The Four Last Things

by Timothy Hallinan

  “Actually, I haven't,” Brooks said pleasantly. “My people looked it up for me.”

  “Then how do you know you admire it?” I asked. I already didn't like him.

  “I admire anything that gets America up off its ass to toughen up.” He rubbed his chin lovingly with his left hand, the one with the gold bracelet tucked up its sleeve. “The America of our fathers, or make that our grandfathers, wasn't soft. If it had been, we wouldn't be here today. You must be Mr. Swinburne.”

  “I suppose so,” I said.

  “What an improbable name,” he said. “It must have taken some getting used to.”

  “We can get used to anything, given time, Meredith. How long did it take you to get used to the fact that people expected you to be a girl?”

  He wasn't about to get upset with a mere reporter. “Touché,” he said with a studied chuckle. He was the first person I'd ever heard say it out loud. “When I was younger, people did expect me to be a girl. I suppose it's progress that now they expect me to be a woman. So,” he added, getting down to business, “what is it?”

  “I think you know what it is,” Eleanor said. “It's a newspaper article. Or, perhaps, a series of articles.” She managed to make the alternative sound faintly threatening.

  “On the Church,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get my name?”

  “It kept coming up,” I said, “in the course of our investigation.”

  “You are the Church's primary counsel, aren't you?” Eleanor asked.

  “That's no secret,” Brooks said, with a reserve that suggested that he very much wished that it were. “But I'd like to know who's advertising it.”

  “We can't disclose our sources,” Eleanor said.

  “How nice for you.” Brooks's tone was a trifle acid. “You pop up in my office at ten o'clock on a Monday morning, with barely two hours' notice, and you won't tell me what you already know or whom you've been talking to.”

  “It's called privileged communication,” Eleanor said. “Actually, I believe lawyers are its prime beneficiaries.”

  “And shrinks,” Brooks added, rubbing his chin again. “Although reporters don't really have the same protection that doctors and lawyers do, even considering the First Amendment.”

  “Do you have a problem with speaking with us?” Eleanor said.

  “My dear,” he said, baring a row of uneven teeth, “if I had a problem with speaking with you, you wouldn't be here. Most people wait weeks to see me, and you've waited barely a hundred and twenty minutes.”

  “Then let me rephrase the question,” I said. “Why are you afraid of us?”

  Brooks's smile got a little broader. “Don't flatter yourself. I understand the media, that's all. I know that a good story outweighs all ethical considerations, and I know that ripping the living flesh off a religion is generally considered to be a good story. It doesn't matter how many people are being helped by the religion or how many will be devastated by its destruction, the only point is that it sells papers. Jackals,” he said mildly. “Most members of the press are jackals.” He smiled disarmingly. “Present company excepted, of course.”

  “Who runs the Church?” Eleanor said bluntly.

  “The Speaker, of course. And her mother, I suppose.”

  “No,” Eleanor said. “They may be responsible for doctrine, but that's not what I mean. Who controls the finances?”

  Brooks folded one hand placidly over the other. “I have no idea,” he said.

  “Who negotiated the purchase of that hotel downtown?” Eleanor said, playing one of the cards Chantra had given us.

  “Hotel?” Brooks said, the picture of surprised innocence. “You know more about the Church's business than I do. I'm not a real-estate agent. Why ask me?”

  “We're talking about millions of dollars. They must have had legal help.”

  “I'm sure they did,” Brooks said prissily, “but it wasn't I. This is way outside my line.”

  “And the television studio?”

  “Same answer. I don't do real estate. But even if I did, what's wrong with a religion purchasing property? What's wrong with a religion having a television studio? I hope you'll forgive my being presumptuous, but it seems to me that you've already drawn your conclusions and all you're looking for is confirmation. Well, I'll provide it. Yes, the Church makes money. You seem to feel that's wrong. Why shouldn't it? Do you think Americans are drawn to organizations that are financial failures? Would we help more, or fewer, people if we were to declare bankruptcy?

  “You're out of touch,” he continued. “What Americans want from a religion today isn't sanctuary for their souls through eternity. It's success in life, this life, that people want now. The afterlife was a powerful image three hundred years ago because life on earth was, for most people, brutish, grueling, and short. Well, that's not true anymore. For people today, the majority of white people at any rate, life is acceptable—but it could be better. It could be more materially successful. The Church of the Eternal Moment works because it is successful. If it didn't work, if it were a financial failure, it wouldn't have any followers. The more real estate the Church owns, the more hours on cable it can buy, the more the people who want success for themselves will believe in it. The more they should believe in it. The Church doesn't hide that. On the contrary, it flaunts the fact. Every win for the Church is a win for the worshipers. If the Church can't take care of itself, how can it take care of the faithful?” He gave his chin a triumphant massage.

  “So it all comes down to bucks,” I said.

  “Mr. Swinburne,” he said, “if that really is your name, which I find difficult to believe, please don't pretend a naïveté you don't really possess. What, in contemporary American society, doesn't come down to bucks? Money is the common denominator. Get rid of everything else, and what's left is a desire for material success. The Church of the Eternal Moment has never promised anything but success in this lifetime. We're not ashamed of it. We're proud that we have the key. If you printed this interview word for word tomorrow morning, we'd have five thousand new applicants by noon. And you know what? We'd satisfy them. They'd get what they came for.” He stopped rubbing his chin and glanced at his watch.

  “Seven minutes,” I said. “How many dollars? What's the Church's annual income?”

  “It supports itself. As a religion we don't have to give precise income figures to the IRS. I'm certainly not going to give them to the media.” He rubbed his chin again. “Period.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Money aside,” Eleanor said, “you're saying that the Church provides no guidance on the eternal questions.”

  “And what are those?” Brooks asked.

  “Life, death. Heaven, hell. Eternity. Anything that helps people relate their lives, whatever it is that they have to endure, to something more, um, permanent, something that helps them put life and death into some kind of perspective, something that suggests that people do more than just eat and excrete and procreate and die.”

  “Isn't that enough?” Brooks said. “Especially if you have a good time doing it?”

  “No,” Eleanor said. “It's not. For Dale Carnegie, maybe. As a self-help manual for the shortsighted. But it's not a religion, at least not as I understand the term.”

  He shrugged. “I don't really care how you understand the term.”

  “In what regard is the Church a religion, other than its tax-exempt status?” I asked.

  Meredith Brooks tilted his head back daintily and laughed. It was a laugh Hubert Wilburforce could have learned from, a lilting, melodious, manicured little laugh, five light, tripping steps down the scale of mirth. I hadn't heard anything like it since La Bohème.

  “Now let's hear you cough,” I said. “This should be in the minor.”

  The laugh subsided into a complacent smirk. “Tax exemption for religions, as I'm sure you remember from school, is just a manifestation of the separati
on between church and state, which is absolute—to use the exact words of the California Supreme Court—‘no matter how preposterous the belief.’ It may relieve you, though, to know that we pay for our tax-exempt status. We have Internal Revenue camping on our doorstep eighteen hours a day. Even if we don't file returns.”

  “Poor you,” I said. “The Church is a business.”

  “What's the L.A. Times!” Brooks said. “Amnesty International? Greenpeace? The League of Women Voters? The Times, like all newspapers, clings frantically to its First Amendment rights in the name of truth, justice, and the American way. And then they devote their hallowed pages to lingerie ads and half-baked exposes. Please. We're all adults here, even though Miss Chan's I.D. would probably be checked in any bar in town. The Church is completely candid about what it offers and what it delivers. You can pretend any kind of piety you like for your readers, but in this room it doesn't wash. If you'll excuse a lapse into the vernacular, give me a break.” He shifted around in his chair and pressed something under the desk.

  “You're not a religion,” I said. “What are your annual fees from the Church?”

  “We're not a publicly held corporation either,” Brooks said winningly, “and our fees are none of your business.”

  The door opened.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Marcy said.

  “Don't be sorry,” Brooks said, stroking his chin. “These lovely people were just going.”

  “Don't get up,” I said. “I'd hate you to lose the shine on the soles of your shoes.”

  Brooks pulled the thick gold bracelet out from under his cuff and buffed it on his lapel. “Polish is everything,” he said. “Nice to have met you.”

  “I hope you enjoy the story,” Eleanor said, standing and stowing her notebook in her purse.

  “I won't. I never read the Times. Marcy will show you out.”

  Marcy did, closing the door behind us firmly and leading us back toward the reception area.

  “What a greaseball,” Eleanor said disgustedly. Marcy made a reproving noise.

  “What my colleague is suggesting,” I amended, “is that Mr. Brooks is certainly smooth.”

  “Smooth?” Marcy chuckled. “Darling, the man makes Teflon look like stucco.” She pushed her miniature garage door opener and we were in the lobby. “The elevator's waiting,” she said. “Have a safe trip, now. It's a long way down.”

  Chapter 13

  “I'm not quitting, and that's all there is to it,” she shouted over the music. “You may have gotten me into this, but I’ll get me out of it, when and if I want to. You think I've got an On and Off switch that you can flick whenever you want?”

  “Jesus,” I said. “You mean there's an On switch too?”

  “Of course there is,” Eleanor said in as silken a tone as the volume level in the Red Dog would allow. “You used to know where it was, as I recall.”

  I hoisted my whiskey. “That seems like a very long time ago,” I said. The whiskey burned its way down toward my stomach like a gunpowder fuse.

  “Not to me, it doesn't. Time flies when you're enjoying yourself.”

  Off-duty cops and cop groupies boogied like white people in a little clear area in front of the jukebox. I'd never seen a cop who could dance. Under different circumstances I would have shared that insight with Eleanor.

  As it was, we glared at each other over the dirty table. We'd been squabbling ever since we left Brooks's office. She picked up a handful of peanuts, started to eat one, changed her mind, and threw them angrily onto the sawdust-covered floor.

  “Fooey,” she said.

  “What was that for?”

  “The bunny rabbits,” she said, curling her inverted upper lip. Normally, her upper lip was one of the prettiest things in an unreasonably pretty face. Now it looked like she was trying to imitate Ricky Nelson trying to imitate Elvis Presley.

  “There aren't any rabbits here, and if there are, they eat red meat.”

  “Then I've been misinformed,” she said, sipping at her fourth club soda. “I thought this was bunny rabbit central. It's so cute.”

  Her fourth club soda, my third whiskey. Not anything as good as the stuff in Skippy's hip flask, just crappy old rotgut guaranteed to give you ulcers when you were sober enough to notice. I signaled for another, then reached over and picked up her glass. “Cheers,” I said, pouring the club soda vengefully on the floor. “For the bunny rabbits.”

  “Okey-dokey,” she said between her teeth, just as a weatherbeaten, miniskirted waitress threaded her way between dancing cops to reach the table, staring down at the splash of club soda in the sawdust. “I'll take a whiskey too.”

  “Oh, no, you won't,” I said.

  “Hey, bub,” the waitress said in a well-smoked basso profundo, “the lady‘ll take anything she wants.”

  “Fine,” I said. “You get her home.”

  “It'd be a pleasure,” the waitress said, looking appreciatively at Eleanor. “Where do you live, honey?”

  “Solvang,” Eleanor lied.

  “Stick with the club soda,” the waitress said, picking up our glasses. “Unless you'd like to stay in Hollywood tonight, that is.”

  “I can't,” Eleanor said sweetly. “Cats, you know.”

  “Let ‘em eat mice,” said the waitress, paraphrasing Marie Antoinette. “We could go to Duke's for breakfast in the morning.”

  “Two whiskeys,” I said. “If I'm not intruding, that is.”

  The waitress looked longingly at Eleanor, who stared obliviously through the window onto Hollywood Boulevard. “Any special kind?”

  “Bottled,” I said.

  “With a label,” Eleanor added.

  “I get it,” the waitress said. “Well, you can't blame me for trying.” She winked at Eleanor and sashayed toward the bar.

  “You certainly can't,” I said bitterly.

  “You certainly can,” she said with feminine illogic. “What if I'd accepted?”

  “You'd have something to write about for the Times,” I said.

  “I already do. And I'm going to stick with it.”

  “Eleanor,” I said. “Darling. This isn't Parcheesi. This is murder, and a couple of particularly unpleasant murders to boot. I saw the way they went through Sally's house. We're dealing with professionals here.”

  “What this isn't,” she said, “is ‘Style.’ This is front-page stuff, and you're not going to cut me out at this late date. You may be passing yourself off as Algernon Swinburne,” she added, apparently forgetting that she was the one who'd given me the name, “but I'm plain old Eleanor Chan, and all these professionally murderous individuals know it. I'm in the darned phone book, Simeon,” she said, lapsing into what was, for her, profanity. “Anyone who's managed to memorize the alphabet and learned how to use Information can find me. And where can they find Algernon Swinburne? In Norton's Anthology, that's where. So who's more exposed, you or I?”

  “So quit already.”

  “Too late. Anyway, I'm having fun. The cookbook, with all due thanks to you,” she said, “is a drag. A cup of organic tofu, two tablespoons of grated kelp, a teaspoon of soy sauce, and don't let it boil.” I shuddered at the thought of eating whatever it was. “This is something I can get my teeth into.”

  “We're talking about murder,” I said as the waitress plunked down our drinks.

  “These shoes are murder,” the waitress said winningly to Eleanor. “Arch support is a doctor's delusion. I need a massage.”

  “So find a masseur,” I said shortly.

  “A woman's touch is what I had in mind.”

  “Find a woman, then,” Eleanor said.

  “Well, excuse me,” the waitress said in an aggrieved voice. “I thought maybe I had. Enjoy your whiskey.”

  She retreated toward the bar. “I hate it when someone tells me to enjoy something,” Eleanor said. “Enjoy your dinner, enjoy your trip. Either I can enjoy it by myself or not at all.”

  We both drank. On the jukebox the Monkees, sounding
even younger and more ragged than I remembered, shrilled the schedule for the last train to Clarksville, wherever that was. It was old cop's night at the Red Dog; they were too old to have the mustaches that seem to be issued with the uniforms to all cops under forty. I suddenly realized that Eleanor and I were probably the youngest people in the place. Even counting the cop groupies. A couple of them did have mustaches.

  “Lovely establishment,” Eleanor said. “So romantic.”

  “We're not here to bill and coo. This is a cops' bar and we're here to talk to a cop.”

  “Not I,” she said. “I'm here to listen. And your cooer broke years ago.”

  “Yeah, but my bill's in great shape.”

  “I'll take your word. So where's this cop of yours?” She took a tough journalist's slug off the whiskey, real Front Page stuff, and gave me the pleasure of watching her choke slightly as it went down. “All of three years old,” she said when she could talk.

  A beefy, red-faced cop with white hair cut military-close and blue eyes so close together that he could have worked undercover as a flounder appeared at the table. “Wanna dance?” he said.

  “I can't,” I said. “Old war injury. It's sweet of you to ask, though.”

  “I'd love to,” Eleanor said, getting up. “Nothing too fancy. I've got a pulled hamstring.”

  “You're going to break the waitress's heart,” I said.

  “So comfort her. She looks like she depends on the kindness of strangers.”

  “Have a nice twirl, Miss Dubois,” I said to her back. “Try not to step on his feet.”

  I picked up my drink, thought better of it, and drank hers instead. It was decidedly better than what I'd been drinking, which tasted like something you'd use to start a barbecue. The hopeful waitress had upgraded Eleanor free of charge.

  A heavy hand fell on my shoulder, startling me. ”Yo, as that musclebound asshole always says in the movies,” Al Hammond said. “One for me? Good planning.”

  He picked up my drink and downed it. His eyes started to water “Holy shit,” he said. “You must have been mean to Peppi.”

  “Peppi?” I said, watching Eleanor sway in the arms of the beefy cop. An old Dionne Warwick song was on the jukebox. “Who the hell is Peppi?”