Sam looked up from his ‘California Handicapper,’ the weekly horse racing newspaper which he called the ‘Turf-Side Torah.’ He wore a green eye shade, dirty singlet, and greasy gabardine trousers. The latter were maintained dubiously by red suspenders of indeterminable age. He stood, stretched his back, and scratched his belly through a convenient hole in the string vest. He was going to miss the wrecking yard, his four acre auto salvage kingdom overlooking Fremont Slough, a saltwater wetland on the landward side of the Camino Real. He stood in the loft office of the metal barn which dominated Bloom’s Auto Salvage.
Hearing Leroy, the yardman, enter the barn, he shouted ‘Yo, Leroy! Will youse come upstairs for minute? Bring the milk if you wanna cup of coffee.’ Shortly, he heard Leroy’s unmistakable gait on the stairs. Combat wounded at Iwo Jima, Leroy clumped around the junkyard with a limp-thump-drag cadence. Sam now heard it on the stairs and, inexorably, Leroy’s bald black pate and grey fringe emerged up the stairwell, soon followed by his stooped shoulders. He carried a jug of milk and a greasy rag in his hands. The end of large adjustable wrench protruded from the hip pocket of his battered trousers. Behind him came two grey-muzzled Dobermans who licked Sam’s hand and curled together beneath his desk.
Leroy wore a ragged cardigan over a printed tee shirt which read, ‘Ask Me About Jesus.’ He’d purchased the tee shirt new in St. Francis’ thrift shop, the remnant of a membership drive instigated by Father Mike Dugan and his housekeeper, Flora Pink. People seldom spoke to Leroy, and nobody had ever asked him about Jesus, this a pity since he’d taken a lifelong interest in the Christian Gospels and was a deacon in St. Francis Church. He knew more about Jesus than his pal Sam did about handicapping thoroughbreds.
Smiling broadly, Leroy handed Sam the milk before he collapsed down on the well-worn rear seat of a 1950 Cadillac Brougham. With angle iron legs welded to its frame, the seat had been reborn as the settee in Sam’s office. There wasn’t anything about a Caddy Sam didn’t like.
Sam set about making instant coffee with water from a grimy tea kettle. He poured into matching personalized cups reading ‘Big Sam’ and ‘Little Leroy.’ Sam stood 5’1” in his ancient tooled leather cowboy boots. Leroy was something over a foot taller. The cups were a gift Leroy had purchased on a fishing trip to Cabo San Lucas.
‘So, I gotta run over to the Inca Hotel in a little while. I’m meeting my kids for late lunch. If those air pollution goyim drop by, don’t let them through the gate. Tell them you can’t control the dogs when I ain’t around. Uncle Tom those pencil dicked geeks,’ Sam said.
‘Yes, Boss,’ droned Leroy.
‘Tom them, not me, for Christsakes!’ said Sam.
‘Yes, Boss,’ said Leroy, then snorted suppressing a laugh, spilling hot coffee on himself in the process. ‘Uh-oh, Sweet Jesus!’ he shouted, ‘I think I scalded Fat Albert. He ain’t never gonna forgive me.’
‘I don’t want to know about your schmekel, Leroy, but I hope you ain’t scorched it too,’ said Sam. ‘What’s left you haven’t cooked?’
Leroy had lived at the yard as long as anyone could remember. Sam moved in there five years ago after Millie, his wife of forty years, passed away. Sam was worried about the consequences to Leroy if his plan fell into place. The two old men were effectively partners in the yard. Sam divided the income equally at the end of each week, but paid Leroy minimum wage on the books. Leroy took no interest in horse racing and did not participate in Sam’s modest bookmaking enterprise.
Sam did all the human contact because, in addition to his shattered knee, Leroy had been burned in combat. His now old face was cruelly disfigured. When people commented on this, Leroy said, ‘I guess I ain’t never gonna be a maître de at the Brown Derby.’
As Sam handed Leroy a cleanish rag to wipe his spilled coffee, he looked out the office window at Fremont Slough. He and Leroy loved the wetland, taking great interest in the waterfowl who sojourned there.
‘Leroy, you know that long necked duck we was looking at yesterday? Well, he’s schtupping that other one again.’
‘Yesterday too, boss. He can’t leave it alone. He better eat something or he’s gonna starve. Too much of that’s gonna make him simple minded. I know. That’s what happened to my cousin Elwood. He ended up a retard.’
They kept the window clean and had a bird-spotter’s tripod telescope nearby. Sam was going to miss bird watching with Leroy most of all.
‘Oh yea, if those two kids, that black kid, your nephew Charley and his Mexican-looking pal Frankie come round, let em in, but tell em not to climb on nothing. Just look. They’re drooling over that old Cushman motor scooter in the yard. I’d give it to them, but they’re too young and would kill themselves riding it. Anyhow, let them look. I remember feeling that way about a Whizzer Motor Bike once, or maybe it was a broad with big tits. I forget.’
Several different government agencies were doing their best to harass Bloom’s Auto Salvage out of business. Although it had been in business since the 1920s, the village council considered it an eyesore. Sam had a plan, but in the meantime he enjoyed fencing with the bureaucrats and investigators who swarmed around with clipboards in their hands and summonses in their pockets. Sam was worried because he hadn’t discussed this with Leroy, but what choice did he have? The government was pecking him out of business.
Still, the regulators gave Sam some of his favourite entertainment. Recently, he’d met a burning rubbish complaint by producing hot-dogs and inviting the investigator to stay for barbecue. This didn’t amuse the investigator or Sam’s attorney, but the Municipal Court Judge laughed out loud and dismissed the case. Sometimes a sense of humor trumps the law. Sam loved a good lawsuit.
After they finished their coffee, Sam put an unlit cigar in his mouth and started for the door, but paused mid-stride. ‘I’m forgetting something, Leroy, help me out here,’ he said.
‘You promised your daughter that you’d wear a shirt the next time you had lunch. You own the restaurant, but she says it’s bad for business going in there wearing a dirty undershirt,’ Leroy replied.
‘Oh yea, I did, didn’t I,’ Sam said, and began rummaging in a shopping bag in the corner of his office. Finding what he was looking for, Sam said ‘Ta-Dah!’ and produced the worst Hawaiian shirt ever made in Taiwan. It featured bare breasted girls on surfboards who all appeared to be migrating to the South Pole. Whatever the original colors had been, the shirt had been washed improperly and the colors now ran together into variations on tomato soup with yellow-green trim.
Leroy winced. ‘That is the butt-ugliest shirt I ever seen. It looks like something one of the barn cats puked.’
‘I looked a long time for this shirt at the thrift store, Leroy,’ said Sam. ‘Colored people just have different tastes than Jews.’ Sam giggled. The shirt, size XXL, was hanging down several inches below his pants pockets.
‘I guess I’ll have to agree with you if you like that shirt. I wouldn’t clean the toilet with it,’ said Leroy.
‘Me neither,’ said Sam, ‘but I gotta keep my girl kid in line. Let Gloria skate on this and the next thing she’s gonna do is tell me is I gotta sell my Caddy. Give her an inch and she’ll takeover my whole life. She’s just like her moma. God I love that kid!’ Sam smiled broadly, a look which emphasized his Cupid face. ‘She’s gonna love this shirt.’
Having said this, Sam secured his cigar between his teeth and waddled downstairs to his car, ‘Marilyn,’ a red 1949 Cadillac convertible in ‘runs good’ condition. The Caddy started readily, belched a great cloud of white smoke, and proceeded majestically out the gate toward the Village of Fremont Beach. Only the top of Sam’s bald head and up-tilted cigar were visible behind the wheel.
* * *
The Inca Hotel had a history. During prohibition Hollywood people on their way to gamble at Caliente Race Track had made its speakeasy their watering hole. The Inca’s exterior featured castellated plaster ramparts with Mexican feathered serpents writhing along the frieze. The fanciful interior decor was reminiscent of a Flash Gordon movie set. Sam’s architect daughter, Gloria, called its style ‘Emperor Ming Modern.’ It had ten ample rooms on two floors and a bar-restaurant on the ground floor. An art nouveau birdcage elevator completed its quirky appointments. Sam loved the place and dreamed of restoring it as a bed and breakfast.
As Sam entered, his twin children sat at a booth in the far corner of the cool, empty restaurant. He peeked in quietly and saw them talking, heads together as always. He felt a rush of love and pride seeing the two darlings he and his long-departed Millie, had raised.
‘Is that Gloria Bloom, the world famous architect, caught in candid conversation with her brother Joel Bloom, the brilliant transactional lawyer, the tax maven from NYU?’ Sam called at a volume to be heard on the sidewalk. Spreading his arms, he trundled to his children who rose dutifully, both towering over their father, and accepted his embrace.
Noticing Sam’s shirt, Gloria winced, but recovered quickly and said nothing, disappointing Sam. He knew she’d buy him a ‘nice’ shirt the next time she went to San Diego and he, well … of course, he’d wear it. He’d had his fun.
‘Gloria, honey, I love the condo complex you’ve designed. They’re palaces,’ he said. ‘They remind me of those cliff houses in New Mexico, Mesa Verde or something. They blend right in.’
‘That’s the idea, Pop. When the landscaping is finished, people will drive by the place and won’t see it unless they’re looking. Even the plantings will be native except for the Pepper Trees and they’ve been here since the Spanish missionaries arrived. I’m really happy with it,’ Gloria said.
‘You should be, honey. So am I,’ said Sam. What does my lawyer son say? Can I afford all this on my half of the proceeds?’
‘Dad, I know how you feel about Leroy, but you don’t have to be that generous. You ownthe property,’ said Joel.
‘We’ve been over this before, Joel, and it’s decided. Leroy was working there for minimum wage, trying to support his kids, when I bought the place for peanuts. He’s my best friend. He’s got sweat equity. And, where’s he going to find another job? Well, maybe here at the hotel, but no place else, not at his age with that ugly kisser. I couldn’t face myself if he left with less than half. End of discussion.’
‘Alright then, Dad. Here’s how it works. The state will purchase the junkyard and lagoon for a nice figure, but you’d reserve the hilltop for ‘Bloom’s Mesa,’ or whatever you’re going to call the condos. They’ll agree to property tax of $1.00 a year for so long as any beneficiary of the trust living today is alive. They’ll take over site cleanup and build an environmental center.’
‘The Mildred Bloom Environment Center, that’s set, right?’ Sam said. ‘Your mother loved those ducks and frogs down on the water.’
‘Right, Dad,’ Joel said. ‘And the lagoon will be a nature preserve forever, not a water recreation area. Its only function will be to preserve the environment and educate the public.’
‘And everything’s going in a trust so after I’m gone you two will be set and your kids and their kids, God willing, will have their educations funded? And Leroy can decide if he wants to tag along for his family or just cash out?’
‘I should talk to him, Dad,’ Joel said, ‘He’ll have tax problems if he doesn’t do it right. We can make it good for him whatever way he wants to go.’
Looking to Gloria, Sam said, ‘I just had a great idea, honey. I’ve been worrying about where Leroy will live when the yard closes. The top condo, the one for me, has that got enough room for Leroy to live there too?’
Gloria paused before answering. ‘Yesss, Dad, it’s got more living space by far than you two have at the yard, but there’s a problem. That’s funny too, because Joel and I were just talking about it. Fremont Beach has one of those old California Sundown Laws. Black people aren’t allowed to live here. That’s probably why Leroy just camped all those years in the junk yard. Nobody noticed or cared. Him living in a luxury condo would be another matter.’
‘That ain’t right,’ said Sam. ‘In America, for Christsake?’
‘It’s the law Dad,’ said Joel. ‘It probably wouldn’t stand up in court, but it would be a lawsuit, could go a long time on appeal too.’
‘I’d like that, son. It sounds like fun. Maybe we could get the ACLU in on it,’ said Sam. ‘Leroy’s a hero, a wounded combat veteran. We’d make them all look like the horses’ patoots they are for that racist stuff. They should be ashamed.’
‘Dad!’ said the children in unison.
‘I won’t change my mind. It’s settled,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll make sure it’s okay with Leroy, but I wanna keep roomin’ with him. And, I like a good lawsuit.’
‘We know,’ said Joel and Gloria in dismal unison.
‘Okay,’ Sam said, let’s green light the whole package right after I talk about it with Leroy. I can’t wait to tell him. If he moved in with me, we could still watch ducks together while we’re having our coffee.
How about steak fajitas for lunch? The restaurant’s trying out a Mexican theme.’
‘Mex-Chinese would be consistent with the ambiance,’ said Gloria. Joel reached for the Tums in his coat pocket.
* * *
After lunch, Joel brought up what he knew would be another delicate issue with his father. ‘Dad, I spoke to the County Attorney, you know about the mailman’s vicious dog complaint. Your yard dogs, those Dobermans, he says they’ll withdraw the complaint if you agree to euthanize the dogs. ‘
Sam gulped and stood for emphasis, ‘I ain’t euthanizing nobody and I won’t kill Adolph and Eva just because some sissy letter carrier craps his walking shorts! Not a chance. They’re trained to act scary, but they’ll lick your hand if you put it through the gate. I’ll call the regular mailman and dog trainer as witnesses.’
‘Dad, trials cost money. You’d have to hire somebody who does that sort of thing,’ said Joel, ‘I couldn’t do that for you.’
‘I don’t care about the money. You just told me I got bushels of it. I love those mutts,’ Sam said.
‘Dad!’ said the children, again in unison.
‘Nope,’ said Sam. ‘It’s settled. It’s a matter of principle.’
‘The last refuge of scoundrels and litigious old men,’ said Gloria.
Sam ignored Gloria. ‘We’ll go to the Supreme Court if we have to. Who’d sit in Marilyn’s back seat when I drive Leroy to Sunday mass if I didn’t have ‘Dolph and Evie? Those dogs ain’t young. They’ve worked hard too. They’re entitled to a decent retirement.’
That ended the discussion. Gloria and Joel both nodded agreement. Neither of them, nor their teen-aged children, would ever be seen in Pop’s Caddy.
‘It’s a matter of principle,’ reiterated Sam.
‘Yes, Dad,’ said the children, ‘everything’s a matter of principle.’
‘This is America,’ said Sam. ‘Dogs got rights. Now, I gotta run now and tell Leroy, see what he thinks about moving in with me on the mesa. I love this idea! But first, I’m going across the street to St. Francis’ charity shop. I wanna get another Hawaiian shirt.’
Gloria winced.
