Joseph Wambaugh - The Blue Knight

“I can’t believe that,” I said, remembering her again as a teenage waitress who couldn’t even put her lipstick on straight.

“She left her bank job over a year ago. Started belly dancing professionally. You never knew her when she was a real little tot. I remember when she was three years old and her aunts and uncles taught her to dance. She was the cutest thing you ever saw. She was a smart little girl.”

“Where did you hear she was tricking?”

“In this business you hear all about the dancers,” said Ahmed. “You know, she’s one of the few belly dancers in town that’s really an Arab, or rather, half-Arab. She’s no cheapie, but she goes to bed with guys if they can pay the tariff. I hear she gets two hundred a night.”

“Laila’s had a pretty tough life, Ahmed,” I said. “She had to raise little sisters. She never had time to be a kid herself.”

“Look, I’m not blaming her, Bumper. What the hell, I’m an American. I’m not like the old folks who wait around on the morning after the wedding to make sure there’s blood on the bridal sheets. But I have to admit that whoring bothers me. I’m just not that Americanized, I guess. I used to think maybe when Laila got old enough… well, it’s too late now. I shouldn’t have been so damn busy these last few years. I let her get away and now… it’s just too late.”

Ahmed ordered me another drink, then excused himself, saying he’d be back in a little while. I was starting to feel depressed all of a sudden. I wasn’t sure if the talk about Laila set it off or what, but I thought about her selling her ass to these wealthy Hollywood creeps. Then I thought about Freddie and Harry, and Poochie and Herky, and Timothy G. for goddamn Landry, but that was too depressing to think about. Suddenly for no reason I thought about Esteban Segovia and how I used to worry that he really would become a priest like he wanted to be when he returned from Vietnam, instead of a dentist like I always wanted him to be. That dead boy was about Laila’s age when he left. Babies. Nobody should die a baby.

All right, Bumper, I said to myself, let’s settle down to some serious drinking. I called Barbara over and ordered a double scotch on the rocks even though I’d mixed my drinks too much and had already more than enough.

After my third scotch I heard a honey-dipped voice say, “Hi, Bumper.”

“Laila!” I made a feeble attempt at getting up, as she sat down at my table, looking smooth and cool in a modest white dress, her hair tied back and hanging down one side, her face and arms the color of a golden olive.

“Ahmed told me you were here, Bumper,” she smiled, and I lit her cigarette, liberated women be damned, and called Barbara over to get her a drink.

“Can I buy you a drink, kid?” I asked. “It’s good to see you all grown up, a big girl and all, looking so damn gorgeous.”

She ordered a bourbon and water and laughed at me, and I knew for sure I was pretty close to being wiped out. I decided to turn it off after I finished the scotch I held in my hand.

“I was grown up last time you saw me, Bumper,” she said, grinning at my clownish attempts to act sober. “All men appreciate your womanhood better when they see your bare belly moving for them.”

I thought about what Ahmed had told me, and though it didn’t bother me like it did Ahmed, I was sorry she had to do it, or that she thought she had to do it.

“You mean that slick little belly was moving for ol’ Bumper?” I said, trying to kid her like I used to, but my brain wasn’t working right.

“Sure, for you. Aren’t you the hero of this whole damned family?”

“Well how do you like dancing for a living?”

“It’s as crummy as you’d expect.”

“Why do you do it?”

“You ever try supporting two sisters on a bank teller’s wage?”

“Bullshit,” I said too loud, one elbow slipping out from under me. “Don’t give me that crybaby stuff. A dish like you, why you could marry any rich guy you wanted.”

“Wrong, Bumper. I could screw any rich guy I wanted. And get paid damn well for it.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Laila.”

“You old bear,” she laughed, as I rubbed my face which had no feeling whatsoever. “I know Ahmed told you I’m a whore. It just shames the hell out of these Arabs. You know how subtle they are. Yasser hinted around the other day that maybe I should change my name now that I’m show biz. Hammad’s too ordinary, he said. Maybe something more American. They’re as subtle as a boot in the ass. How about Feinberg or Goldstein, Bumper? I’ll bet they wouldn’t mind if I called myself Laila Feinberg. That’d explain my being a whore to the other Arabs, wouldn’t it? They could start a rumor that my mother was a Jew.”

“What the hell’re you telling me all this for?” I said, suddenly getting mad. “Go to a priest or a headshrinker, or go to the goddamn mosque and talk to the Prophet, why don’t you? I had enough problems laid on me today. Now you?”

“Will you drive me home, Bumper? I do want to talk to you.”

“How many more performances you got to go?” I asked, not sure I could stay upright in my chair if I had another drink.

“I’m through. Marsha’s taking my next one for me. I’ve told Ahmed I’m getting cramps.”

I found Ahmed and said good-bye while Laila waited for me in the parking lot. I tipped Barbara fifteen bucks, then I staggered into the kitchen, thanked Yasser, and kissed him on the big moustache while he hugged me and made me promise to come to his house in the next few weeks.

Laila was in the parking lot doing her best to ignore two well-dressed drunks in a black Lincoln. When they saw me staggering across the parking lot in their direction the driver stomped on it, laid a patch of rubber, and got the hell out.

“Lord, I don’t blame them,” Laila laughed. “You look wild and dangerous, Bumper. How’d you get those scratches on your face?”

“My Ford’s right over there,” I said, walking like Frankenstein’s monster so I could stay on a straight course.

“The same old car? Oh, Bumper.” She laughed like a kid and she put my arm around her and steered me to my Ford, but around to the passenger side. Then she patted my pockets, found my keys, got them, pushed me in, and closed the door after me.

“Light-fingered broad,” I mumbled. “You ever been a hugger-mugger?”

“What was that, Bumper?” she said, getting behind the wheel and cranking her up.

“Nothing, nothing,” I mumbled, rubbing my face again.

I dozed while Laila drove. She turned the radio on and hummed, and she had a pretty good voice too. In fact, it put me to sleep, and she had to shake me awake when we got to her pad.

“I’m going to pour you some muddy Turkish coffee and we’re going to talk,” she said, helping me out of the Ford, and for a second the sidewalk came up in my eyes, but I closed them and stood there and everything righted itself.

“Ready to try the steps, Bumper?”

“As I’ll ever be, kid.”

“Let’s get it on,” she said, my arm around her wide shoulders, and she guided me up. She was a big strong girl. Ahmed was nuts, I thought. She’d make a hell of a wife for him or any young guy.

It took some doing but we reached the third floor of her apartment building, a very posh place, which was actually three L-shaped buildings scattered around two Olympic-sized pools. Mostly catered to swinging singles which reminded me of the younger sisters.

“The girls home?” I asked.

“I live alone during the school year, Bumper. Nadia lives in the dorm at U.S.C. She’s a freshman. Dalai boards at Ramona Convent. She’ll be going to college next year.”