Free Los Angeles Stories by Ry Cooder Page A

his name was never known outside the group, as far as I know.”
    I was astonished: behind every door, a strange world. “What do you want me to do?” I asked.
    â€œPlease come to the hospital tomorrow, in the afternoon. Go to the TB ward and tell them you are a relative of Mr. Bulosan. Carlos Bulosan.”
    â€œMUY BUENOS DIAS, M ’ IJO ,” said the walls. “You’ve been away so long!”
    â€œBuenos dias,” I answered back. The same yellow-­green, the same iron beds, the terrible smell.
    â€œThe man you want is right over there. You grew a little, congratulations!”
    The chart had a graph, the graph tended downward. Bulosan, C., seemed to be asleep. Compact, Asiatic face. Hair worn long, slicked back. Small bones, pain lines. He opened his eyes. Cat­like, dreamy. They fooled you a little, I found out later.
    â€œHow do I look?” he asked.
    â€œI’ve seen worse. My grandfather and my sister died in here.”
    â€œThis room didn’t take you. You’re lucky, so far.” A soft, high-pitched voice, like the top tenor in a trio. He coughed — a harsh rattle.
    â€œI’m happy to have a little luck once and a while,” I replied. Too much, and fate pays a call. La Visita, my grandmother called it.
    â€œRose chose you.”
    â€œI will do what Rose asks.”
    â€œYou have a friend with the police. Sergeant Morales. He is investigating the death of Salazar, the newspaper man. What does he know? Whom does he suspect?”
    â€œHe questioned me, he mentioned an unknown man seen leaving the theater. I don’t know what he is doing.”
    â€œFind out.” Talking was a great strain. Bulosan began to cough with a force that lifted his body off the bed. I felt myself collapsing inside. Many eyes watched me leave the long room. Is he coming to stay with us? — the eyes wondered. “Come back soon, m’ijo, we’ll have a party!” the walls called out.
    I was in terrible pain. My bones hurt, my head hurt. Somehow, I got back to the Edmund. The TB ward had frightened me, it made me sick. La Bamba was out of the question, the thought of the place nau­seated me. Rose had provided enough morphine. I injected myself, the first time without her. The needle hit a vein right away, gracias a dios. Right away. But I remained on edge. Wary. I lay on the sofa, drifting down the devil’s highway of pain. A brutal road with little shrines to the dead everywhere: Aida Manzano, my mother; Mateo Manzano, my father; Ignacio Abrego, my grandfather. Then something called me back. There was a man in my room. Not a man, but a figure made of leaves. He made no sound, he had no outline, no substance, but the light from my reading lamp gave him form. He moved abruptly, gesturing in an anxious, pleading way. What do you want? I’m sick; leave me alone, I begged. He opened the door and turned back to me as if to say, you must follow.
    I walked west on Sixth Street. The Leafman darted ahead, crouching here and there behind trees, appearing and disappearing in the light of the street lamps, leading me on. The Red Car came lumbering along, the “A” line. I climbed aboard and took a window seat. Leafman ran down the sidewalk, in and out of the light, hiding behind trees, watching me. The streetcar lurched and bucked along at a frantic rate of speed. You may say I was terrified. The conductor turned to me. Not a man, but an eggplant! An eggplant, dressed in a motorman’s suit and cap! Faceless, featureless. He barked like a dog. The trolley door swung open directly in front of the Central Police Station. A black sedan pulled up to the curb, tires screeching. Sergeant Morales called out, “Buenas noches, my friend, I have been looking for you!” The rear door opened, unseen hands shoved me inside. The car pulled out onto Grand Avenue. “Where to, Sarge?” the driver turned his head to ask. A potato in an LAPD