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

assure you!”
    â€œThis was an execution. Did you do it?”
    â€œI salute the man who did.”
    â€œWe will speak with you again. Please do not leave town.”
    â€œHere I was born, here I remain, here I shall die. ‘ Hasta la Tumba Final .’ ”
    â€œMy wife enjoys Trio. Where do you appear?”
    â€œThe Bamba Club, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Please allow me to invite you and your esposa as my guests.”
    â€œThank you, it would be a pleasure. Hasta la pr ó xima, señor.”
    â€œA sus ó rdenes, Capit á n Morales.”
    â€œSergeant Morales.”
    An honest man, not unlike the policeman of the film, I thought. But the film had been interrupted. What happened to Marga Lopez? The truth is, these film stories are all alike; the end is always the same. Real life is so much more uncertain, take Salazar, for instance! And now, something new had been added. I had become involved in a mysterious thing, a crime. I had told Morales nothing of the sinister Filipino. Without thinking, I had become an accomplice.
    I TAKE THE “A” streetcar at Sixth and Boyle and get off at Spring Street, a ten-­minute ride. I often meet fellow musicians on the streetcars — the code­-talking black men of jazz, the card-playing Filipinos of the Temple Street dance halls, the nihilistic pachuco boogie boys — we all ride the Big Red Cars, except for the mariachis, who prefer to walk. The La Bamba Club is located in the heart of downtown. Mexicans are under curfew in the downtown area since the riots, but La Bamba enjoys a good reputation and is exempt. Modest on the outside you may say, but once inside the effect is marvelous. Brightly colored paper lanterns with tiny lights give a festive atmosphere, and there are live plants and dwarf palm trees everywhere. At one end, a good-sized stage and an ample dance floor. Full bar and dinner menu featuring Mexican dishes, such as chile rellenos a la casa and chicken enchiladas supreme. Very nice. Julio “Kid” Qui ñ ones is the bartender, with his happy-­to-­be­-alive grin and boxer’s ears. Showtime is nine o’clock. The master of ceremonies, Manuel “El Flaco” Zepeda, welcomes the audience, and then we are introduced. We usually begin with a selection of popular boleros. Boleros have a soothing effect the diners appreciate. I take requests. Ladies enjoy passing a note up to the stage, it excites them.
    This particular evening, it was the following Friday, I received a note that read: Sra Morales requests “Sin Ti.” I caught the eye of Sergeant Morales, who was accompanied by his wife and their companions de la noche. I had already made arrangements. He inclined his head toward me — everything was perfectly understood. I turned to our trumpet soloist, Angel, and said, “the Harmon mute.” The Harmon gives the trumpet a sensation of elegance and refined melancholy.
    Sin ti
    No podr é vivir jam á s
    Y pensar que nunca m á s
    Estar á s junto a mi
    Yes, it’s true, I have sung this song, perhaps a thousand times. The effect is always the same. One is immediately drawn into contemplation and reverie. The composer gives us a gift of time, a brief moment following each lyric phrase, to fully savor its meaning before passing on to the next. It is a languid pace, but one that builds emotion and strength in a most subtle way, never to distract from the mood, the intimate world of the song.
    Sin ti
    Qu é me puede ya importar
    Si lo que me hace llorar
    Est á lejos de aqu í
    The poetry is simple, the sentiment is common. But there is the art! Effortless, comfortable, each thought set before the listener like pearls strung into a necklace by the hands of a beautiful woman, one by one.
    Sin ti
    No hay clemencia en mi dolor
    La esperanza de mi amor
    Te la llevas al fin
    Now the trumpet joins in harmony as the wonderful conclusion is revealed. How did the