fork down and grabbed for her purse, the grin slowly giving way to concentration. Slowly.
“Call me Hop.”
“I can’t call a grown man Hop.”
“That’s right.”
At the end of a long afternoon at the studio spent mostly trying to coax a fresh-faced, teenage star out of marrying a Mexican mariachi musician she’d met in Tijuana, Hop drove out to Lincoln Heights to find the address Central Casting had given him for Iolene.
As he got closer, he realized he’d been in this area before, back in his short stint working for Jerry at the Examiner when he first came to town. He’d covered a story about a gambling shop above a Salvation Army. Bettors were strolling in, having some coffee, listening to a little of the gospel, then slipping upstairs to lay down some green on the Cardinals over the Sox in five.
He’d sized up Iolene for classier digs. In fact, he had a vague memory of her saying she shared a small apartment with a girlfriend in one of the sparkling pink and gray high-rises of Westwood. “The manager thinks I’m her maid, but I’m not particular,” Iolene had said with a shrug.
This particular strip of road was a big step down. And when Hop began to get closer, he felt kind of lousy for her. Sure, a Negro girl, no matter how finely turned-out or how talented, was never going to be the next Ava Gardner, but Iolene had always worked steady in the past, small parts singing in supper clubs, dancing in large revues.
When he reached the right number, he saw it was a house, small, with a sagging overhang and split into apartments. One set of windows was covered over with sun-rippled newspapers. An overflowing, rusted metal trash can teetered on the lean strip of brown lawn.
Hop, feeling conspicuous in his pressed linen suit and his lemon-yellow pocket square, dashed up the walk as quickly as possible. A directory, just a faded index card taped beside the door, revealed no clue as to which apartment Iolene lived in, if she lived there at all. Her name didn’t appear.
Hop paused a moment before trying the door, which wobbled open. There were two apartments on either side and an old pine staircase leading to the second floor.
“What the hell,” Hop decided out loud before rapping on the door marked no. 1.
No answer.
He turned instead to no. 2, from which he could hear a faint thrum of bop. He’d barely completed a brisk knock when the door flew open and a petite colored woman in a red wrap stood before him.
“Honey, I, honest, don’t know where he dusted. He could be clearway to Chicago with those stones for all I’ve been made aware,” she said, shaking her head.
Hop stared at her. Had everyone in this building skipped town? “What stones?”
The woman curled her mouth in thought. “You ain’t the fella from Treasury.”
Hop tried a smile. “No, ma’am. Another white guy.”
She laughed, tugging her wrap closer to her chest, hand still on the door. “You ain’t so white.”
“Well, then help a brother out,” he said with a grin. “I’m looking for an old friend, Iolene. She still live here?”
“Oh, you her daddy?” She smirked, shaking her head. “No Iolene here, boy. Another colored chick.”
“Are you sure? Lived with a man. I talked to him on the phone.”
“So why didn’t you ask him where your girl went?” Her eyes slanted, just perceptibly. ‘You sure you ain’t law?”
“So sure it hurts,” Hop said, as lightly as he could. “We worked together, sort of.”
She paused a minute, locking eyes with him. Then, “A man, Barber, lives in number four upstairs. He had a woman here now and again. Name of Louise.”
“Pretty, about so high, light skin?”
She nodded, tilting her head knowingly. “That the way you like’em, Mr. High Yella?”
Hop skipped over her question. He wanted to be sure Louise and Iolene were one and the same. “With a really distinctive voice, low and soft?”
“Oh, man, what you take me for, Arthur Godfrey? Yeah, Louise sang,”
“Call me Hop.”
“I can’t call a grown man Hop.”
“That’s right.”
At the end of a long afternoon at the studio spent mostly trying to coax a fresh-faced, teenage star out of marrying a Mexican mariachi musician she’d met in Tijuana, Hop drove out to Lincoln Heights to find the address Central Casting had given him for Iolene.
As he got closer, he realized he’d been in this area before, back in his short stint working for Jerry at the Examiner when he first came to town. He’d covered a story about a gambling shop above a Salvation Army. Bettors were strolling in, having some coffee, listening to a little of the gospel, then slipping upstairs to lay down some green on the Cardinals over the Sox in five.
He’d sized up Iolene for classier digs. In fact, he had a vague memory of her saying she shared a small apartment with a girlfriend in one of the sparkling pink and gray high-rises of Westwood. “The manager thinks I’m her maid, but I’m not particular,” Iolene had said with a shrug.
This particular strip of road was a big step down. And when Hop began to get closer, he felt kind of lousy for her. Sure, a Negro girl, no matter how finely turned-out or how talented, was never going to be the next Ava Gardner, but Iolene had always worked steady in the past, small parts singing in supper clubs, dancing in large revues.
When he reached the right number, he saw it was a house, small, with a sagging overhang and split into apartments. One set of windows was covered over with sun-rippled newspapers. An overflowing, rusted metal trash can teetered on the lean strip of brown lawn.
Hop, feeling conspicuous in his pressed linen suit and his lemon-yellow pocket square, dashed up the walk as quickly as possible. A directory, just a faded index card taped beside the door, revealed no clue as to which apartment Iolene lived in, if she lived there at all. Her name didn’t appear.
Hop paused a moment before trying the door, which wobbled open. There were two apartments on either side and an old pine staircase leading to the second floor.
“What the hell,” Hop decided out loud before rapping on the door marked no. 1.
No answer.
He turned instead to no. 2, from which he could hear a faint thrum of bop. He’d barely completed a brisk knock when the door flew open and a petite colored woman in a red wrap stood before him.
“Honey, I, honest, don’t know where he dusted. He could be clearway to Chicago with those stones for all I’ve been made aware,” she said, shaking her head.
Hop stared at her. Had everyone in this building skipped town? “What stones?”
The woman curled her mouth in thought. “You ain’t the fella from Treasury.”
Hop tried a smile. “No, ma’am. Another white guy.”
She laughed, tugging her wrap closer to her chest, hand still on the door. “You ain’t so white.”
“Well, then help a brother out,” he said with a grin. “I’m looking for an old friend, Iolene. She still live here?”
“Oh, you her daddy?” She smirked, shaking her head. “No Iolene here, boy. Another colored chick.”
“Are you sure? Lived with a man. I talked to him on the phone.”
“So why didn’t you ask him where your girl went?” Her eyes slanted, just perceptibly. ‘You sure you ain’t law?”
“So sure it hurts,” Hop said, as lightly as he could. “We worked together, sort of.”
She paused a minute, locking eyes with him. Then, “A man, Barber, lives in number four upstairs. He had a woman here now and again. Name of Louise.”
“Pretty, about so high, light skin?”
She nodded, tilting her head knowingly. “That the way you like’em, Mr. High Yella?”
Hop skipped over her question. He wanted to be sure Louise and Iolene were one and the same. “With a really distinctive voice, low and soft?”
“Oh, man, what you take me for, Arthur Godfrey? Yeah, Louise sang,”
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