Bombs falling like eternal rain before the Voice stopped. The screens emptied to a sizzling silver, gradually turning to a brilliant field of blue, blue of deepest ocean, blue of clearest sky, of infinite universe with one tiny speck of gold, growing, spinning toward the audience, becoming massive, the golden globe of earth, supported by two giant clasped hands, surrounded by mammoth letters, letters forming words that seemed to take wing and fly into the darkness of the tense hall as the Voice gave them life:
THIS IS NOT A MAD DREAM!
HEAVEN HERE AND NOW!
MANKIND INCORPORATED!
Light flicked on, stunning the crowd in sudden brightness. The Voice had disappeared from the stage. Everywhere people jumped to their feet, chanting, “Heaven here and now!” The words rang out with fervor, like invisible roses thrown onto the empty stage in passionate homage to the Voice, to curry his favor, prove his sermon had found its target. Younger tried to make his way down the aisles, but they were clogged with people clapping in unison. The clapping was steady and rhythmic, coming from every direction, bursting like insistent gunfire. The crowd wanted the Voice. They wanted him back on stage; they demanded heaven here and now. Younger sensed the shifting mood around him. People were on their feet, their chants directed at the empty stage becoming screams. They wanted the Voice back because he belonged to them; they demanded his return.
Younger shoved his way through aisles. People were becoming desperate, sensing the Voice would not return. Some jumped on the stage, raising fists to lead thunderous waves of chanting and clapping. The crush of the crowd moved in Younger’s direction. It seemed everyone had the idea to move toward the stage. But it wasn’t the Voice Younger wanted; it was Kathleen. He was afraid she would be trampled in the rush. He knocked people aside to make it down steps into a broad corridor leading backstage. People split into chanting mobs, running in senseless wedges against one another as they tried to reach the stage. In the winding corridor the way was lost; no one knew which direction to go. Fluorescent lights along curved ceilings reflected their growing fear. Younger was caught in a tide of panicked people heading away from the stage, down beneath the auditorium into narrowing passageways. There was no turning back. Ahead, shouting voices echoed their excitement to Younger. A way out had been found. Younger followed the tide, it carried him through a door marked FIRE EXIT into the night air. Everyone was running toward an Airstream trailer standing to one side of the parking lot in a rutted field of weeds. The trailer was humped like a whale, its thin metallic skin reflecting moonlight as a swarm of people banged on its sides, rocking it back and forth, chanting, “Heaven here and now!”
Younger couldn’t get near the trailer. People were running from every direction to pack around it. The door opened. Younger barely discerned the figure of the Voice in the doorway, talking. A hush came over the crowd. Then the door closed and the chant went up again with a roar, people smashing their fists against the trailer like it was a great tin drum. The door opened again. Younger strained to make out the figure in the doorway; it wasn’t the Voice. A murmur went through the crowd and there was total stillness. Younger heard the sound of words from the figure in the doorway, but he could not understand the meaning. A fear went through him, sweat breaking out beneath his suit. The thin, distant figure in the doorway with the faint red glow around her head was Kathleen. There was no way to reach her. Younger was terrified the crowd would tear her to pieces to get to the Voice. It was impossible to save her.
The sound of Kathleen’s words ended. People did not move. The door closed. She was gone. People turned away from the trailer, pushing Younger aside as they walked off in silence. He couldn’t help grinning, smiling uncontrollably as he looked back to the shining trailer. Kathleen had turned the crowd. He didn’t know what she told them, but it was powerful.
24
The Beavers were eating the Stars alive. Sweat was dripping like rain down the sides of Angel’s face. He swung his arm wildly around, kicked his knee up before his face, and fired the ball at the Beaver third baseman with a bat cocked over his shoulder at home plate. The crowd was on its feet, screaming and booing long after the crack of the bat sent the ball straight up and over the AMERICANS SMOKE LUCKY STRIKE GREENS sign painted on the centerfield fence.
“They’re going to yank Angel now, Younger. Here comes the manager to the mound.”
“I don’t understand why the FBI just doesn’t smash him.”
“Angel doesn’t want to leave. Portland’s gotten four hits off him from the bottom of their lineup, and still he doesn’t want to leave.”
“There’s no need for me doing this tango any longer, Senator. It’s pointless to play footsies in such a dangerous situation. This man is a threat to the nation.”
“No, they’re not taking Angel out. The manager is giving him one more shot.”
“This man is clearly seditious.”
“Have some popcorn, Younger.” Senator Kinney held the stuffed bag in front of Younger’s face. Behind the Senator’s dark glasses his eyes focused on Angel rearing up again like a terrifying marionette, his fastball slicing through the strike zone easy as an ax through butter.
Younger pushed the bag away from his face. “I didn’t come out here to eat popcorn. I came out here to pass information. To warn you of a seditious character.”
“Take the popcorn, Younger.”
Younger grabbed the bag angrily. “Senator, I—” The bag in his hand was heavy; a thick metal lump bulged in its lower half. Younger thought he knew the feel of the metal shape. “What’s this for?”
“We know your man is dangerous. We know you’re getting close to him. Close and warm.”
Younger wedged the bag carefully between his legs on the wooden seat, the cold metal of the gun pressing against his thighs. “Why doesn’t the FBI just bring him in?”
“Younger.” The Senator shook his head wearily. “How long have you been working for us on the home front?”
“A year, a year and a half, and I say bring the weirdo in.”
Kinney settled back in his seat as Angel struck out another Beaver and retired the side. “A year and a half maybe? Then by now you should know what your job is.”
“I know that, I just think—”
“I don’t care what you think, Younger. I care what you report.”
“So I’ve reported there is no question in my mind Mankind Incorporated is an un-American activity. I have reported the Voice is a subversive force on the home front.”
Kinney turned the hard glare of his sunglasses on Younger. “Now listen to me. What I’m going to say makes a good deal of horse sense. If a man one day jumped up before President Roosevelt when he was throwing out the first ball at a World Series and shot him dead, do you think the FBI would kill that man on the spot?”
“Yes.”
“No. No because then they would never know why the man shot the President of the United States. The FBI would want this man alive, because any man who shoots a king or a queen, a sheik or a shah, a prime minister or a president, is politically motivated. Kill the assassin and you kill the possibility of discovering his motivation. Of course the Voice is a crazy weirdo, but he is not silly, he is not stupid, he is not a lunatic. He is a danger to our country, an immediate threat to our way of life. The Voice has been investigated in the past, but only now has he focused what before seemed harmless hogwash. Only now has the Voice shown himself to be clearly un-American.”
“So you want me to keep investigating?”
“That’s why the FBI hasn’t brought him in. The Voice is fronting for someone, and we’re all trying to find out who.” The Senator reached between Younger’s legs and grabbed a small handful of popcorn, flicking the puffed kernels into his mouth. “You know, Younger.” Kinney licked his salty lips. “We are just as anxious to smash the Voice as you are, smash right through his front and find out just what the hell is behind it all. There’s big money behind it, we know that. They don’t peddle enough of those li
ttle blue Mankind Incorporated bibles of theirs to pay rent on the places they preach out of in just this state alone. Now tell me, what about the progress of your relationship with the girl?”
Younger watched Angel sucker a Beaver for an outside pitch and hit a soft line drive right into the mitt of the second baseman. “Good. She doesn’t suspect anything.”
“Do you see her regularly?”
“Almost every day. The only day last week I didn’t talk to her was Sunday, the day the Voice was at the Shrine. She promised to meet me after his talk to introduce me to him. But there were a couple of thousand people trying to get to the Voice. Things got real crazy. It was impossible.”
“What about her own meetings? Do more people come?”
“All the time. Especially since the Voice was at the Shrine. She promises the Voice will make an appearance in the Barrio soon. I think she’s gaining real converts. I didn’t think so before, but now I do. There are lots of poor people willing to listen to anyone who preaches that their sons and husbands are just so much cannon fodder shot from the guns of big bankers. People will believe anything in wartime. They get confused, issues get confused.”
Kinney scooped some more popcorn from between Younger’s legs. “You’re not getting attached to her, are you, Younger? La Rue is pretty in her own odd sort of way.”
The muscles in Younger’s thighs squeezed involuntarily, pressing against the thick gun. “I do my job.”
“Good.” Kinney smacked his salty lips loudly. “That’s all that counts. Everybody pulls his fair share of freight and this war will be over before you know it. You can’t beat a united home front.”
“Only one thing.”
“What?”
“I don’t know how long I can keep my front up.”
“With the girl?”
“With everyone.”
Kinney stood to the music of the seventh-inning stretch and patted Younger on the shoulder. “It won’t be long now. We’ve got the Japs and the Jerries on the run. Oh, I almost forgot.” He slipped a hand inside his coat pocket and brought out a heavily taped envelope. “These are the photographs you wanted. One of these five guys is Chiquito Banana. Study them carefully. If you’re on to the top banana with this Cruz kid you’ve set up, you’re going to have to know your apples from oranges. This Chiquito Banana is no street-fighting Pachuco punk like you’ve been used to dealing with. You’re going to need all the protection you can get.”
“What about the Admiral? Anything further turn up on him? He’s chin deep in this somehow.”
“Don’t worry, FBI guys got such a tight tail on him they can tell you how many times a day he goes to the bathroom.”
Younger slipped the thick envelope carefully into his coat pocket as Kinney started to walk away.
“Oh, yah.” Kinney came back, looking around at the fans in the bleachers above him suspiciously, then leaned over to whisper through his cupped hand into Younger’s ear. “Enjoy your popcorn.”
25
Hundreds of midget Santa Clauses hung between palms swayed in the dry wind. Outside Younger’s dusty window the lights down on the street were just beginning to come on, illuminating dark faces of boys playing stickball on the buckled pavement. The real contest for the excited boys was dodging cars that interrupted their stickball game, treating every new vehicle that threatened to run them over with contempt and shouts in loud Spanish, flashing their brown eyes triumphantly as the drivers honked and cursed them. The boys played each car like it was a dangerous bull that had to be contended with every evening if the larger games of life were to continue the next day. Watching the boys took Younger’s mind far away from worrying about his brother—whether Marvin had drowned in a sea of fire or died peacefully in his sleep, unaware Jap torpedoes were ripping through the giant steel hull of the aircraft carrier. Younger was worried. He hadn’t heard from Marvin in three weeks. But sometimes the Navy censor held up all letters, especially if there was a battle going on, or one about to begin. Everything in the war seemed an afterlife to those fed only news from newspapers or letters, which always gave the facts after the fact. The ringing phone jarred Younger off his chair. He ripped the receiver off the hook and pressed it to his ear. “Yes?”
“Orale, hello, Younger mon?”
“Yes, this is Younger.”
“Cruz, mon, Cruz.” The voice was excited, loud, like it was shouting through the apartment door.
“Yes, Cruz. Where are you?”
“Doesn’t matter, mon. Where am I going to be?”
“Where?”
“Listen carefully.”
“I’m listening with both ears.”
“Hollywoodland.”
“Hollywoodland?”
“Seven o’clock. Tonight.”
“Where the hell is Hollywoodland?”
“Be there.”
“Cruz? Don’t hang up! Where is—” The phone went dead. Younger jumped up. He glanced at the clock above his hotplate on the sink counter: 6:01. Fifty-nine minutes to go clear across town to Hollywood, and he didn’t even know where it was in Hollywood he was going. He slammed the window shut, as if it somehow was saving time. In his excitement he couldn’t remember where he had hidden the gun Kinney slipped to him in the popcorn bag. Each day he moved the gun to a different location in the room, sometimes hiding it from himself. He looked under the mattress, behind milk bottles in the icebox, in his old spiked baseball shoes in the closet. He looked in the medicine chest, then dumped out the garbage bag beneath the sink. The gun clanked out on the rug with empty cans of tuna and Campbell’s tomato soup. He tucked the gun beneath the pants belt under his coat. He felt like an idiot. He didn’t even have a holster for the damn thing. He ran stiffly downstairs into the middle of the street, the boys shouting at him for breaking up the eighth inning of their game. The driver of a cab, passing through the intersection at the end of the street in front of the red-and-white swirl of an electric barbershop pole, slammed on his brakes. Younger ran to the cab and jumped in.
“Where to, champ?”
“Hollywoodland.”
“Hollywoodland?” The driver flicked down the lever on the meter box, the numbers loudly ticking off as he started into the traffic. “Beats me where that is, champ.”
“I thought you guys were supposed to know everything.”
“Only my wife knows everything, champ, and she only tells me the half of it.” The driver ran his hand fondly over the short bristles of his graying hair like he was petting a toothbrush.
Younger was sick and tired of cab drivers. He wanted to buy a car. But what good was a car when you couldn’t get enough gas to use it? “Look, friend.” Younger handed a ten-dollar bill across to the driver. “I’m in a hurry. Couldn’t you just call in and ask if they know where Hollywoodland is?”
“Sure thing.” The driver snatched the bill and clicked the meter off, honking his horn as he tore around three automobiles in front of him, racing through the yellow light of another intersection. “This is 968, over! 968!” he barked into the mouthpiece of his two-way radio, flipping the callback switch.
“Yes, 968!” The callback voice answered immediately through loud static from the radio.
“I’m on New High Street heading west! I have a pickup to Hollywoodland. Can you direct?” The driver flipped down the switch and filled the cab with humming signals of dead airwaves.…
“Ah, Hollywoodland? Doesn’t show on our map! You sure it’s not Hollywood Hills?”
The driver looked back over the seat at Younger. “You sure, champ?”
Younger nodded his head. “Certain.”
“That is correct info!” The driver barked delightedly into the mouthpiece.
“Then drive around until you find it!” The static voice shouted back.
The driver slowed the cab and swerved sharply around a corner. “Let’s go up Sunset Boulevard to Hollywood, fastest way.”
“Fast is not fast enough.”
The driver jammed
the accelerator to the floor. “Hey, you see that old church?” He jerked a thumb out the window at the high brown adobe walls of a church, its slanting red-tiled roof reflecting the sunset.
Younger barely glanced out the window at old Mexican women with black lace mantillas covering their heads walking up the steps, through arched doorways into the church. It was the same church where Younger met Kinney every other week in the confessional at three o’clock. “Sure, I know the church. Just step on it, would you? I’m not a tourist from Buffalo on a sightseeing trip.”
“My wife says it’s the oldest church in Los Angeles, built by them Spanish conquestors even.” The driver honked his horn and swerved out to pass a milk truck in front of him.
Younger thought the faster he talked to the cab driver, the faster the cab seemed to go. “Old? Boy you better believe that church is old. Oldest place in the city. It’s called Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Angeles. Watch out for that old Chinese lady over there coming out of the market!”
“You speak Spanish, huh? What does that mean, Noostra Rayna whatever?” The driver sped through a red light just as the Chinese lady stepped down from the curb to cross in front of him.
Zoot-Suit Murders Page 13
