Turi’s Zoot Suit – Muy de aquellas, pero ilegal!

Stylized photo of zoot suit styles of 1940s and 1950s, from the Internet

Joaquín Murrieta is Free!

​By Alberto Ramirez

The broadcasting xylophone chimes of KHJ-FM sounded over the Philco, table-top radio in the Leyva family parlor and brought Señora Leyva from the kitchen with soup ladle in hand. She fiddled with the radio station dial, tuned out the static, and turned up the volume. The announcer, in a booming, chipper, sing-song cadence, welcomed his listeners.  
“Greetings, Angelenos! Soon, The Adventures of Arnie Guff, Master of Disguises, but first the news—brought to you by Spielman’s Appliances, proudly serving Los Angeles since 1902, located on the corner of State and First Street, in the heart of Boyle Heights. Sailors and young zoot suiters clashed again last night, this time outside of the Aragon Ballroom in Venice Beach. Ten Mexican youths, all armed with crude weapons, were routed and stripped of their garish suits by Uncle Sam’s fighting men, then promptly arrested by police and hauled off to the Los Angeles Hall of Justice. These latest arrests come after service men declared war on zoot-suit gangs who have been preying on innocent citizens on the East Side of the city. According to authorities the street battles represent an increasingly serious State-wide juvenile delinquency problem. The L.A. City Council has proposed a resolution that would ban the wearing of zoot suits in public. In other news . . .”
“¿Oíste Turi?” said Señora Leyva. “Dijo el señor que es peligroso salir esta noche.”
Arturo “Turi” Leyva—tall, dark and dimpled faced—stood proudly in front of the parlor mirror, combing a gob of Pomade into his thick, black, handsome head of curly hair.
“It’s fine amá,” he said. “No te preocupes. I’m just taking Rosie up to the Orpheum to catch a show. We won’t be out too late.”
“¡Ay Turi! Tú aquí y tu hermano Martín en la guerra. ¡Ya no puedo!”
“The war is the war, amá ,” he said. “I’m sure Martín’s ok. He said so in his last letter home.”
Turi brushed lint from the broad shoulders of his brand new, pin-striped drape jacket, ran a hand the length of his pleated, balloon-legged trousers and wolf whistled long and low. 
“¡Firme!” he said.
Señora Leyva—diminutive, yet physically overbearing in her matriarchal serge smock—pushed up on Turi’s heels and whispered omens in his ear.     
“Dijo el señor que tu traje es ilegal.”
Turi ran the plastic comb from the crown of his feathery, jet black pompadour to the tip of his perfectly tapered duck-tail.   
“I worked hard for the money to buy this suit,” he said. “I look good in it. That ain’t illegal.”
He always wanted a suit like this, ever since he saw Prince Edward, the Duke of Windsor himself, wearing a fancy long coat in Life Magazine, shaking Adolf Hitler’s hand a few years before the War began. Never mind the war-time rationing of fabric and the accusations of being Un-American. Was he to blame for the German invasion of Poland? Was it his fault that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor? Did the Allied victory really hang in the balance of a few extra yards of worsted wool? He deserved a suit like that and so he worked overtime at the Pan-Pacific Fisheries, the tuna cannery on Terminal Island, for piece-work pay, saved his money for six months and paid Tiburcio the Tailor of East L.A. $20 cash for a first-rate, bespoke Zoot Suit. And what a suit it was! It made him feel like a real American. 
“Cámbiate, mijo,” his mother pleaded.
“I’m not changing, amá,” he said, defiantly. “This is me.”
Señora Leyva circled around and stood in front of Turi, blocked the mirror to get his undivided attention, and looked him square in the eyes.
“Bueno,” she said lovingly, “tú sabrás. Te vez muy guapo. Pero por el amor de Dios ten cuidado mijo.”
“I’ll be careful,” he promised.
She saw him off on the porch, made the sign of the cross over him—as if she were sending a second son off to war—kissed him on the cheek, and watched over him as he strolled up Orme Avenue into the night.
Back inside, in the family parlor, Señora Leyva tuned the radio to her favorite program—Everything for the Boys—to hear the latest news about the War and the American servicemen stationed overseas.
Weeping softly into a plush red scarf, she lit a rose-scented, Virgen de Guadalupe votive candle for her two sons, for the one here on the home front in Boyle Heights and for the other across the Atlantic Ocean, on the front lines in Germany. She prayed the rosary:
“Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo, santificado sea tu nombre...”
Turi caught a Yellow Car—the P-Line going downtown—on the corner of Whittier Boulevard. The conductor welcomed him aboard, tipped his cap, rang the bell and put the streetcar into motion. It lurched forward, gliding along smoothly on steel wheels, the cool, jasmine fragranced night air blowing in through the open windows. The coach was empty, the long, cylindrical tube with its silver and green interior shining by a row of flying saucer lights. Turi made his way to the back and slumped down in a seat by the rear exit door.
He sat there thinking of nothing in particular and everything all at once, as one does while sitting alone in the back of a streetcar: the people all abuzz on the boulevard going out on this warm, springtime night, to the jazz clubs and the Mexican restaurants, to the cafés and the cinema to see Casablanca, A Guy Named Joe and Destination Tokyo. His best girl Rosie. A bonafide bombshell, as fine as any pin-up girl. Plump, ruby lips, high cheekbones, button-nose, sparkling brown eyes and perfectly done-up platinum blond Victory Rolls. What a doll! His big brother Marty the fighting GI. And the War. When would it be over? When would the god damn Axis call it quits? When would they let Martín take the big boat home?
The Yellow Car came to a screeching halt on South Boyle Avenue to let on a passenger, a skinny Mexican-American kid who dropped the fare into the slot and came sidling coolly down the aisle. 
“¿Qué te pasa, calabaza?” said the kid, making his way to the rear.
“¡Nada nada, pinche Chavala!” said Turi.
Baby-faced Jimmy Lara, a kid two years Turi’s junior at Roosevelt High School, strolled into the light, combing his princely, Teddy boy hair.   
“¿Y tu mamá ?” said Jimmy. “She actually let you out of the house? ¿Y eso? Ain’t it passed your bedtime mija?”
Turi socked him playfully on the arm.
“Don't flinch, don't foul, hit the line hard!”
“Ok,” said Jimmy, plopping down on a seat. “Ya, Rough Rider!”
“Pues no mames güey!”
Jimmy looked Turi up and down, admiring his brand new suit.
“Nice drapes carnal,” he said. “Where’ya steal ’em?”
“Bucho’s in East Los.”
“I’m gonna buy me a traje like that someday.”
“Pues stop flubbing the dub and get a job, Jimbo.”
Jimmy gawped wistfully at the zoot suit, at the beautiful stitch work, the perfectly tapered trousers, hemmed just so, and the fine, double-breasted jacket that looked like it belonged to a well-to-do Anglo-American, to someone famous, a movie star, Clark Gable or Humphrey Bogart. 
Looking down at his own plain white, button-down shirt and his old, brown corduroy pants, he turned abruptly and spat out the trolley window.
“Entonces que, Jimbo,” said Turi. “¿Qué onda?”
“Oh what? You didn’t hear?”
“Hear what?”
Jimmy made a sound like a car getting a flat tire.
“Pues Uncle Sammy’s Sailors, that’s what. Están bien encabronados. They’re turning up like pinche fire ants from the Naval Reserve Armory over in Chavez Ravine, cruising into the barrio, looking for a fight. It’s war.”
“I heard it on the radio.” 
“¿Si ya sabes, pa qué te digo? Anyways, I’m going downtown, see if I can’t get into a bronca, have myself some fun. ¿Y tu?” 
“I’m meeting Rosie at the Orpheum. Going to see a show.”
The streetcar conductor glanced in the rear-view mirror.
“You boys really shouldn’t be out tonight,” he said. “It’s going to get hot out there. Those sailors ain’t messing around. I saw them beat a Mexican kid on Central Avenue last night. Poor kid was busted up pretty bad.”
“¡Chale!” said Jimmy. “Those pinche gringos ain’t even from around here. El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles is my town!”
“Damn right,” said Turi.
“¡No, hombre! Next thing you know they’ll be locking us up in el bote, too, like they did my neighbor Kenji y su pobre familia.”
“¿A poco?” said Turi, agasp. 
“Yup. Took him right out of 2nd period math class, then went down to his house on Soto Street to round up the other Okamuras.”
“¿Así nomás?”
“Así nomás. No crimes committed, no trials, no convictions, no nada. Straight to Owens Valley.”
Jimmy whistled chirpily and made a fluttery gesture to show how quickly they’d been taken and that they likely wouldn’t be coming home. 
“¿Oye, y el Johnny Schmitz?”
“¡No, hombre! ¡Ese pinche, blue-eyed güero! ¿Que tú crees? They left him sitting muy tranquillo at his desk in Mr. White’s 4th period mechanical engineering class. Hasta le dieron milk y cookies al güey.”
“¡Chinga su madre!”
“Y sus antepasados también.”
They sat quietly, thoughtfully looking out at the city lights as the Yellow Car chugged across the Los Angeles River over the Sixth Street Bridge. It was a lovely city, especially at night, despite the news of the day.
As they passed the steel arch mid-section of the bridge Turi pointed out the window, gawking slack-jawed as if he’d seen La Llorona on the riverbank.
“Look!” he said.
Jimmy turned in time to see—painted on a broad steel girder in big, white letters—a declaration of independence.
 Joaquín Murrieta is Free!
Neither had a clue as to what it meant, but both felt their spirts suddenly lifted. An inexplicable rush of joy like captive eagles sprung from cages. Pachucos with wings soaring over the sacred City of Los Angeles, high above the madness and the mortal fray and thoughts of incarcerated neighbors.
“Next stop South Broadway!” called the conductor, ringing the bell.
The Yellow Car coasted to a gradual stop and Turi and Jimmy came down reluctantly from that other place beyond the clouds, the stars and the dream of freedom.
“Is this your stop?” asked Turi.
“Nah,” said Jimmy. “I’m getting off at the Orpheum.”
“Pues órale.”
The streetcar turned south and proceeded along Broadway for three city blocks until the Orpheum Theater appeared along the streetscape through the row of trolley windows—a red and green neon beacon in the night. A Beaux Arts palace shining by a row of swiveling Hollywood searchlights. The marquee was all aglow, the black letters boasting the act for the evening.

Count Basie and His Famous Orchestra! 
Shows at 7:30pm and 10:30pm

​“You boys be careful out there,” said the conductor.
“Órale Steve-O!” said Jimmy, giving him a friendly pat on the back.
They got off the Yellow Car and stood curbside, watching the streetcar glide smoothly into the heart of the Broadway Theater District, clanging its bell, kicking up a crumpled, day-old newspaper into the air.
There was a long line in front of the Orpheum Theater that trailed off around the block, mostly white kids from the suburbs and a few servicemen. Turi spotted Rosie right away. She was standing at the front of the line by the theater entrance, wearing the dress he’d bought for her with his overtime earnings—a mustard yellow Grable tea dress—and a matching pillbox hat.
Sticking his fingers into his mouth he whistled to Rosie. A love bird’s call. Her face lit up at the sight of her man. She waved, blew fat kisses.
“Güacha,” said Jimmy, pointing out a couple of sailors in line.
“Me vale madre,” said Turi, going to Rosie. “You coming or what?”
“Nah,” said Jimmy. “I’m going to Dino’s for a coke.”
But he stayed put, jittery despite his youthful show of bravado on the streetcar. He was watching Turi strut bravely towards Rosie and the sailors.
Turi moved in time to the rhythm of the Boogie Woogie Blues. It’d been playing on a loop in his head since he caught the Yellow Car in Boyle Heights.
“What’s cooking baby doll?” he said.
“Just waiting on my fella,” said Rosie. “Have ya’ seen ’em?”
“Don’t know? What’s he look like?”
“He’s a big cheese. A real dreamboat. Looks a little like you, but taller.”
“Nope, haven’t seen ‘em. Oh wait—”
They laughed. Rosie fell affectionately into his arms and Turi peppered her cheek with kisses. And the sailors in line—a couple of oafish Iowa farmers’ sons in dress blues—suddenly took notice.
“Get a load of this clown in those god damn duds,” said the first seaman. “Looks like Barnum & Bailey is back in town.”
“Say, did that greaser just cut the line?” said the second seaman.
“God damn right he did, Henry boy!”
“Don’t blow a fuse,” said Rosie, holding on tight to Turi.  
“Sure thing baby doll,” he said. “It’s just a couple of sauced up squidies, is all. It don’t bother me none.”
“And look at the scrag he’s got with ’em,” said the first seaman. “She looks like a Ti-ju-ana moll.”
“Get lost!” said Turi, spinning around. 
“Get lost, he says,” said the second seaman. “Well, doesn’t that beat all? This uppity Mexican’s telling us to shove off! Let’s teach this spic a lesson.”
“Now you’re talking, Henry boy!”
The people in line between Turi and the sailors looked up, startled and panic-stricken in a moment of immobility. Nobody moved or said anything. A Yellow Car approached, clanging its bell, and someone on the passing streetcar shouted:
“Kill that good-for-nothing zoot suiter!”
“No!” screamed Rosie. “Run, Turi!”
The sailors got a hold of Turi before he could put up a fight. A crowd quickly formed to watch the spectacle. The first seaman pinned Turi’s arms behind his back, while the second seaman punched him repeatedly in his handsome, dimpled-face. Blood poured out of his busted nose and mouth onto the sidewalk, the sight of which only stirred the sailors’ fervor. The frenzied, white crowd chanted and whooped, pushing Rosie backwards, drowning out her cries for help.
“That ought to shut ’em up,” said the first seaman, letting go of Turi.
He collapsed onto the sidewalk, lay dazed and twisted where he fell.
“Had enough? Huh?” said the second seaman.
“Let ‘em have it!” someone shouted, spurring the sailors on.
“You heard ’em, Henry boy,” said the first seaman.
They started back in on Turi, stomping and kicking him in the gut, in the ribs and squarely in the head until he coughed up blood and spit out teeth. It went on like this for a while, until the sailors grew tired and stopped to catch their breath.
In between the beatings Turi lay gazing dumbly up at the sky, looking passed the hateful, grim-faced sailors and the angry mob staring down at him with rage and curiosity and the dizzying, fire-bright, Hollywood searchlights crisscrossing the nighttime sky. Close by, Turi could hear the faintest murmur of Rosie’s soft weeping, gradually being washed over by a seething tide of savage laughter, sweet Swing-time music and the high, cold wailing of police sirens as squad cars quickly approached the scene of the commotion.
“Don’t cry, Rosie,” Turi mumbled. “Go on home. I’ll be ok.”
The crowd was riled up now and wanted to see more blood.
“Hey, that one’s with him!” shouted a young white woman. She was pointing at a bystander—young Jimmy Lara standing curbside. 
“I saw him get off the Yellow Car with this one here,” she said.
Seeing the mob turning on him, Jimmy held up his hands in submission and backed up.
“Wait a second,” he said. “I’ve never seen that guy before in my life.”
“He’s lying!” said the young white woman. “They’re pals.”
“Please, no,” he insisted. “He’s the zoot suiter, not me.”
Jimmy turned and ran up Broadway, disappeared down an alley.
“Let’s pluck this chicken,” said the second seaman, looking down at Turi writhing on the sidewalk.
The sailors yanked Turi up forcibly by the lapels of his jacket and, with the help of a couple of all-too-willing bystanders, began to strip him naked. First they tore the fine, pin-striped, double-breasted drape jacket right off his back and flung it into the jeering crowd who proceeded to rip it into rags. His white Oxford dress shirt was tattered and blood-sopped and came undone with a few light tugs. They unbuckled his belt, pulled down his trousers and tossed them into the street, leaving him broken in his bare skivvies on the concrete. Winded and victorious, the sailors hooted and shook self-clasping handshakes above their Dixie cup hats. The crowd cheered wildly. It was the last thing that Turi heard before blacking out from the beating and the shame of it all.
When Turi Leyva came to he was lying on a cold, metal bunk in a two-man jail cell, cloaked in an itchy, wool blanket—property of the Lincoln Heights Jail. His cell-mate—an old, barefooted, Mexican man in a filthy, second-hand serge suit and a ratty, felt hat—was breathing down on him. A heavy, tequila haze burned in Turi’s nostrils. He stirred, went to vomit and spat up blood.
“¡El Muerto vive!” said the old man. “¡Que milagro!”
“Where am I?” asked Turi.
“Aquí con Papá Chencho en el pinche bote. ¡Oye, te rompieron la madre!”
Turi touched his cut and swollen face and winced.
“Los marineros,” he said.
“¿Oye, y por qué andas en calzón? ¿Te violaron o qué?
The very question was emasculating. He ignored it, stared silently at the rusty bars of the cell-door, listening for the sound of the jailer. 
“Leyva!”
The voice echoed in the rafters of the cavernous cell block. A big, gruff cop appeared at the cell-door. 
“Ar-tu-ro...Arthur Leyva,” said the cop. “Bail’s been set at $20. If you can’t make bail, make yourself at home. Judge’ll see you Monday morning.”
“But, what’s the charge?”
“Disturbing the peace.”
“I disturbed the peace?” said Turi, staring dumbly at the cop.
“Yes. There were witnesses.”
He said it with such authority that Turi was nearly convinced that he was guilty of the crime. The cop turned and walked back. Papá Chencho sucked at his teeth and spat in the corner.
“Maldito carcelero,” he said.
Turi rolled onto his side. He thought of his poor, doting mother at home, probably pacing the family parlor floorboards thin with worry. And his girl Rosie, how she must be suffering, not knowing if he was alright. Jimmy was probably sound asleep and dreaming in his bed right about now. Turi didn’t blame the kid for running. He might have done the same thing if it was him. It sure would be nice to go home.
“Joaquín Murrieta is free,” he said, remembering the words painted on the steel girder on the Sixth Street Bridge.
“What do you know about Joaquín Murrieta?” said Papá Chencho, out of nowhere, in broken English.
Turi sat up, looked up at Papá Chencho and listened.
“They do not teach you about him in those American history books at that pinche school of yours, do they? No, they do not. He was a peaceful, hardworking, God loving Californio who was wronged by the Anglos.”
“What did they do to him?”
“They accused him of stealing a horse, beat him, stole his land, his possessions, and raped and murdered his fine young wife.”
“And what did he do?”
“He swore revenge, became the famous Robin Hood of the West.”
“And then?”
“The state of California put a bounty on his head, $5000 dead or alive.”
“But he outsmarted them, didn’t he?”
“Yes, for a time. But they finally caught up with him.”
“But he got away, right?”
“No, the Anglos set him free.”
“¿A poco?”
“Yes, they cut off his head, put it in a big jar of whiskey and charged people two bits to see it.”
“But you said they let him go—”
Papá Chencho took off his felt hat, examined it at arm’s length, licked his thumb and rubbed the grimy brim.
“Joaquín Murrieta está libre,” he said. “Libre de este mundo. Libre de la Ley y de la pinche injusticia. Por fin—”

​Alberto Ramirez, a Los Angeles based writer and UCLA graduate, had short stories published in Westwind Journal of the Arts, Angel City Review, Drabblez Magazine, LossLit Magazine UK and Adelaide Literary Magazine (forthcoming). His novel, Everything That Could Not Happen Will Happen Now (Floricanto and Berkeley Presses 2016), was selected by Las Comadres and Friends National Latino Book Club summer reading list 2017. This short story is set in Los Angeles circa June 1943 during the “Zoot Suit Riots,” so called even though U.S. military men attacked young Mexican Americans wearing the suit style shown above. 

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