The chicken business had gone bankrupt, the Vegas gambling tables had cost him his few remaining dollars, and the strain of it all gave him a great big heart attack. In those days, the cure for near-death by heart failure was six months of bed rest. First he had to stay in a hospital in Vegas for two weeks before he was considered well enough to be driven home. My mother hopped on a bus right away and I stayed with Aunt Rose and Uncle Jack. I was told that Daddy was sick but would be fine soon. I was eleven and more concerned about daydreaming than worrying so nothing seemed odd until Aunt Rose pulled dinner guests aside and whispered something in their ears before heading toward the kitchen. Then my sudden fear overcame my normal shyness and I accosted the guests. I knew grown-ups lied. When the police took my dog away, my mother said he had to go to the vet for a few days. She hoped by the time I figured out Doggie was not ever coming back I’d be less upset. Silly woman. “What did Aunt Rose tell you about my father?” I demanded belligerently. “Is he dead?” The guests looked more frightened than I was, and muttered “No, no, nothing like that.” Rose rescued them by telling me what really happened and I went back to daydreaming. Fast forward six months and I’m sitting on the couch in the living room and my father is sitting in the opposing chair. He had an important decision to make and wanted my input before he went forward, so he said. Actually, he was just setting me up. He sat with his head bent down, his hands hanging between his legs, looking totally defeated. “I’ve tried to make a living but nothing has worked out. I’m almost fifty years old and I’m a failure.” “No, no you’re not! That’s not true!” (Later in the evening I repeated this to my mother. Instead of supporting me, she replied, “He’s right. He is a failure.” That’s when I knew we were in trouble.) I mentioned he’d set me up, right? He went on to say he had a chance to buy and run a bar but that meant he would have to work every night and leave me alone in the house. “I won’t do it if you don’t want me to. I could try to get a regular daytime job somewhere. Or I could go ahead with this offer, which seems promising. What do you think?” It was clear what he wanted to do and what he wanted from me, so I told him to go ahead and buy the bar. I’d be fine. I was lying but I didn’t want to make him more miserable. Dad had a favorite nephew who worked for him in the shoe business and later in the chicken business. This handsome man always wanted to be a bartender, so while my father was recuperating he came up with a brilliant plan: he proposed that the two of them should buy a bar. The fact that they had no money, nor could my bankrupt father open a new business didn’t matter. The nephew had ready answers. His older brother, the dancer, would sign the legal papers and bring his show biz buddies in as customers. Also, my mother would ask Aunt Rose to put up the funds. They connived and convinced and carried it off. There were three problems with this scheme. The bar was in the neighborhood of 68th and Vermont which was too far away and too seedy to attract movie stars, although Lionel Hampton did play there one night. That was problem number one. My father hated drinkers. While he was mixing their drinks he’d insult his customers and tell them why they were wrong about everything. I would get phone calls from my father at night directing me to read an excerpt to some male who sounded annoyed by my recitation. Who could win an argument when a child was quoting the Encyclopedia Britannica? Daddy did his best to drive away all the customers. That was problem number two. Then the nephew decided owning a bar was swell but working at one was not, so he demanded to be bought out in order to move to Vegas and sell products that were never delivered to suckers who’d succumbed to his new telemarketing scam. That was problem number three…and also the end of my play time with his children. Eventually, a way was found to get Daddy out of the bar and into law school so Ma could to run the place on her own. This turned out to be a good thing. It meant Ma could repay Aunt Rose and not feel ashamed. It also meant I didn’t have to live in the apartment above the bar and go to school with tough kids who would pulverize me on sight. This was more worrisome to me than living alone on Echo Park Avenue. My father did have one good encounter at the bar, however, and it’s a tale worth repeating. First off you should know that when this story started, it was illegal for black and white couples to marry in California. It was not only illegal in the Deep South, the attempt was grounds for lynching. Nonetheless, a young black man and white woman fell in love and fled to California where they hoped to live together in anonymity lest her four brothers find them, kill the young man, and drag their sister back home against her will. This young man worked for my father when he owned the chicken wholesale business. Dad considered him his finest employee. My mother adored his girlfriend, who would arrive at the end of the work day, ready to ride the bus with her boyfriend back to their apartment. They’d chat a bit and that’s how Ma learned about their family history. The pressure of discovery was ever-present and began to take its toll on the young man’s nerves. When they learned her brothers had tracked them down and were on their way to kill him, he bought a gun for self protection. Then one day the worst thing happened. On the bus ride home they had an argument about what to do, and in his frightened dementia he shot and killed his would-be wife. Although my father tried to make the police understand the extenuating circumstances, writing letters, and giving sworn testimony, things were what they were. A black man had killed a white woman and he was lucky to get a prison sentence. Years later, my father received a letter from the prison parole board asking his opinion of the young man’s character. My father replied that if the young man were released and looking for work, Dad would not only hire him back, he’d let someone else go, just so there would be a job waiting. He never heard back from the parole board after that. Even more years later, a very handsome man dressed impeccably in a business suit, walked up to the bar and asked if my dad was there. He was, but he didn’t recognize the stranger at first, not until he learned the man’s name and heard his story. During his prison time, the young man was allowed to continue his education and he eventually earned a degree in architecture. Due to his good behavior, the parole board decided to consider shortening his term. They had written to my father and Dad’s positive reply helped them decide on an early release. He worked hard, did well, and became a member of a noted architectural firm in San Francisco. Throughout this saga, the man never forgot my father’s efforts on his behalf. When work took him to Los Angeles, he resolved to trace my dad’s location to thank him in person. He found Daddy wiping down the bar, wondering how this elegant stranger knew his name. At the end of their conversation, they shook hands with gratitude and good will and then parted forever. Daddy never told me the man’s name when he shared this story but the look on his face was sublime. Within a few years after that, my father was practicing criminal law, doing a superb job making sure his clients received the finest legal representation. It didn’t matter to him whether they hailed from Beverley Hills and had money for attorney’s fees or lived near 68th and Vermont and did not.