Los Angeles Stories by Ry Cooder

didn’t even breathe. Then all hell broke loose. Ida started hissing and snarling like a bobcat. Her face got all pinched up, and she said through clenched teeth in a voice like a buzz saw, “ I want my records you took my records those records are MINE!!! ” She fell on the floor and lay there writhing and hissing and clawing at herself. Herman got up and went out of the room. He came back with a hammer and one of Mr. Ida’s 78s. He read the label out loud: “The Growlin’ Baby Blues, Blind Lemon Jefferson, colored blues singer with guitar, the Paramount label, 1926.” Herman took the record over to the wall and put a nail through the middle and hammered it all the way in. Every time he hit the nail, Ida’s body jumped a foot. When he was done, she lay still and seemed to relax and breathe regular.
    Herman switched on the lights. “That’s all, folks. Just got to find out who it is that wants a bunch of old records that bad.” I helped Ida up off the floor. She seemed a little dazed. “Very kind of you, I’m sure,” she said. Herman and I walked her home, and Herman thanked her for organizing the circle on short notice. “Well, if it was of some use, then I’m satisfied. I feel very confident about Spokane now.” She didn’t seem to remember about the records, which was a damn good thing. I walked over to the truck. Florencia was sitting in the front seat, between Kiko and Smiley. She didn’t look up. I said, “I’m sorry. I hope it’s going to be all right for you.” The truck pulled out. Herman checked his watch. “Got to make the gig, can’t disappoint the folks in radio land.”
    â€œWhat happens now?” I asked.
    â€œDon’t you worry, I’ll take it from here.” He took off in the Buick. Thirty-third Street went back to sleep. I looked all around for Korla Pandit, but he was gone, and I never saw him or Florencia again.

    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.
    â€˜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