Straight Life - Art Pepper [182]
When I finished, the detective didn't say anything. The parole officer didn't say anything. They sent me back to my cell and left me there for three more days with no word. At last they called me out, and my parole officer said, "The test shows exactly what I figured. You know something about the checks. It's up to you." He said, "Do you want to talk about it?" I said, "There's nothing to talk about. I have nothing to say." They sent me back to my cell. I stayed for three more days. Then they came and interrogated me. I said, "I'd love to help you out, but I don't know anything at all. If you're going to send me to jail, send me to jail. I can't help you."
They released me. I called Diane to come and get me. I've got a big beard. I haven't shaved in nine days. We go to the house, the same apartment, and I don't know if the police are outside or what, and Diane goes to a drawer and pulls out a condom of stuff and an outfit! Here she is, as if she's got a legal pass to do all this shit! But I'm dirty and miserable and here's some heroin, the only thing that's friendly and warm and good. So I fixed. Then I went into the living room and, just as a formality, I kind of glanced around the pad. I happened to look behind the couch and here it was again! I couldn't believe it. I could not believe it. The check protector and this big book of checks. I just couldn't believe it, man.
I told Diane and I told Arnold-I got this Arnold over there-I said, "Take this fuckin' thing out of here!" I told Diane, "If that's what you want you can go with the machine and the checks and just get the fuck out!" She said, "Well, this is my place!" I said, "Alright, fuck you! I'll get out!" And then she said, "Ohhhh! Noooooo! Art!" And she started whining. Finally Arnold took it away.
We stayed in Glendale. We had all these groceries. We had nothing, really, just all this nonsense, and finally it went. I was on the Nalline program again, killing myself trying to beat the tests, and we didn't have a car. I was riding the bus to East L.A. to score. Finally I hung up everything-the Nalline program, my parole-and so we had to move. I had to hide again. We moved in with a relative of Diane's, an aunt; Diane's mother was staying there, too. I remember walking the streets, picking up cigarette butts. I'd work occasionally, and every penny I made we spent on dope and cough syrup.
Finally a guy offered me a job at a jazz club out in Orange County. I was afraid to take it, but the money was very good and I felt that even though I'd hung up my parole they wouldn't look for me that close. I told the guy I'd work the job if he didn't advertise in the paper. I told him he could put my name on the club. I got a kid I was giving lessons to to drive us out there. Diane hadn't heard me play in a long time and she wanted to come along. As we approached the club I got a feeling, a premonition, that something bad was going to happen. I told the kid, "I'm afraid to have Diane in the club. We know some people out here in Orange County. Please drop her at their house, where she'll be safe. Then you can come back." I told Diane, "Just before the job ends give me a call at the club and I'll tell you if everything's okay. Our friends can bring you over." I had the kid drop me a block and a half from the club. I walked. I had my alto case in my hand, and I saw they had my name out front, which I'd said they could do. I didn't know this: the owner had also put an ad in the Orange County papers.
I went into this club still very nervous. I had quite