Zoot-Suit Murders (2 page)

Y
ounger couldn’t tell if the distant, high-pitched wail outside the closed and locked window was an air-raid siren or a police siren. He turned back from the window, squirming around in his chair to meet the intent gaze of Senator Kinney standing before him in a heavy tweed suit. “My name, Senator? You want my full name?”

Kinney thumbed the lapels of his tweed coat, as if trying to flick off some bugs invisible to everyone but him. “Yes, would you please state to this committee your full name, age, and nationality?”

“Younger, Nathan. Thirty-three. American.”

“Occupation?”

Younger glanced down at the worn soles of his beat-up wing-tipped shoes. “Social worker in east Los Angeles.”

Kinney walked to the window and turned his back to it, blocking the square of blue sky outside the small room. “If you will be so patriotic as to answer the questions we four gentlemen put to you about the recent murders in east Los Angeles,” he nodded to the men seated at the long table before Younger, “I’m certain you will render your country service beyond simply working with unfortunate Mexican-Americans. You must keep in mind, however, this is a closed-door hearing on un-American activities constituted by the California State Legislature. As long as you answer truthfully about the terrible night in question, you personally have nothing to fear.”

Younger smiled at the silent, stern-faced men rowed before him, unmoving and uncomfortable in hard-backed chairs. “I have a question, gentlemen.”

“Yes?” Kinney folded his arms and leaned forward.

“Since this is not a court of law, do you mind if I have a piece of gum? You see, my mouth gets dry when I’m in a nervous situation like this and I…”

“Yes, go on, have some.” Kinney unconsciously thumbed his lapels again.

“One other thing.” Younger slipped a stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth and chewed noisily. “What is an un-American activity?”

“An un-American activity, Mr. Younger,” Kinney held the palms of his hands up like he was reading from a book, “is any attack on the constitution of California or the United States.”

“Good.” Younger balled the gum wrapper between his fingers. “In that case I will tell you everything you want to know.”

“That’s patriotic. We are at war both abroad and at home. As you know, murder is not a pretty issue; political murder is the most ugly.” Kinney let the smile on his face play itself out into an expression of disgust, then sat down at the long table with the other three men. “Assemblyman Burns, would you like to proceed with the witness?”

Burns’s fingers adjusted his bowtie like it was a microphone. His voice boomed in the small room. “Mr. Younger, do you have a younger brother, Marvin Younger, a boatswain’s mate first class on the U.S. aircraft carrier
Lipscomb Bay
?”

“Yes, sir. Marvin’s somewhere near the Philippines now, I think. The government censor always cuts out any direct reference Marvin makes to where he is in his letters.”

“Does Marvin know the nature of your occupation?”

“He knows I’m a social worker in the Barrio. He thinks it’s a waste of time.”

“Do you know the twelve Mexican Zoot-suiter youths who murdered the two FBI agents?”

“Every one, but they aren’t Mexican; most were born in Los Angeles. I’ve worked with their families. They accept me. So far as I know they aren’t guilty of murder, only
accused
. I don’t know why the press keeps talking about the ‘Zoot-Suit’ murders.”

“We did not call you here to editorialize on the press, Mr. Younger, just answer the questions. Do you know Kathleen La Rue?”

Younger turned uneasily in the chair, his shoulders slumping beneath the padded shoulders of his faded sport coat. His embarrassed gaze went to the woman sitting with her lawyer by the door. “Yes, sir, I believe that’s Miss La Rue right there.”

“And what does Miss La Rue do for a living?”

“She came into the Barrio several months ago. From what I understand she is an apostle of Mankind Incorporated.”

“Excellent. Do you know the movie star Barbara Carr?”

“No. Until that night in the Barrio, I knew her only from her films, and from articles I read about her in Hedda Hopper’s gossip columns.”

“Can you tell us what happened that hot August night in the Barrio? Why you were there, exactly what you witnessed?”

Younger couldn’t take his eyes off Kathleen La Rue. She was such a thin, odd woman, not nervous, but seeming to burn with a strange energy, energy not only fueling her existence but consuming her at the same time. Her face was pale, so ghostly
white it made the wild curls of her red hair appear even redder, like the sudden dazzling crimson of ignited road flares in the night. The top three buttons of her flowery cotton dress were left carelessly open, exposing a quick, tapping pulse in the center of her white throat. The heat of the stuffy room brought only the slightest trace of sweat along the soft white down above the lipstick of her upper lip. She looked like she was about to faint.

“Mr. Younger, are you going to answer this committee’s questions?”

“Oh, yes, Assemblyman Burns.” Younger forced his eyes away from Kathleen La Rue. He turned and tried to focus his attention on the Assemblyman. “Yes, sir, I remember that night well. I had just finished over at Lincoln Park with my CYO boys; we were in the summer baseball playoffs against Pico Rivera. We won.”

“CYO would be the Catholic Youth Organization?”

“Yes, teenage kids mostly.”

“Some of these boys are related to the Zoot-suiters?”

“All of them; no one in the Barrio isn’t.” Younger couldn’t keep his attention on the Assemblyman. His gaze was pulled back to Kathleen La Rue, as if he had to answer the questions to her satisfaction. “I was walking some of the boys home on Flores Street; it was late, hot. That used to be a good street before the war, a nice neighborhood before it became the Zona Roja. Now it’s become dangerous, bars and clubs, young sailors prowling the streets for a good time. Not safe.”

“Why would you expose teenage boys to such a scene if it’s so dangerous?”

“Because the Barrio was crowded, one of those nights when everybody is out. People sitting on their front porches, men with their shirts off, women fanning themselves with newspapers, kids running everywhere, lots of noise, loud radios. There is always lots of noise in the Barrio, but for some reason that night seemed worse. I had promised the boys some cherry Cokes if we won the game with Pico Rivera. All the soda fountains were
closed except the one at Ortega’s White Owl on Flores. I couldn’t disappoint the boys.”

“So you risked their lives in the Zona Roja?”

“I just thought we could get down Flores very fast. How was I to know we’d get caught in an air-raid drill? Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight. There was a Santa Ana blowing, you know, the hot wind we get from the Mojave Desert. Everything seemed dusty, hazy sort of. After the blackout we continued to the intersection at Orange Street, where two sailors were fighting. The Zoots were hanging around on their usual street corners enjoying the fight, the two gangs, the Mateo Bombers in front of the Signal Gas Station and the Square Johns in front of Ortega’s White Owl Drugstore. They had their Black Widows with them. All of them were shouting encouragement over the tops of cars to the fighting sailors.”

“The Black Widows are the, ah, Zoots’ women?”

“Yes, their girlfriends. They wear very tight black skirts. They can’t walk fast in those skirts; their legs are in black net stockings. They wear all black, blouses, sweaters, everything. Only different color on them is the silver crucifixes hanging from long chains around their necks.”

Burns cleared his throat, trying to dispel an image of crucifixes swinging between young breasts. He adjusted his bowtie like it was a knob turning up the volume of authority in his impatient voice. “Did you see Miss La Rue at the time?”

“Not then. Not till after.”

“What happened next, as you approached the two Zoot gangs?”

“It was confusing, Assemblyman.”

“But not so confusing you couldn’t witness everything?”

“Everything.” Younger noticed Kathleen La Rue watching him, her eyes wide and brilliant, like she was taking flash pictures of his every expression, recording his every answer.

“Continue, Mr. Younger. We haven’t much time allowed here this afternoon. You are at the corner of Flores and Orange and the sailors are fighting.”

“The Shore Patrol broke up the fight. Then I heard a woman screaming.”

“You heard screaming before you saw the woman running?”

“I couldn’t tell which direction the screams were coming from. There was lots of confusion because horns were honking. Then I saw the horns were honking because she had run into the street between cars trying to get through the intersection.”

“Did you recognize the person running as the movie star Barbara Carr?”

“I didn’t know who the person was at first, a blond woman running, screaming, two men chasing her. How could I tell who it was? Barbara Carr was the last person I expected to see in the Barrio on a Friday night.”

“Could you make out anything she was screaming?”

“She was screaming she was being kidnapped.”

Burns leaned quickly forward, as if he could hear screaming in the room. “What did she
exactly
scream?”

“What do you scream when you’re being kidnapped?” Younger felt the heat from Kathleen La Rue’s flashing eyes upon him. She was making him feel like he was in a circus spotlight. “Barbara Carr was hysterically shouting for someone to save her.”

“Did anyone try to help?”

“It was then I recognized just who she was. I was shocked. I tried to get to her. There wasn’t time. It happened too fast. Cars skidding all over the place, people screaming and frightened. The two men were right behind Barbara Carr. She ran straight to the corner where the Mateo Bombers were hanging around the Signal Gas Station. She ran past the pumps for safety. She was only five feet from the Zoots when I heard the shots.”

“How many shots?”

“Just the two. Carr stood there before the gang of Zoots, pressing her hands to her head in terror. The two men behind her were both on the ground, shot in their chests.”

“Who shot them?”

“From where I was standing, I couldn’t tell exactly
who
.”
“You saw the murder weapon?”

“After I ran over. I grabbed Carr. She was frantic, uncontrollable. I had to hold her down. She tore at my face, trying to get away, as if someone was after her. The gun was lying on the pavement by the gas pumps.” Younger stopped talking and stared down at the floor. Sprawled before his feet a man in a dark suitcoat lay dying; blood from a bullet hole in his chest seemed to float his body in a peaceful lake of red.

“At this time you also saw Miss La Rue?”

Younger jerked up from the nightmare vision on the floor.“Yes, yes, she was right there. She was very courageous, slapping Carr’s sobbing face, bringing her out of shock. Miss La Rue put her arms around Carr, stroked her head, comforting her.”

“Where had Miss La Rue come from?”

“From behind the gasoline pumps. She’s always in the Barrio hanging around the Zoots, trying to get them to come to her Mankind Incorporated meetings.”

“Did the Zoots attempt to run away from the scene of the crime?”

“Most of them were as confused as the rest of us, running in circles. I remember seeing the leaders of the Mateo Bombers, Marco Delgado and his cousin Gus Melendez Delgado, trying to get away up Flores Street.”

“And did these two Delgados escape?”

“No one got out of there. Within an instant, police cars had both ends of Flores blocked. There was a carload of Shotgun Squad cops. They got everything under control in minutes, holding shotguns on everybody until the homicide detectives arrived. Then I found out, when one of the detectives flipped open the coats of the two dead men. I saw the gold badges.”

“What did you find out?”

“The two dead men were FBI agents.”

Senator Kinney tipped his chair forward and nervously clicked his ballpoint pen closed. “Thank you, Mr. Younger, you’ve been a most cooperative witness.”

“One more moment of the witness’s time, Senator, if you don’t mind?” Burns stopped writing in his notebook and brought his eyes up to Kinney, the irritation in his voice unmistakable. “The purpose of this hearing is to ascertain facts. I have a final important matter.”

Kinney leaned back in his chair and looked nervously at Younger. “Your witness, Assemblyman.”

“Mr. Younger.” Burns continued writing in his notebook. “Do you know who the Sinarquistas are?”

Younger tried to avoid the nervous gaze of Kinney as he answered. “They are a political organization active in the Barrio.”

“And what does this word mean, Sinarquistas?”

“Roughly translated, Assemblyman, it means
those without opposition
.”

“And what are the Sinarquistas opposed to?”

Younger turned away from Kinney’s nervous gaze and felt trapped as his eyes met those of La Rue. The blue brilliance of La Rue’s open stare seemed to burn a circle around Younger as he blurted his answer, “I guess the Sinarquistas are opposed to our American way of life.”

Burns stopped writing, looked directly at Younger, and straightened his bowtie. “Excellent.”

T
he sun rising was no bigger than a baby’s fist in the distance across the concrete Los Angeles horizon. From his window Younger saw smokestacks of a sprawling tire plant far to the east, where washed-out gray stuccoed tenements on the flatlands blurred into more factories, one after the other, black columns of smoke pricking the blue-bellied morning from a forest of chimneys. He peeled a stick of Juicy Fruit and chewed it slowly, savoring the taste sweetly like it was the last meal of a condemned man. The palm trees swelling up from small squares cut into the cracked concrete sidewalk below always made him laugh. Tall and skinny, bent and bouncing in the wind, higher than the sun-blasted paint of the three-story walkup apartments lining his street. The brief green skirts of palm fronds at the very tops of
high smooth trunks made the skinny trees look like swaying one-legged hula girls. The palms stood out almost self-consciously, as if aware they were destined to line some broad boulevard, not a run-down street crowded by ragged children and people unable to conceal desperation in their faces over where the next meal was coming from. Every day Younger watched the desperation in the faces grow, until he couldn’t look in a mirror without seeing the same expression curl down his lips, couldn’t hide the glint of fear in his eyes—and he was in the Barrio by choice, not a proud man trapped by fate, like an elegant palm tree growing from a cracked sidewalk. The sound of wind playing through Younger’s dusty Venetian blinds was startling, like a monkey rattling his cage for freedom. Younger carefully unfolded the thin envelope of a red-white-and-blue V-mail letter. For the fourth time, he read the lines that hadn’t been blacked out by the censor:

The long flat streets of the city were filthy. The streets were never really clean, but since Pearl Harbor there were always piles of trash blocking sidewalks, trash for the war effort: black bald automobile tires, mountains of old newspapers, boxes of metal bottle caps, old keys, locks, nylon stockings, everything imaginable that could be reincarnated as a uniform or a weapon. It took Younger twenty minutes to walk the seventeen blocks downtown from his apartment, past empty padlocked storefronts in what was once Little Tokyo, with
NO JAPS WANTED! NIP LOVER! NISEI TRAITORS
! painted across boarded windows. The sidewalks were so cluttered by the chaos of collectibles to aid the war it was necessary to walk in the street and risk being hit by honking cars, drivers hurrying from the San Fernando Valley neighborhoods to work in war industry factories crowding the eastern flatlands of the city. On the wall of Paco’s Supermercado two Civil Defense workers were scraping off words slashed in red paint the night before: ¡
SINARQUISTAS POR LA RAZA
!!! At the corner of Orange and Flores streets a black billboard on top of Ortega’s White Owl Drugstore spelled out in bold white relief: DIALGOD. Younger turned the corner at Flores. Morning light threw singular shadows of shaky, drunken men standing idly for block after block in the debris of sidewalks. The forms of men leaning against storefronts gave the illusion that buildings along the entire street were supported by nothing more substantial than wobbling shadows.

“¡
Compadre
!”

Younger shielded his eyes from the sun, trying to pick out which of the long line of drunks had called his name. He kept walking.

“
Compadre, ¿qué pasa
?”

A short, dark man stumbled out from among the leaning shadows of a building, his worn boot heels catching the edge of the street gutter, pitching him face down on the pavement. No one moved to pick him up. Younger ran into the street, holding a hand up to stop a car speeding around the blind corner. He pulled the man out of the gutter and supported him against the
window of Ixatlan Cantina. A young waitress inside the restaurant ignored the two men as she propped a black slate against the inside of the window advertising the special lunch menudo.

“A case of Gallo! You owe me a case of Gallo Tokay,
compadre
.”

Younger brushed off the old man’s torn jean jacket. “You’re right,
amigo
. I owe you.”

The old man’s wrinkled hands were shaking; the brown eyes in the weary face seemed to be worn down to their final shine. “
Señor
Younger, you owe. Angel was burnt out.”

“Damn you, Wino Boy.” Younger shook his head and grinned sarcastically. “You knew his brother had been killed, that’s why you laid that heavy bet on me.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded five-dollar bill, tucking it into the frayed pocket of Wino Boy’s jacket. “I just hope you’re sober enough to handle this. You might be so drunk already, you’ll stumble into church and donate it to the poor box by mistake.”

Wino Boy took Younger’s hand and held it solemnly like he was about to propose marriage. “
Compadre
, trust me. I know nothing about dead brothers, I just know bazebull.” He tossed his head back, banging the windowpane and laughing long enough for Younger to count the five decayed teeth left in his mouth. The girl inside the restaurant shook her fist.

Like a magician with an endless supply of white rabbits, Younger slipped a hand inside his coat pocket and produced another neatly folded five-dollar bill.

“
Compadre, ¿quées?
” Wino Boy stopped laughing. “You buying me two cases of the Tokay?”

Younger glanced suspiciously up and down the street, then hunched his shoulders against the people passing by and spoke softly. “I want information. We speak only in English, otherwise someone might hear.”

Wino Boy puffed up his chest. “Only in the English, my friend. There isn’t no more than five people on the whole street who can speak it so good.”

“What do you hear in the Barrio about Mankind Incorporated?”

“They are coco locos,
nililo gabachos
.”

“In English, Wino Boy, English!”

“They are anglos crazies in the heads.”

“Do many people follow them? Do the
gente
believe them?”

“Does the dog, she shits in the same hole twice?”

“If not many people follow them, why are they in the Barrio?”

“The same as the Catolicos, because the poor
gente
be in the Barrio. Poor
gente
will always be paying the money for the chance to be no poor
gente
no more.”

“Who is the Voice of the Right Idea?”

“He pretend he
Cristo
. But the people here, they no born stupid, they know better.”

“The woman, the thin young one who says she is the head of Mankind Incorporated’s Latin Service Bureau, what do you know about her?”

“You meaning the pretty one, the one with much hair the color of fire?”

“Yes.”

“You meaning the pretty one with the little maracas,” Wino Boy cupped his shaking hands to his chest like he was carefully caressing two nice-sized peaches.

“Yes, I don’t need you to go feeling her up. What do you know?”

Wino Boy pursed his lips and leaned against Younger unexpectedly like he was going to give him a big kiss. “I giving you only the truths.”

“Only the truths, or you can give me back the other fiver I gave you as well.”

“
Nada mas
.” Wino Boy shook his head slowly, then the worn shine of his eyes brightened. “Wait, I do know something. But how to say in the English. She’s a sick one. The ones who cannot always breathe.” He pounded his chest and coughed. “The ones not strong in the chest.”

“You mean asthma? You mean to say Kathleen La Rue’s an asthmatic?”

“
Sí
.” Wino Boy laughed mischievously and grabbed the five-dollar bill. “That’s all I know!”

“Fat lot of good that kind of information does me. I could go up the street to Esteban’s Barbershop and for two bits I could get the same information, plus a haircut, shine, and shave.” Younger turned disgustedly and walked away.

“¡
Momento, compadre
!” The urgent tone in Wino Boy’s voice stopped Younger in his tracks.

Younger turned and walked back, standing close to Wino Boy’s wrinkled face as he breathed in the sickly sweet odor of cheap wine. “You have something else?”

“
Sí
, somethings you like knowing.” Wino Boy smiled proudly. “I just get the V-mail from my grand-
niñTo
at Forts Lee. After cinco months they be promoting him to private. My Alejandro’s going to be a
hen-ee-rahl
before Hitler’s getting to kiss the Queen in
Londres
.”

“Promoted to
private
!” Younger shook his head in disbelief at the near toothless smile of the old man. “Jesus, Wino Boy, you’re a real pill.”