When he didn't respond, Sarah moved his head so it was positioned over the paper. Then she lifted it right under his nose. "You have to see it," she cried. "Can't you see? It's her, Raymond, it's the woman I met at the hospital. It's your angel."
His arms were limp at his side, but Sarah saw his right hand open and close. Then she heard his feet moving under the table.
"She's in trouble, Raymond," she said loudly, wanting him to hear and praying that this was the miracle they had been waiting for. "Your angel is in trouble and she needs you. Are you going to let them send her to jail? Aren't you going to try to help her? Didn't she help you?"
The Times had run the same photo of Toy, but the text was considerably different. Far less sensational than the Post, they reported merely that Toy had been accused of trying to steal a child. Even though Sarah didn't really know the woman, she felt in her heart that it couldn't be true. How could Raymond's mystery woman be a criminal?
Sarah leaned forward and stared into Raymond's eyes. She could see his pupils moving back and forth horizontally. Then she suddenly realized what he was doing, and her spirits soared.
Raymond was reading.
He was actually reading the newspaper article. Sarah stood perfectly still, fearful she would distract him. After five or ten minutes, he looked up.
"It's her, isn't it?" she said softly.
Raymond's lips formed into a circle, and for a second, Sarah was uncertain if he was going to speak or just blow childishly at her. But he didn't avert his eyes and continued staring deep into her own, his lips slightly trembling. Finally he pushed the words out. "Yes," he said, a broad smile lighting up his dark face. "You . . . you found her."
Just then Sarah heard the phone ringing. She tried to ignore it, but she could tell it was annoying Raymond. Grabbing the receiver, she barked in the phone, "What do you want?" She was greeted with the silky smooth voice of Francis Hillburn.
"Oh," he said, "you must be the lovely creature who's been taking care of our Raymond. I'm sorry, darling, but I've forgotten your name."
"Our Raymond?" Sarah said facetiously, stretching the phone cord into the kitchen so Raymond couldn't hear. "What does that mean? You're turning him out on the street, remember? Isn't that what you told me the other day?"
"No," Hillburn said, "you must be mistaken. Why would I evict one of my most gifted clients? Raymond Gonzales is a genius." He paused and then continued, his speech lilting and rapid in enormous
California Angel 165
excitement. "We don't want to call him Raymond, though. No, no, my dear. We must always refer to him as Stone Black. That's the name we're using in our promotions."
Sarah was perplexed. Then she peeked around the corner to check on Raymond, and her eyes found the life-size portrait of Toy, the one with the outstretched wings. Of course, she told herself. Now that Raymond's subject was famous and the media was swarming all around her, there was no doubt that Hillburn would find a way to exploit the situation to his advantage. "I see," Sarah said slowly. "I gather you saw the article in the Times?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Hillburn said defensively. "But look, while I have you on the phone, I'm sending a driver over to pick up Raymond's paintings for a show we're having this week. Please make sure he gets all of them and packs them properly."
"Raymond's paintings are not for sale," Sarah said.
"What are you saying?" Hillburn said angrily. "Who do you think you are, anyway? Certainly they're for sale. He's an artist. He has to sell them to eat, you foolish woman, and I'm his official representative. Who are you? Some little tramp he picked up on the street."
"Maybe," Sarah said, willing to accept insults as long as she had one of her own that was better. "But I'm the one in the loft right now, Hillburn, and possession is nine-tenths of the law. So if I were you, I wouldn't waste my time sending someone over here, because I won't let them in."
"I'll . . . I'll get you evicted," Hillburn snarled. "I'll take you to court. I own that loft and everything in it. You hear me? What kind of trick are you trying to pull?"
"You don't own Raymond, though," she said, "and you don't own his paintings." Then she promptly slammed down the receiver and smiled with satisfaction.
When she stepped out of the kitchen, Raymond was no longer sitting silently at the table. He had placed a blank canvas on his easel and was painting like a man possessed, stooping, standing, reaching. Sarah moved closer and gawked at what she saw. The faint outline of the angel with the flaming red hair was already coming to life in his rapidly moving hands, leaping from his brush straight onto the canvas.
California Angel 167
drowned if you had not come for me. I love you, Miss Angel. Signed Mitso.' What do you think, Toy? Isn't that darling?"
Toy didn't answer. She was lost in thought. She remembered something, a dark-haired child with the smallest and most perfect hands and feet she had ever seen, the stream, the strange houses, all of them so near the ground. When had she had that dream? she asked herself. She couldn't recall. There were just too many of them —the dreams, the children.
"Do you want me to read you another letter?" her mother said.
Toy felt warm and rested, at peace and restless at the same time. She propped herself up on the pillow and looked over at her mother. i love you, Mom," she said. "No matter what happens, I love you and I always will. You're the best mother in the world."
"I love you, too, honey," she said. "But you didn't answer me. Would you like me to read you another letter? They're so cute and sweet. It'll make you feel better."
Toy studied her mother's gentle face. Didn't she wonder why these people were writing to her daughter? Didn't she wonder why her daughter was on trial for murder? Wasn't she the least bit concerned that her daughter could go to prison for the rest of her life? The answer to all those questions was no. Her mother was stooped over now, picking through the letters.
"Read them all," Toy said.
"What? Did you say read them all? All these letters? Well, goodness, there are so many. So-o-o very many. All of them from lovely little children, too."
"Read them all, Mom. We're not going anywhere."
Her mother smiled, bringing a whole handful of letters up from the sack. "That's just what I thought, darling."
By the time Miles Spencer's driver pulled up in front of Roosevelt Hospital Tuesday afternoon, there were at least fifty people lined up on the curb, many with large signs in their hands. Free the Angel, they read. A few people had signs that were more specific and referred to his client as not just any angel but the California Angel. As Miles squinted out the tinted window of his limousine, he realized that they had been drawn by only one television show, a few news-reels, a few articles in the papers. The whole thing was quite incredible. But, of course, he told himself smugly, this was Manhattan. There were lunatics on every corner.
As he stepped out of the car, a man with a long, flowing beard
assaulted him, almost knocking him to the ground. "They crucified Christ. Now they're trying to lock up His angel."
Miles knocked him away, wjped his hand on his coat, and made his way into the hospital. At the reception desk, he had to fight through a long line to get to the front. 'Tm here to see Toy Johnson."
"You and the rest of the world," the woman said. She had snow white hair that looked like a Brillo pad, and was dressed in a pink and white volunteer's uniform.
He turned around and looked at the people in line. "All these people are waiting to see Toy Johnson?"
"That's what they say. But you can't see her. No one can see her. She's under guard. She's a prisoner, you know?"
"Yes, I know," Miles said. "I'm her attorney. I have to see her. It's urgent."
She eyed him closely. "Don't lie to me," she sighed. "I've had a very stressful day."
Miles chuckled. She reminded him of his mother. "Here," he said, slapping his card on the counter.
Just then a heavy-set woman with dar
k bushy hair walked up to him carrying a suitcase, a frantic look on her face. "I heard you say you're Toy Johnson's attorney," she said breathlessly. "You've got to get me in to see her. I'm her best friend, and I've been waiting out here for hours. I have to catch a plane any minute."
"Excuse me," he said, giving Sylvia a look of distaste and turning to walk away.
"No," she called out, "I have to see her. Tell her I'm waiting. See if she can get them to let me come up."
Miles glanced back over his shoulder, but he didn't stop walking. Sylvia yelled out again, but he couldn't make out what she said. "What?" he said, annoyed that this strange woman was accosting him.
"Tell her I love her," Sylvia said. "Please, tell her I'm praying for her and that everything will be okay."
Miles kept walking and a short time later he was standing outside Toy's room, talking to the officer stationed there. Then he opened the door and walked inside, as nervous as the day he had taken the bar exam.
"Mrs. Johnson," he said, smiling briefly, "I'm your attorney, Miles Spencer." Then his mouth fell open and he gawked. The woman in the bed was so small, so childlike. Her red hair was fanned out on the pillow, her face void of makeup, and her eyes looked right
California Angel 169
through him. Suddenly he felt a chill and stepped back several feet from the bed.
"This is my mother, Ethel Myers."
"Pleased to meet you," he said, pumping her thin hand and then turning back to Toy. "Now, I have some good news. I bet it's the first good news of the day, huh?"
Toy and her mother both stared at him without speaking. On both their lips was a hint of a smile.
"We managed to track down Officer Kramer with the Transit Authority, and he verified your statement about seeing you the day of the fire."
"Isn't that nice, Toy?" her mother said, stroking her arm.
"Does that mean they're going to let me go?"
"Ah, not exactly. I mean, they'll release you eventually, I'm fairly certain, but it may take a few more days. We did manage to get the extradition hearing continued until Thursday due to your illness. The hospital assured me that ygu will be fine by then. We're in contact with the Kansas authorities, and they're sending their own man out to take Officer Kramer's statement, and statements from the hospital personnel. They also want to wait until their forensic people give them a report on the film clip."
"What kind of report?" Toy asked, holding her mother's hand now.
"They're having experts compare the image of the woman on the film to the footage they shot of you the day you were arrested. If the images don't match, then it will all be over."
"What about the case here in New York?"
"Yes," he said slowly. "I'm more than aware those charges are pending. I feel confident, however, that we can divert formal charges on that matter due to the child's statement. I plan to use her as a character witness next week. She's quite convincing."
"Lucy?" Toy said, her green eyes blazing. "Is she all right? I've been so worried about her."
"She's fine," Miles said tentatively, unable to take his eyes off Toy's face. There was something peculiar about her, he decided. "Mrs. Johnson," he said intently, "would you mind asking your mother to leave the room a few minutes so we can discuss your case?"
"Why?" Toy said. "You can talk freely. I don't have anything to hide.'*
"I—I, well, to be perfectly honest, I'd like to ask you a few personal questions."
"Oh, really?" Toy said, eyeing him suspiciously. "What kind of questions?"
"This is all so intriguing," he said, stepping to the window and looking down at the people assembled on the sidewalk. Either he was losing his mind, he told himself, or the number had doubled just since he had arrived. Even now new people were arriving in taxis or stepping out of cars and joining the group. "Why are they all standing there like that?" he said, talking without thinking. "Surely they don't believe in angels? That's asinine."
Toy exchanged knowing glances with her mother and then said, "Why is it asinine?"
"Well, you know," Miles said with his back turned, still peering out at the people, "angels are only fantasy, folklore. Anyone in their right mind would know they don't actually exist."
"Have you ever read the Bible?" Toy asked him.
Miles Spencer spun around and faced her. "Of course I've read the Bible."
"But you don't believe, right?"
The attorney's face drained of all color and for a moment he looked as if he were ill. "I don't choose to answer that question," he said huffily.
Toy was acting on instinct, but her instincts told her she didn't like this man. There was something about him that repulsed her, even though she couldn't put her finger on it. Then she suddenly saw it. Emanating from his body was a strange reddish glow, almost as if he were standing in a blazing inferno. Toy knew what it was instantly. It was aggression and cynicism, greed and malice. This man didn't care about her fate, any more than he cared about anyone's fate.
All he cared about was himself.
Stepping closer to the bed, Miles Spencer opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. A few moments later he tried again. "If you . . . know something ... I, well, I want to . . ." He stopped stammering and stood there silently, as if he couldn't figure out what it was he had wanted to say.
Toy sat upright in the bed. "I can only give you a suggestion," she said. "You said you'd read the Bible, right? Isn't that what you just said?"
"Well, yes, I did, but—"
"How long ago was that?"
California Angel 171
"Oh," he said, relaxing somewhat but smiling nervously, "when I was a child."
"Maybe you should try reading it again."
She didn't touch him, but Miles Spencer brought his hand to his face, almost certain he'd been slapped. She knew, he told himself. As of that second he was totally convinced that the woman he was representing was a mythical, magical creature. He was so convinced that he was ready to hold up a sign and join the growing crowd on the street.
She had seen inside him to a place no one had ever seen before— to the small, painfully shy boy whose father was a Methodist minister in a rural town in Pennsylvania. Visions of his father in the pulpit appeared in his mind, and he could feel the soft leather of the Bible he had always carried in his hands. Every Sunday when he had listened to his father preach his sermon, he had dreamed of the day he would become a minister like his father and have his own congregation. "Have you read your Bible?" his father would always say before he went to bed. Sometimes Miles would read the chapters his father selected, but then forget the message contained in them. "Then you better read it again," his father would say.
He had been so devout then, so caring and concerned about others. Where had it gone? How had he lost it?
Yes, he said to himself, Toy Johnson knew what he wanted to know, what he needed to know to save himself from eternal damnation. And she knew he wanted to know more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. Who exactly was this strange ethereal being who could appear in two places simultaneously? A creature who could inspire all these people? Where had she come from, and where would she go when she left?
She knew, but she simply wasn't going to tell him. She had somehow looked inside his heart and discovered he wasn't worthy.
When the attorney shuffled out the door a few minutes later, the guard looked up and did a double take, almost thinking one man had come in and another one exited. The man who had entered had a regal carriage: his head high, his shoulders thrust back, a look of authority and superiority on his face. But the man making his way down the hall was stooped, his face ashen, his feet barely moving as he crossed the floor. The officer opened the door, checking to see if anyone was still in the room. "Everything okay in here?"
"Yes," Toy's mother said politely. "You're doing a good job, Officer." The man's head pulled back and Toy's mother held a letter in
the air. "Ready for another one, baby? My, my, this o
ne comes all the way from Arizona."
Toy's mother left for the evening and Toy was about to fall asleep when the door suddenly sprang Open and Sylvia rushed in. "Ssssh," she whispered, glancing back at the door, "I'm a nurse, see. It was the only way I could get in."
Toy looked at her friend and broke out laughing. Perched on the top of her head was a miniature nurse's cap with a big red cross on the front, and a small stethoscope was draped around her neck. She was wearing a white blouse and white stretch pants that were about two sizes too small. "Is that plastic?" Toy said, giggling and pointing at the stethoscope.
"Yeah," Sylvia said, picking it up and placing it on Toy's forehead. "Nope, nothing in there," she said a few seconds later, causing Toy to giggle again.
"Where did you get that hat?" Toy asked when she finally stopped laughing. "Did you steal it from a midget nurse or something?"
"Oh, this?" Sylvia said, grinning back at Toy. "They wouldn't let me in here, so I bought a kid's Halloween costume. When I couldn't fit into the dress, I used my own blouse and then found the pants at Woolworth's." She stopped and wiggled her hips. "Little snug, huh?"
"Just a little," Toy said, turning away and giggling again.
"Heck," Sylvia said, tugging at her crotch, "and they were on the bargain table, too. Thought they were a pretty good buy." When she finished speaking, Sylvia fell serious and dropped onto the edge of Toy's bed. "Missed my plane."
"Why?" Toy asked, concerned. "You have to go back to school tomorrow. Because of what's going on with me, someone has to—"
"Why?" Sylvia yelled, shaking her head. "My best friend is in a hospital, and the cops are charging her with murder. Why would I worry about that, huh? What do you think? I'm just going to go home and forget about you?"
California Angel Page 20
