Monrovia House (eBook)

Chapter 2

It was still light when JD showed up. We heard the deep rumble from that big dual four barreled Chevy as he downshifted third to second rounding the corner. I bet the neighbors loved his car. He pulled in behind the milk truck in the driveway and shut off the engine. JD was singing “Paint it, Black” with Mick on the car stereo. He looked in the rear view ran a hand thru his hair and hopped out.

We’ve been in the house for two weeks; the utilities and phone were turned on in Fran’s name. He and Bill were on the porch as JD bounded up the three stairs and plopped down on the swing. I was in the living sorting the ever-growing pile of records on the floor in front of the stereo. We had each had put our individual names on albums that we brought to the house. I built a three-tiered shelf from 6’ long 1x12” pine boards and cinderblock bricks, to keep them organized. This responsibility fell to me, and I reminded everyone to please put them back in order. I also oversaw collecting rent and upkeep monies for the houses’ expenses. I called out to everyone for an ante of money so Johnny could go see his connection. We had tallied up $5.00 each. Putting the four fives in his Roy Rogers autographed billfold, Johnny went into the kitchen to make the call.

Fran was going to cook some popcorn, one of his specialties. Beth, Bill’s sister, laying on a table bench, was on the phone talking to one of her many girlfriends. JD gave her a gentle kick on her butt with a black hi-topped basketball shoe. Frowning, slapping his leg, she got up saying, “I’ll have to call you back. JD needs the phone.” Standing up she put the receiver in the cradle of the black wall-phone. Turning, she pushed herself against his back. Making fists, she pounded on his shoulders playfully showing her distain. She was Bill’s sister and became a permanent fixture, taking full advantage of the house and all of us. Sweet, beautiful little Beth was trouble waiting to happen and we all knew it. She bumped Johnny with her hip as she turned and exited the room.

Holding the receiver between his shoulder and his ear, JD dialed the phone with one hand, holding an unlit cigarette with the other, as he waited for someone to come on the line. Lighting his Marlboro, he pulled in big drag. Exhaling a cloud, he said hello into the mouthpiece and asked for Darius, “Tell him It’s Tony.”

From the kitchen I could hear every word he spoke over Fran’s pan shaking. After a ten-minute conversation he hung up and walked back into the front room.

“Who is Darius and who the fuck is Tony” I inquired.

JD pulled on the straps of my bib overalls. “I’m glad you asked, ‘cause, Carrot, you’re riding shotgun with me.” We grabbed a couple of Cokes and went out to his Chevy.

We had to pull Beth out of the front passenger bucket seat. “I want to come along. You can buy me a taco, I’m hungry.”

“No,” JD replied, “be good and I’ll pick some up you and the rest of the gang. Carrot and I have something to fetch, and we’ll be back soon.” I slid in and shut the door pulling it from Beth’s hands. She opened her month to speak, but Johnny cut her off saying, “It’s business, stay here.”

Turning the ignition, the V8 came alive with a growl as we reversed out the driveway. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“We’re going to South Pasadena, so buckle up buttercup. I need you for backup,” he said quietly smiling while pushing in an 8-track tape of Bob Dylan. Volume up, Bob cried, “Like a Rolling Stone.” The Chevy cruised valiantly thru heavy traffic. JD put his seat back and drove with his left hand while his right was on the black 8-ball knob floor shift for the Chevy’s 4 speed transmission. Keeping to the speed limit, JD side eyed left and right as cars passed us. We traveled down Colorado Boulevard, Pasadena’s main street. Not many cars out, it was dinner time on a Thursday evening. The lighted shops, restaurants, businesses, and a few night clubs that lined either side began to thin out the farther east we drove down the Boulevard and the neighborhood became dark and somewhat run down. Making a right, JD parked to the curb in the middle of the block across from a dimly lit, small three-story older apartment building.

Opening his door, he said, “Don’t look so worried. Let’s roll.”

On the wall next to the stairs there was a directory of tenants. There were two units on each floor. Toward the bottom, it listed; Apt #4 - Darius. We climbed two flights; number four faced the street. A light turned on in front of us and we knocked on the door. A muffled voice called out from within, “Tony that you and who is the big guy you’re with?”

“Yes, it’s me. This is Red, he’s a friend, he’s cool.” The door slowly opened into the hall; we took a step back in unison. Inside, in a wheelchair was an older clean-shaven, casually dressed black man. Behind him was a tall young, balloon-haired, pretty woman. She was also black.

“Darius, Yolanda, you guys are looking good!” Johnny exclaimed.

“Tony, it’s good to see you again! Come in,” he said looking questionably at me. The girl behind the wheelchair put a baseball bat down next to the door and pulled her father back into their nicely appointed living room. JD did a fist, knuckle bump handshake with Darius.

“This is one of my partners, Red. Red these are two of my friends, Darius and his oldest daughter, Yolanda,” JD said.

We sat down and Yolanda lit a big fat joint. “Want to try before you buy?” I relaxed some, took a hit and took the sweet smelling, tightly-rolled doobie from her. We hung out awhile, Yolanda poured us some freshly made cherry Kool-Aid. Darius asked Johnny to follow him into the next room. Leaving me and Yolanda to small talk, we shared the rest of the excellent joint, while we looked each other up and down.

They returned, sat down, and re-lit that doob of which we had smoked less than half. DeCarlo thanked Darius and they fist bumped again, giving each other a manly hug. We said our goodbyes and quick stepped back to the car. As we got in Johnny put a medium brown paper bag in the center console. Together, strapped into our bucket seats, we sat laughing and giggling under the desired effects of the joint for a couple of moments. We were stoned. I reminded Johnny we needed to get Beth a taco.

I stopped laughing long enough to question, “Tony, when do we get to visit Yolanda again?” JD shifted flawlessly into 4th. Lighting a cigarette, adjusting the volume, “Hey Gyp” a song by Donavan was on the radio singing about bartering a Chevrolet for some love.

Not looking in my direction he answered, “Well, you see, sometimes Red, I use an alias when dealing with new connections. Earlier this past summer I met Yolanda at a “Love-In.” We got high, danced, and grooved together awhile in the park. She needed a ride home and, like you, Red, I was hoping to get lucky. But her dad and sister Ida were home. Yes, she is a very righteous mama,” JD said, “You’ll see her again, Red.” He turned his head towards me, smiling, winked, and said, “Tacos.”

We pulled up at Pup-n-Tac and got in line at the drive-up window. A slow night, not many people waiting. “Can I get your order,” a disembodied voice spoke to us form a smiling mustard colored fiberglass dog.

“Six tacos and four chili dogs please,” JD barked.

The dog asked, “Anything to drink?”

I said, “Doctor Pepper.” JD grimaced at me and told the dog to fetch a large Coke and a large Pepper. As we pulled up to the pickup window, I told Johnny that I had coin.

“Won’t need any if we’re lucky,” he said. A young man at the window, who, upon seeing the lowered red Chevy, leaned out, waving. Pulling up, JD exclaimed “Bink!” Crawling far out the driver’s side they did a thumb grip side slap handshake. Our food was comped to us from Bill MacFarland, “Bink” a classmate from La Salle High School where Johnny attended. It seemed that DeCarlo had many friends. Putting the bags on the floor in the back, we eased onto the Boulevard.

Back in the driveway, I grabbed the food, JD put the bag from the car’s console nonchalantly under his t-shirt. We climbed the stairs and went inside. “Help” by the Beatles filled the house. Beth had about half of the record albums spread across the floor. I put the food on the empty power line spool that was our coffee table and turned, angrily eyeballing the mess Beth made of my efforts. As I opened my mouth to chastise her, Johnny behind me said, “So do you want Yolanda’s number?” I felt my skin turn a brighter crimson than normal. I followed him to the kitchen, as did everyone else. There he pulled out the brown bag from inside his t-shirt and produced a large plastic baggie full of pot. With a pen he wrote the phone number on the paper bag, crumpled it, and tossed to me. “Her last name is Washington; her younger sister’s is Ida. I went out with Ida a few times. They both would be a handful for you, Red!”

Beth floated thru the door asking, “Who’s Red?”

We emptied the contents of the plastic bag on a cookie sheet pan. “Smells good. Let’s split it,” Fran said, producing a triple beam gram scale, officially property of Monrovia High’s chemistry lab.

JD passed out the food watching Fran work the scale. At the table, Beth, with her best puppy dog eyes, asked for mild hot sauce for her taco. Luckily, Bink, had loaded us up with all kinds of extra sauces, several sets of plastic utensils and a pile of napkins....