutal relationship with a dance­-hall pimp, played by the repulsive Rodolfo Acosta — a bully who forces her into danz ó n contests and then takes the prize money for himself. Desperate, she steals the money back, the pimp beats her, but the heroic policeman bursts in on the scene and declares, “Hit a man, you are so macho!” The two men struggle. The woman escapes. The policeman is victorious but wounded. He looks for her at Salon Mexico. She weeps with gratitude. The policeman weeps with gratitude for having had the opportunity of defending her honor! Wonderful! Sensational!
    At that point the Filipino rose from his seat and left. Odd, I thought. Unless, of course, he can no longer tolerate the noxious presence of Salazar, who actually seemed to be asleep. Ay caramba, por eso! The monster sleeps through the film, then goes out and butchers it in the newspaper! But I was now able to see the top half of the screen. The policeman reveals his love and devotion. He offers his hand; he is not offended by her degraded lifestyle, her humiliation. But she refuses him! She is unworthy, his reputation and position are at stake, and so on. The social order must be maintained, the woman must pay the price; it was ever thus. “No llores m á s,” the policeman entreats her, but we know the trail of tears must go on and on. “ Pa’ Qu é Me Sirve La Vida ,” as the mariachis say.
    Suddenly, shouts rang out in the theater. “Sangre! Mucha sangre!” The house lights came on. I smelled blood, it was true. I know the smell, my uncle was a poultry butcher and it was my task as a child to pluck the chickens. I saw at once that the blood flowed from beneath Salazar’s chair. I touched his back, and he toppled over onto the floor. A butcher’s flaying knife protruded from the back of his neck. “Le gusta el pleito, el Filipino,” as my grandmother used to say. She was very old, but I remember her well, with her pince-­nez glasses and her habit of cigar smoking, in the manner of the comic actress Dona Sara Garcia.
    The police arrived. Sergeant Morales was put in command of the situation. Morales is a man necessary to the conduct of police business among the Spanish-speaking population. Owing to my proximity to the deceased, I was the first to be questioned.
    â€œDid you accompany Salazar to the theatre?”
    â€œCertainly not!”
    â€œBut he sat very near to you.”
    â€œYes, unfortunately.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?”
    â€œBecause I couldn’t see the screen.”
    â€œWhat did you have against him?”
    â€œHe was a man despised by everyone in this theater. Ask them all, you will get the same answer.” The innocent man has nothing to fear, nothing to hide, my grandfather was fond of saying, pero, no diga a la pol i c í a tu nombre proprio.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œHe was a one-­man judge, jury, and executioner. He abused his position. He insulted Marga Lopez, myself, everyone.”
    â€œHow did he insult you? Who are you? What is your trade?”
    â€œI am no tradesman, but an artiste, a musician and singer. ‘Acts like a man, looks like a chicken!’ He’s better off dead, I