The heat of the day had saturated the apartment, but Vern could still appreciate the work that had gone into it. The furniture was either Art Deco near-antiques or modern reproductions; Vern couldn’t tell which. The curved chrome, the plush upholstery, the geometric shapes and zigzag patterns suggestive of lightning were dizzying.
On a glass-topped table stood a rectangular radio covered with cobalt—blue mirrors. Its dial glowed a rich orange-yellow. Music came from concealed speakers in the corners of the room. Apparently, the old radio had been gutted and its insides replaced with modern components. The music sounded like some kind of experimental classic, mostly woodwinds and percussion instruments, a baroque composition with Latin overtones.
“Villa-Lobos,” Cortez said, reading Vern’s mind. “That’s his Choro Number seven, 1924. He was a great admirer of Bach’s. That’s my wife’s tape. She’s playing first clarinet.”
As if on cue, a stunning blonde entered the room.
“Esther,” Cortez said, “this is the fellow Rudy phoned about. He’s some kind of art expert.”
Esther extended her hand and Vernon took it. Despite the day’s heat, her skin was cool. She smiled at him.
“I’m not really an art expert at all. I don’t want to mislead you. I work for the Oakland Journal.”
“You’re a reporter?”
“Purchasing. Paper, ink, supplies. I just stopped at Vega’s for a cold drink, and I saw your husband’s murals there.”
Cortez said, “I painted those years ago, Mr. Browne. When they tore down the old building, where the city jail is now, and put up the new one.”
“Yes. It’s just—there’s a football player. In one of the paintings. An Aztec wearing an Oakland Crushers helmet.”
Cortez smiled. “Didn’t you know the Crushers took their logo and team colors from the Aztecs? That’s where football was invented—in pre-Columbian Mexico.”
Browne shook his head. “That’s what Rudy told me. You didn’t just add that figure to the painting?”
“Nope.”
“Maybe something happened, somebody spilled something on it, rubbed the paint with their shoulder, whatever. You went in and touched it up, you put the helmet on that guy for a joke?”
“Nope.”
“I don’t understand.” Uninvited, Vernon sank into an Art Deco easy chair upholstered in deep, dark blue plush. “I’ve been going to Vega’s for years. Since the old place. I eat there a couple of times a week, stop in for a drink in between. I must have looked at that mural hundreds of times. Thousands, maybe. Why didn’t I ever see the helmet before?”
Cortez laughed once, quietly. “People can look at a painting endless times and still find something new in it. That’s one of the characteristics of good art. I’m really flattered that you finally spotted the football helmet. What do you think, Esther?”
Esther said, “Same thing with music. I’ve heard that Villa-Lobos piece hundreds of times, played it … God, if you count rehearsals, I don’t know how many. And I can still …”
“But I still don’t …” Browne stood up. “Football wasn’t …” he tried again. “This has to be … I don’t know … some kind of joke … some kind of quirk … I just can’t …”
Roberto and Esther were both seated now. They looked over at him. Neither spoke.
“Excuse me.” Browne moved toward the door. “I’ll … I don’t … know…. I have to go home and think about this.”
“You don’t believe me?” Roberto Cortez asked.
Browne shook his head again. “It isn’t that. I can only … I can’t explain it. It’s just too strange. It’s not your fault. I just have to …”
Outside Cortez’ Victorian, Vernon took a deep breath. He walked once around his Nissan Sentra. Nobody had touched it. That was a relief. He held the key for a moment before unlocking the door. Something was strange. He felt mildly disoriented, almost dizzy, but the sensation passed. He climbed into the Sentra and started for home.
But he couldn’t go home.
Instead, he drove back downtown and parked outside Vega’s Taqueria. Inside the restaurant the cashier smiled at him. “Want a table, Mr. Browne?”
He shook his head, stood staring at the mural. The Aztec was wearing a football helmet. Breechclout and feathers and an Oakland Crushers helmet. Vernon leaned closer. There was Roberto Cortez’ signature in the corner of the painting. Beneath the z there was even a date. The mural was six years old. Browne could find no evidence that the painting had been altered.
Rudy Valdez was still on duty behind the bar. The place was a lot more crowded than it had been earlier, and Rudy was hopping to make drinks and change for bar patrons and to fill service orders brought from the dining room.
Vern waited for a lull, then signalled Rudy over to him.
“You see Cortez?”
Vern nodded.
“What he tell you?”
“Everything you said. Everything you said.”
“How ’bout a margarita, Vern? On me.”
Browne shook his head. “I’ve got to work this out.”
“No you don’. It’s just a funny thing. You know Detroit Jackson? Colored fella, comes in here a lot?”
Browne waited.
“Sure you do. Old guy, got a gold tooth right here, likes to talk a lot, drinks bourbon ginger. He says, when you get one of them funny memory things—you forget somebody’s name you seen every day for years, or you suddenly don’ know what day it is, you know Detroit Jackson, he says you been hit by a cosmic ray. He says they comin’ to Earth all the time, you can’ see ’em or hear ’em, but when they hit your brain they can knock a little connection loose, you get a funny memory thing like that.”
Browne looked at Rudy.
“You wan’ that drink on the house?” Rudy offered again.
Browne shook his head. No.
“Whatta you think of that theory, Vern? Look, here’s a waitress, I gotta go now. Don’ let it worry you.”
Browne left his car at Vega’s, walked three blocks to the Oakland Press tower, headed for sports. He found Mort Halloran there, sitting in front of his VDT, worrying over a story.
“You got a minute, Mort? You cover the Crushers for the Press.”
“Season’s been over for months, Vern. This is baseball season.”
“Yeah, but I have a football question.”
“You got a bet going?”
“Not exactly. Mort, how long have the Crushers been around?”
“That one I can answer. Nineteen thirty-seven. Played at Tynan Field in Emeryville. Barely survived playing to empty bleachers and the players’ families for the first ten years. Won the Western Conference in ’48, lost the playoff to the Brooklyn Dodgers, 14 to 11. Won the conference again in ’53, beat Philadelphia for the championship, 42 to 12. Moved to the Coliseum in ’60. You need the modern stuff, or that enough?”
“I mean—how did football get started? Didn’t the college game come from English rugby? About a hundred years ago?”
“Oh, you mean the really early days. Yeah, but the English got it from the Spanish and they got it from the Aztecs all the way back in the fifteenth century. It’s an old, old game. Crushers took their logo from some Aztec team, I think. You want me to dig out their press book for you? This a heavy bet you got going, or what?”
Browne walked away without another word.
At Vega’s he was starting to climb into his car when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Rudy?”
“You okay, Vern? I’m off shift now, jus’ goin’ home.”
Vernon shook his head. “I don’t know. I guess I was wrong. Everybody says you’re right. About the football thing, I mean. The Crushers helmet on that Aztec in Roberto Cortez’s painting.”
“You still upset, though, aren’ you? I can tell.”
Browne leaned on the roof of his car. “Yeah. I guess it isn’t really important, but—it keeps bothering me. I mean, you think you know what the world is all about, right? I don’t mean
like a chemist or a philosopher, but you know certain things. And then one of them is all wrong. All different. I don’t know. Am I the only one out of step? Everybody knows that the Aztecs played football except me. I never knew that. I always thought—never mind. But how can that happen? How can that be? How did I walk around all my life, the only guy who didn’t know that?”
Full night had fallen but the air was no less torrid, no less heavy. The Vega’s Taqueria parking lot was brightly illuminated to discourage car thieves and vandals. Rudy’s hispanic features looked pasty and flat in the artificial glare; Vern knew that his own lighter skin must look like a dead man’s.
“Maybe you should see a doc,” Rudy advised. “Or a priest. Say, I know a priest who’s a shrink, too. He’s a real MD, a psychiatrist. And a priest. You Catholic, Vern?”
Browne shook his head.
“Well, he’s a nice person. Very approachable. You can go see him anyhow. You wan’ me to give you his name? You wan’ me to call him for you, like I called Cortez? I don’ mind, Vern. You’re my friend; I’m a little bit worried about you.”
The church was called Santa Maria de Aragon. It was small and slightly run-down, on a street of wooden houses and small bodegas. The bulletin board on the patchy lawn was in both English and Spanish.
Vernon Browne locked his De Soto convertible and stood looking at the canvas top. He hoped nobody would try to rob the car by slashing the cloth. There was nothing to steal in the car, but a petty criminal might try anyway. Or some angry kid might put a knife through the canvas as an act of sheer vandalism.
Well, he couldn’t do anything about that.
The church was open, quiet, almost empty. A few parishioners were scattered in the pews, mumbling and fingering rosaries or meditating quietly. Vernon wasn’t sure what to do. The nearest person to him was a vaguely familiar looking woman. She glanced at Vernon, crossed herself, and hurried out of the church. Vernon looked after her. Was she the woman who had stood in front of the mural at Vega’s? He wasn’t sure, and now she was gone.
He approached another, older woman and asked if she knew where he could find the priest. In heavily accented English accompanied by vigorous gestures she directed him down a hallway to a little office.
Father Nuñez was a short, wizened man wearing a threadbare black suit. He looked up when Vernon knocked at the door.
“Did Rudy phone you? Rudy the bartender at Vega’s? He said you were a psychiatrist as well as a priest and I—”
Father Nuñez smiled and gestured Vern to a chair. “Please. Rudy phoned me. What can I do for you, Mr. Browne? Is this a spiritual problem or a medical one?”
He held a thin hand toward Vernon. As they shook hands, Vernon wondered how old the priest could be. His grip was thin but vigorous; his skin seemed to be made of a million fine lines.
“I’m not sure, Father—Doctor. Does it matter which title I call you by?”
“Whatever makes you comfortable, Mr. Browne. My first name is Alejandro. Use that if you prefer. Or just Alex. It doesn’t matter. But if it’s medical, you see—well, I hold a degree in medicine and a diploma in psychiatry, but I don’t really practice. I’m not even licensed by the State of California.” He spread his hands, taking in their surroundings. The office was shabby, the thin carpet as threadbare as the priest’s black suit.
Vernon covered his face with his hands. “Maybe we could just talk a little. Informally. Father.”
The priest made a vaguely encouraging sound.
“Did Rudy tell you what’s been happening to me? I mean—things are changing. I think they’re changing. But nobody else notices.”
Nuñez looked at Vernon. “Can you be more specific, Mr. Browne?”
“Well, like the Aztec in the Crushers helmet.”
“Yes, Rudy told me about that.”
“Well, he had this theory. Or he said this guy Detroit Jackson had some theory. About cosmic rays.”
Nuñez laughed. “Yes, Rudy’s told me about that, too. Farfetched, don’t you think? But it isn’t impossible, is it? Who knows what’s impossible, Mr. Browne—if anything, eh? Do you take that notion seriously?”
Vernon shook his head. “I could almost believe it, about the picture, I mean. But something else keeps happening.” He laced his fingers together, squeezed them between his knees. He could feel himself sweating.
“I’m afraid we’re a very poor parish, here at Santa Maria’s, but can I offer you a cup of tea? Or something cold? It’s still beastly hot, isn’t it? Not the climate we’re accustomed to.”
“No, nothing. Nothing, thanks.”
After a silence the priest said, “Well, then what was this other thing that you say keeps happening? Is it more pictures that change?”
“It’s my car.”
“You’re having car trouble? That can be upsetting, but it hardly –”
“My car keeps changing. I mean, I keep thinking that it’s changing.”
“I don’t understand. You trade it in too often, is it something like that?”
“No. I mean—look, Alex, Father –”
“Whichever.”
“Alex? You don’t mind? I drive this De Soto. A nice car. It’s a convertible. Firedome V8 engine, Fluid Drive transmission, wire-recorder with four speakers. I really like the car. Bought it new, two years ago. From Henderson De Soto, on Broadway.”
“”Yes, I know the people. Very reputable. But what’s the problem?”
“Well, I don’t think it’s always been a De Soto. I mean, everything is right. I’ve got the registration in the glove compartment. The keys right here.” He reached into his pocket, extracted his keys and held them up for Father Nuñez to see. They were attached to a leather fob embossed with an enamel De Soto crest.
Father Nuñez nodded. “Yes.”
“But I think it was a Nissan. Or—maybe a Toyota. Or a Studebaker. Didn’t Henderson used to sell Studebakers? I think I bought one from them a couple of years ago. I think I still own it. Only it’s a De Soto.”
“They haven’t built Studebakers in years, Mr. Browne. Decades. As far as I know, Henderson has always been a De Soto dealership. I’ve lived in Oakland for forty-five years, and they’ve always sold De Soto’s.”
“Then what’s changing?”
The priest sat quietly for a while. The only light in the room came from a small lamp on his desk. There was a window behind him, the lights of downtown winking through it, through the steaming night. “Do you have a job, Mr. Browne? A steady job, a regular income? Do you mind my asking?”
“Do you want money, Alex? For the church? I mean, if there’s a fee –”
“Not at all. I find this fascinating, and if I can help my fellow man –”
“I’m not Catholic.”
“God makes Protestants and Buddhists and even atheists. It’s my job to help everybody I can help.”
“Well, I work for the Oakland Press.”
“You mean a print-shop?”
“No. The Press. You know, the morning paper.”
“Oh, the Mirror. Yes, it is our daily press, isn’t it?”
“No, damn it! I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
“I didn’t mean to—I mean, the Oakland Press. It’s the only daily in town. It’s been published for a hundred years. More.”
“How can that be? Mr. Browne, I’m seventy-seven years old, and I’ve lived the past forty-five of those years in this city. I’ve been reading the Daily Mirror for all of those years. Wouldn’t I have heard of it, if there were another daily paper here?”
Despite the heat, Vernon felt icy. He looked at Nuñez, then past him into the gloomy, torrid night. “Look, there’s the Press Tower, you can see it from here.” He pushed himself to his feet, circled behind the priest, staring out the dirt-streaked window at the gothic tower where the circle of a huge illuminated clock surmounted the glaring word Mirror.
Vernon Browne started down the church steps. In his pocket was a slip of paper wi
th a name and phone number given him by the priest. Simon Carstairs, and after the telephone number, Physics Department. University of California.
He turned to get a parting glance at the church. It looked somehow different, its facade more rectangular than it had appeared earlier. And hadn’t there been a steeple? He wasn’t certain, and the lighting was different now. He looked at the bilingual announcement board. It was in Hebrew and Spanish. The heading read Congragacion B’nai Israel—Sefardico.
He ran back up the steps, taking them two at a time. He brushed past a heavyset woman as he plunged through the doorway. She seemed vaguely familiar, but he didn’t stop to talk. He ran down the aisle, between the rows of pews, past the pulpit and torah, down the dim hallway into the shabby office.
“Mr. Browne. Is something wrong?”
“Father?”
The old man’s wrinkled face split into a smile. “They usually call me Rabbi. But whatever makes you comfortable.”
“Aren’t you Father Nuñez? Alejandro Nuñez?”
“Of course I’m Alejandro Nuñez. We just spent the last half hour talking.”
“And isn’t this a Catholic church?”
“There are several Catholic churches in this section. But this is a synagogue, Mr. Browne. A Sephardic synagogue. Our congregation is composed of Hispanic Jews. Are you all right, Mr. Browne?”
Vernon backed toward the doorway. “I—yes, I’m all right. I’m sorry.”
“You have that number I gave you—Simon Carstairs’ number over at UC?”
“I have it. Thanks. Thanks, Rabbi Nuñez. I, I—never mind.”
He staggered from the office, leaned on a pew for a few minutes until the shaking was under control, then walked out of the synagogue. His LaSalle coupé was parked at the curb, safe and untouched.
In the morning he dialed the paper to tell his boss he would be out sick. The switchboard operator said, “Good morning, Oakland Times-Reporter.” Vernon got through to his own department and left his message.
He climbed on his Harley Indian and rode the freeway toward Berkeley. He was still agitated, but he knew a certain way to calm himself. He slipped on his earphones and tuned the bike radio to a classical music station. The announcer’s plummy voice was describing the next piece of music: the overture to The Yentas by Ginsberg and Solomon.
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