On the radio, the news reporter was saying: ‘—is still being pressed to make a statement about the future of the neutron bomb, but in Washington yesterday he insisted that—’
T.F. sniffed. The trouble was, he was beginning to wonder if all these shootings served any purpose. Why knock off so many people, and what for? It seemed as if he was going to have to spend the rest of his life killing two or three people a day. It was depressing. It was like trying to bail out a hooding boat. Every day he shot someone, and every day twenty people were born in their place. He felt as if he was going against the whole tide of history.
Up ahead of him, the white T-bird began to hash its right-hand indicator and pull across to the inside lane. It looked as if Peter Hughes was going to exit on Venice Boulevard, and maybe make his way to work up Highland. T.F. signalled that he was moving across, too, and kept fifty or sixty feet behind the white car as it slowed down for the exit ramp.
This was going to make life difficult. He didn’t like taking people on the streets. It was too exposed, too crowded, and escaping at any speed couldn’t be guaranteed. He had once shot at a woman on San Vicente Boulevard, missing her by inches, and then had to stop at a red light a few feet further along the street. The woman, oblivious of what he had done, had pulled up alongside him and smiled at him, and there had been too many other cars close by to shoot at her again.
Peter Hughes turned onto Venice Boulevard and headed northeast, with T.F. right behind him. There was less traffic here than T.F. had feared. There was plenty of smog, too, which made it hard to read a licence plate at anything further than thirty feet.
The boulevard was clear ahead for two blocks. T.F. accelerated, and gradually pulled alongside the white T-bird, until they were driving neck-and-neck. He kept his eyes on Peter Hughes, but reached across for his .45 and felt the weight of it in his right hand.
He could see Peter Hughes quite clearly for the first time now. He was young-looking for twenty-seven, with high-coloured cheeks and a snub nose. His hair was cut short, and he was wearing a blue sports shirt. He must have been whistling along with the radio, because his lips were puckered.
The traffic signals ahead of them changed to red, and they drew up to the line side by side. Peter Hughes kept looking ahead and whistling, his elbow resting on the windowsill of his car. The passenger window, nearest to T.F., was closed.
Seconds passed. T.F. checked his rear-view mirror and saw that the block behind them was empty of traffic. On the block ahead, there was only a slow-moving truck, and he could use that to help a quick getaway.
He saw the cross traffic slowing down as the signals changed. He lifted the .45 and rested it in the crook of his left elbow, to steady it. Peter Hughes, only fifteen feet away, didn’t even see him. He was whistling and thinking about Clare’s birthday, which was on Wednesday the following week. He had bought her a watch and a bottle of Jontue. He hoped the perfume would suit her.
T.F. fired. The passenger window was blasted into smithereens of flying glass, and the bullet hit Peter Hughes in the right ear. It passed right through his head and was later found loosely lodged in a timber telephone post across the street. Peter Hughes slumped sideways, his head resting against the sill of his open window, and runnels of blood streaked the white door of his Thunderbird.
T.F. Hung the .45 on the passenger seat and took off in a cloud of smoking rubber. He overtook the truck on the next block and swung in front of it so that any witnesses would find it hard to read his licence plate and even harder to see where he might have gone. He screeched around the corner into Burnside Avenue, and headed back towards Washington Boulevard so that he could rejoin the Santa Monica Freeway and go west to Venice as fast as possible.
He didn’t hear the warble of police sirens until he was comfortably settled in the stream of westbound traffic. Then he sat back, sniffed, and turned up the news on the radio. The reporter was saying: ‘There’s big trouble at the fifth Women’s Liberation League convention this morning, with charges from a Catholic priest that one of its most controversial delegates has been set up for a sexual blackmail picture. Here’s Dick LaGorda with the story…’
Eight
John Cullen was shaving when he heard the morning news on TV. It was seven o’clock, and the November sunlight, clearer up in the Hollywood hills, was slanting into his small bathroom.
Mel was brewing coffee in the kitchenette and humming quietly to himself. They had talked since dawn, worrying their grief like enraged hounds tearing at a jackrabbit, as they slowly came to grips with the pain of what had happened. John knew that there was more grieving to come, but right now, in the light of his first morning without Vicki, he felt too tired and too talked-out to cry. He knew, too, from his father’s death, that tomorrow morning wouldn’t be so painful, and that the day after that would be even less so. As his father himself had once told him about death: ‘It’s surprisingly easy to come to terms with it, easier than divorce, because the person you loved isn’t around any more to remind you. You know that you could search the whole world over, and never find them.’
Whether he wanted to or not, he knew that he would eventually get over her. All he hoped for, because he had loved her so much, was that it wouldn’t be too soon. His sadness was all he had left.
He shaved under his chin, and rinsed his razor in the basin. The television news reporter said: ‘—expects to go down to Camp David during the week for a private meeting with Israeli minister—’
Mel, from the kitchenette, said, ‘You want some juice? I bought orange and grapefruit.’
John answered, ‘Grapefruit.’
Then the news reporter said: ‘Here in Los Angeles, where the Women’s Liberation League has been holding a stormy fifth convention, a Catholic priest has made amazing charges against the league’s founder and leader, Ms. Hilary Nestor Hunter.’
‘I wonder what amazing charge that is,’ commented Mel. ‘Maybe someone’s said she’s a woman after all.’ John dried his face and came through into the living room. The news reporter said: ‘In the early hours of this morning, Father Leonard Zaparelli, a social-working priest from the deprived Merchant Street district of downtown Los Angeles, said that delegate Perri Shaw, an attractive blonde divorcee, was set up last night for phony blackmail photographs. Apparently, a scantily-clad girl broke into Ms. Shaw’s Hollywood apartment and, in Father Zaparelli words, “forced Ms. Shaw into a compromising situation.” Whereupon, a hidden cameraman snapped the proceedings and made his escape.’
‘John – your coffee’s ready,’ Mel called out.
‘Okay, Mel. One minute.’
The reporter said: ‘—says he’s naming no names, but challenges Ms. Hilary Nestor Hunter to deny that Ms. Shaw’s withdrawal from the controversy would not be “substantially to her advantage.” So far this morning—’
‘Can you believe that?’ John asked as he came into the living room.
‘Believe what?’
‘All this backstabbing in the women’s lib movement. They’re worse than men.’
‘What backstabbing? I wasn’t listening.’
John took his coffee and sat down at the table. ‘It seems like Hilary Nestor Hunter set up some fake blackmail photographs, trying to prove one of her lady opponents was a lesbian.’
‘I thought they were all lesbians.’
John laughed. ‘Don’t let Vicki hear you say that.’ Then he suddenly realised what he’d said. He was quiet for a moment, and then he added, ‘Well, she would have given you a couple of hours’ pretty tough argument.’
Mel nodded. ‘You don’t have to pretend that she’s lost and gone forever,’ he said gently. ‘Maybe she’s not walking around, but she’ll always be there, in your mind and your memory, so don’t deny her that much.’
‘I couldn’t if I tried.’
‘So the ladies of the Women’s Liberation League are cutting each other’s throats. I guess it was bound to happen. That Hilary Nestor Hunter makes women like Kate Mille
tt look like Playboy bunnies.’
‘She’s pretty well connected, though,’ John said. ‘It seems to me that most extremists are. Jack McGuire at the Liberal Journal told me she was great buddies with Carl X. Chapman.’
Mel looked surprised. ‘Chapman? He’s the biggest chauvinist since Attila the Hun. How did Hilary Nestor Hunter get to be buddies with him?’
John sat back in his chair, sipping his coffee. ‘Their political views are pretty similar, even if their social views are different. They both approve of a pure, strong America – all wagon trains and Baptist churches and no fornicating on Sundays. I guess they’d team up if they thought it was the best way for the two of them to further their political careers. Maybe they’d fight to the death later, but I think they could come to some kind of a compromise for as long as it suited them.’
‘Didn’t Chapman say he was going to stand for President in 1980?’
‘That’s right, in Newsweek or someplace. There was all that fuss about it. Teddy Kennedy said if Carl X. Chapman stood for President, then he’d be obliged to stand against him, just to stop a fascist getting into the Oval Office.’
Mel checked his watch. ‘You’re still planning on going down to San Diego today?’
‘Sure. Have you changed your mind?’
‘I guess I have. I mean, if you don’t object. I just think I’d go stir-crazy sitting in this place on my own.’
John finished his coffee. ‘Okay, then. Let’s go.’
They tidied up, and then they left the hotel and walked across the street to where John’s car was parked. It was almost eight o’clock now, and the day was beginning to warm up. The weather forecast said it was the hottest November in nine years. Mel lit up a thin black cheroot, and tossed the match in the gutter.
They got into the car, and John U-turned to take them west towards the San Diego Freeway. They didn’t talk much. There had been so much talk lately, sometimes angry and sometimes bitter and always sad, and today they were quite content to sit in peace and let time heal them in its own way.
‘I hope this Sweetman character is at home. I hope he’s not too well protected, either,’ Mel said.
John nodded towards the glovebox. ‘I brought the .38 along, in case.’
‘That doesn’t make me feel much better.’
John smiled, then glanced up at his rear-view mirror. Three cars behind him was a dented, beige-coloured Plymouth Fury, with a wire coat-hanger for an aerial.
Nine
Father Leonard came down the steps of the Catholic Mission into the street. He had been up at the TV studios since early this morning, and he had only just come back to change and shave. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked even more martyred and seraphic than ever.
He had managed to make a quick telephone call to Perri, at the convention centre. As far as he could gather (there was shrieking and shouting in the background), the whole conference was in an uproar, and Hilary Nestor Hunter had tried to have the vote on women’s equality indefinitely deferred, on the grounds that it was now the subject of legal proceedings. It was, of course. Two lawyers in creased suits had already been around to the Catholic Mission that morning, with unshaven chins and a writ for libel.
Father Leonard had accepted the writ, and placed it in his letter-holder with all his other correspondence. As far as he was concerned, there were far more urgent priorities. He had to visit Mrs Jarvis on 16th Street, in the shadow of the freeway, and read Thomas Wolfe stories to her. She was dying of bone cancer, and Hilary Nestor Hunter and her lawyers would outlive her by a score of years.
He was just about to cross the street when a car horn beeped, and a black Matador drew up alongside him. He recognised the car at once. The window was lowered, and Bishop Mulhaney, a small fat man in a dark grey shiny suit and a black shirt, leaned across towards him.
‘Father Leonard? Can I offer you a ride?’
Father Leonard opened the car door, and stepped inside. The bishop, as he pulled away from the kerb, gave him an abstracted smile of greeting. There were clusters of tiny beads of sweat on the bishop’s cheeks. His air-conditioning had broken, and he wasn’t sure whether it was a simple mechanical failure, or whether God had meant him to suffer a little temporal discomfort.
‘I’m going to Sixteenth Street, just across from the intersection with Essex Street,’ Father Leonard said. ‘You’re not going to the convention centre?’
Father Leonard shook his head. ‘What’s happening there can look after itself for the moment.’
‘Until you decide that your intervention is once more desperately needed?’
Father Leonard didn’t reply. He knew why the bishop had come. Usually, whole months would pass between visits, and then they would be hurried and uncomfortable. It wasn’t that Bishop Mulhaney was lacking in charity, or in sympathy for human suffering. It was just that he felt he was an administrator rather than a missionary, and that he could best deal with poverty from behind his desk. Face-to-face, the mean streets of downtown Los Angeles made him feel hopeless and worried.
‘I hope you understand the gravity of what you’ve done,’ Bishop Mulhaney said.
Father Leonard nodded. ‘I went into it with my eyes open.’
‘Going into it with your eyes open wasn’t really enough,’ said the bishop. ‘You shouldn’t have gone into it at all.’
‘You don’t think I should have stood up for the Bill of Rights? You don’t think I should have stood up for the Christian belief that all men are created equal under God?’
‘I notice you put the political principle before the religious belief,’ the bishop remarked.
Father Leonard said, ‘That’s unfair. The Bill of Rights is Christian and humane, and you know it. What you’re trying to say is that you don’t believe priests should meddle with politics.’
Bishop Mulhaney took a left, and drove towards 16th Street. ‘You’re right, of course, in your obstreperous way. I don’t believe that priests should meddle with politics. Particularly sexist politics.’
‘These days, sexist politics are making and breaking people’s lives. I have to care for those lives, and that’s why I meddle,’ Father Leonard said with some acerbity.
‘I know your ideals, Father Leonard. I know that your missionary work here is excellent. I would go so far as to say that it is inspired,’ the Bishop granted. ‘But in my opinion, and in the opinion of the cardinal, you have made a grave error in involving yourself in this particularly distasteful scandal. I came down here this morning to tell you how we felt, and to see if you had already understood the necessity of withdrawing your support for Ms. Shaw.’
They had arrived at the corner of Essex Street, and the bishop pulled over to the kerb.
Father Leonard said, very gently, ‘I can’t do that, I’m afraid. I must support Ms. Shaw. I’ve already committed myself.’
The bishop looked at him with regret. ‘When you commit yourself, Father Leonard, you also commit your church. If your church cannot support what you have taken it upon yourself to promise, then I am very sorry to say that we must reconsider your position.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well,’ said Bishop Mulhaney uncomfortably, ‘a posting overseas to say the very least.’
Father Leonard looked at him with dark, sad eyes. ‘Do I have some time to think about it?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ said the bishop. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come around to see me this evening, at about eight. I must require you not to talk to the press any more today. No television, please; no matter how much they pester you.’
Father Leonard thought for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll talk to Ms Shaw this afternoon. Thank you for the lift.’
He opened the car door. As he did so, Bishop Mulhaney reached over and held his sleeve.
‘We need people like you,’ he said sincerely. ‘Please don’t make a terrible mistake.’
Father Leonard placed his hand over the bishop’s hand. �
�I’m always prepared to admit that I might have strayed,’ he replied. ‘But I’m always prepared to fight for what I think is truly right, too.’
The bishop let out a small sigh. ‘I was rather afraid of that.’
Father Leonard shut the car door, and Bishop Mulhaney drove off.
Father Leonard was walking past the tyre warehouse, with its rusting corrugated doors and its spray-paint graffiti, when he heard the truck turn the corner of Essex Street and grind slowly towards him. He didn’t know what made him turn and look at it. It was a beaten-up looking Mack diesel stacked with wooden pallets. He kept on walking, but he had the strangest feeling that he was close to a moment of great fearfulness.
The bellowing of the truck grew louder. Father Leonard looked over his shoulder again and saw that it was only twenty feet away. Then – just as he was turning back – he heard the truck’s load rattle and shake. He glanced towards it, and saw to his horror that it had mounted the sidewalk and was bearing down on him.
He turned, stumbled, and tried to run. The truck’s smokestack blasted out a funnel of black exhaust as it surged towards him. All he could hear was the deafening noise of its engine. It filled up his whole world.
The massive front bumper caught him in the side, and crushed him up against the corroded corrugated door of the tyre warehouse. In a moment of unbelievable agony and horror he felt his pelvis bend, then snap, and his stomach burst open. Then the truck roared, clashed gears, and backed off, and he slid down to the sidewalk and died.
*
They came to tell Perri an hour later. A policewoman in a smart grey tweed suit took her into one of the small conference rooms at the convention centre and gave her a cup of weak coffee in a polystyrene holder.
‘I’m sorry, but there’s been some kind of traffic accident. Father Leonard is dead,’ she said.
Perri didn’t know what to say. It was impossible to believe, and yet she believed it. She sat down at the conference table.
The Sweetman Curve Page 25
