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around and shakin’ his shoul­ders out, like a fighter. Next chorus, he tighten up! He grab a handful of Ray’s gabardine, ’bout mid­thigh! Clutchin’ at it! Them little gals run for­ward as close as they can get. He let the guitar work. He back up. Last chorus, he commence to stompin’! He grab his waistband and jerk his pants up, on the beat! All the gals throw pocketbooks, handkerchiefs, anything they ain’t gone need later on. They don’t throw they hatpins or they guns, nossir, they don’t throw that! Heh, heh, nossir, they don’t.”
    I said, “Was it a woman got him killed? You know he didn’t do it.” Herman had the inside dope on all subjects known heretofore and as yet undesignated.
    â€œRight now, I got to make my rounds. What good it is, I don’t really know. Look like a newspaper building to you? It’s a Temple of Secrets, the High and Mighty Church of the Next Dollar, and ain’t nary a one of ’em mine. What they need a watchman for? Our Lord and Savior had a marvelous trick bag, I’m told, but even he couldn’t break in here.” Kiko and Smiley crossed themselves. Herman laughed. “Don’t you boys be concerned, I’m strictly spiritual! My mind is stayin’ on Jesus! I’m a deacon in the Church of the Rapid Bible and the First Born, on Thirty-third. Worship services are spontaneous and unscheduled, but all are welcome! Right now, you folks better sit tight and let me have a look around on the boulevard. I’ll be back.”
    Kiko said, “Man, he’s been at a lot of shows.”
    â€œActually, no. You dig Herman right here, every night. No need to go further. He’ll be on the radio in a little while. We don’t check him with no light­weight stuff.”
    Saturday and Sunday nights it was Leon the Lounge Lizard’s radio show, The Rump Steak Serenade . Leon featured the cool sounds of jazz from midnight to 3:00 a.m., broadcasting live from Doctor Brownie’s Famous Big Needle, the jazz record shop on San Pedro open twenty-four hours a day. At two o’clock, Herman came on for a fifteen-minute interlude: “It’s time once again for Dig It and Pick Up On It , with Herman the Human Jukebox!” Folks would call in with questions and try to stump Ju­Ju, but it had never been done. If a caller asked about a record, he could name all the players, the label color, matrix number, and chart position. He’d know how many suits Billy Eckstine had and what brand of gin Fats Waller preferred. Tonight Ju­Ju was sharp and on the money, as always. A white man in Glendale, who wouldn’t give his name, asked, “Is it legal for colored men to call them­selves ‘King,’ ‘Duke,’ and ‘Count’?” Ju­Ju answered politely, “Yes, if jazz is legal. If not, all bets are off, and you had better stay right there in Glendale!” Next came a brother from Watts, one Horace Sprott. “How many times has guitarist Irving Ashby been stopped by the LAPD on his way home from the nightclub job with Nat Cole?” Answer: “Eighty­-seven times to date, and always by the same motorcycle officer, William ‘Bitter Bill’ Spangler, badge 666. Officer Bill asserts that John has been entertained in their home by his wife, Mabel, repeatedly and often, whilst he is out on patrol. ‘She plays those records by that spade, Cole. I hate music! Every time I come in from work, the place stinks like fish. I hate fish!’” The third caller was a white woman with an East Tennessee drawl that made a question out of everything: “Hello, Herman? This is Ida from Thirty-third Street, and I have a garage full of old 78 records? They belonged to my husband; he liked that music you like? I’m moving to Spokane, so what should I do?”
    â€œ ’Scuse the hat, Miss Ida, ma’am, but that’s me you hear