Death Watch

by Jack Cavanaugh

  “What do you mean by that?” Hunz asked.

  “Billy could secure employment. He’s been offered jobs. He’s chosen to turn them down for religious reasons.”

  “Working is against his religion?” Hunz asked.

  Overton laughed. “No. Billy feels he’s been called to minister to the homeless. He’s a street preacher. A Samaritan. And a volunteer here at the mission. He does everything we ask of him without complaint. He serves food. Sweeps floors. Makes beds. Preaches. And washes feet.”

  “Washes feet?”

  “Once a month Billy oversees a foot-washing service here at the mission. It’s a worship experience. Jesus washed his disciples’ feet the last night he was with them. It teaches humility to those who are ministering and reminds all those who participate of the humanity of the homeless, including the homeless themselves. Following each foot-washing service we provide medical checkups by certified podiatrists.

  “In fact, when it comes to available services, Billy is something of a roving ambassador for us. You see, we not only hold worship services, serve food, and provide emergency shelter, but we also make available medical and legal services to those who can’t afford them. We offer health clinic services through UCLA School of Nursing, dental services through USC School of Dentistry, and legal aid through Pepperdine University. Whenever Billy Peppers comes across someone with a need we can fill, he brings them to the mission.”

  “The man who contacted me calls himself The Rev,” Sydney said. “You’re certain he and Billy Peppers are one and the same?”

  “I don’t recall who first started calling him that, but it’s stuck.”

  “Have you seen Billy lately?” Hunz asked. “Will he show up here tonight?”

  “That’s hard to say. As a rule, street people don’t keep to a routine. I can tell you that he’s not scheduled to preach tonight.”

  “Where else might we find him? Does he have any other places he frequents?” Hunz asked.

  Overton rubbed his cheek in thought. “Tell you who might know . Here, let me get him.”

  He disappeared for a few minutes, leaving Hunz and Sydney alone in the cramped office. When he returned, he brought a Hispanic man with him—small, swarthy, muscular arms, mustache. He smelled of dish soap.

  “This is Lony Mendez,” Overton said, making the introductions. “Lony, these are television reporters. They’re looking for Billy.”

  “Ain’t seen Billy for a couple of days,” Lony said with a heavy Hispanic accent. “But that’s not unusual. Sometimes he’s gone for two, three days. A week. No one knows where. He just disappears.”

  “Do you know him well?” Sydney asked. “It’s important that we find him. He contacted me.”

  “Billy and I go way back,” Lony said. “Billy and me were cellies at Calipatria.”

  “State prison,” Overton interpreted.

  “Yeah, Billy had two strikes on him for burglary and drugs, same as me, only I stayed away from the nasty stuff. We used to joke about which one of us would be the first to get a third strike and end up at Calipatria forever.” He laughed. “But God had other plans.”

  “God?” Hunz said.

  “It was God who dumped a whole bucket of Spirit on Billy’s head when he was in prison. Billy ain’t never been the same since. At first, it was real hard on me, you know? It ain’t easy sharin’ a cell with the apostle Paul. But Billy? He was real patient with me. It was him who led me to the Lord. And when I got out a year later, guess who was standin’ out there waitin’ for me. Billy. He’d hitchhiked all the way from LA just to see me get out.”

  “Do you know where he is right now?” Hunz asked.

  Lony shrugged. “Could be anywhere the Spirit leads him, you know? The guy will do anything to help someone. I seen him give his blanket away on a cold night. And his shoes. That kinda thing just doesn’t happen on the street, you know? Did I tell you angels talk to him?”

  “So we’ve heard,” Sydney said.

  “It’s the truth. I ain’t seen any of them. They don’t just show themselves to anybody. But Billy sees them. They tell him stuff and he does it. Ooooeee, but he pays for it, let me tell you that.”

  “What do you mean?” Sydney asked.

  “Well, Billy sees these angels, but that means he sees demons too, and they don’t like being seen. Sometimes they hammer on Billy something awful.”

  Hunz had obviously heard enough. He stood. “If you see Billy, tell him we’re looking for him,” he said.

  “You gonna interview him? Put Billy on TV?”

  “We just want to talk to him,” Hunz said.

  “When you see him, tell him to call me on my personal cell phone number,” Sydney said. She wrote it down for him on her card.

  Lony fished in his back pocket and produced a worn and crumpled gospel tract. He handed it to Sydney in exchange for her card. “Are you saved, Miss St. James?” he asked.

  Sydney looked at Hunz. Her cheeks warmed. “I’m a Midwestern girl,” she said. “I was raised in the church.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” Lony said. “I asked if you was saved.”

  “Let’s go.” Hunz grabbed Sydney by the arm.

  As Sydney and Hunz left the Gospel Rescue Mission, she stuffed the crumpled tract in her pocket.

  In the car, Hunz shrugged. “Well, that was a waste of time.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Daylight was little more than a thin strip on the western horizon when Billy Peppers reached Los Angeles International Airport. It took three hitched rides, but he managed to get to Century Boulevard exit on Interstate 405. He walked from there, still not knowing how he was going to get a flight to Chicago with no money in his pocket.

  The Lord will provide, Billy told himself, toting his Nike shoe box. Can you fathom the mysteries of God? Not me. No sir, not me. And so Billy kept his feet moving forward. They were God’s feet now. Billy gave them to God, then asked God to use them to get him to Chicago.

  Upon reaching the airport boundaries God’s feet took Billy in an unexpected direction. Instead of heading toward the passenger terminals, they led him down the road toward the cargo hangars. Names of freight companies were displayed prominently on the sides of hangars and on the tails of airplanes—UPS, FedEx, Transworld Freight, Star Courier, Industrial Express, Global Air Freight.

  Billy Peppers smiled.

  Global Air Freight.

  He knew now how he was getting to Chicago.

  “One more street, then we have to go,” Sydney said. They’d canvassed the blocks surrounding the Gospel Mission in hopes of finding Billy Peppers. More accurately, in hopes that Billy Peppers would find them, because they had only a general description at best of what he looked like—black, dreadlocks, jeans, gray jacket, maybe light blue, sometimes with a grocery cart, or as Sydney remembered him, carrying a Nike shoe box. At least she thought that was Billy Peppers she’d seen with the shoe box.

  Billy, on the other hand, would notice Sydney on sight, so their slow rolling tour of Little Tokyo was more about being seen than searching. But after a while, the passive approach became too taxing and the need to do something took over.

  The direct approach proved equally futile. They found the homeless to be skittish about people approaching them. Some ran away. Others cringed and shut their eyes until Sydney and Hunz left them alone. Still others mumbled incoherently. Among those who would talk to them, who spoke intelligibly, they either didn’t know Billy Peppers or hadn’t seen him.

  “Would you like me to drop you somewhere?” Sydney said.

  Hunz didn’t answer. He was looking down an alley.

  Sydney turned onto San Pedro Avenue. It was getting late. She’d told Cheryl she’d pick her up in thirty minutes.

  “Hunz?”

  He dialed a number on his cell phone.

  “Agent Fernandez,” he said into the phone.

  On the sidewalk a woman with a brown knit cap pushed a grocery cart overflowing with old rugs. Atop th
e rug pile, like royalty, sat a Pekingese scratching fleas.

  “Fernandez,” Hunz said a little louder. “Vonner. Anything?” He frowned as he listened to the FBI agent. “Yeah. Fine. Thanks.” Hunz snapped shut his cell phone.

  “Anything?” Sydney asked.

  “No.”

  Hunz turned away, presumably to continue looking for Billy Peppers, but before he did, Sydney noticed an odd expression on his face. It was the expression of a man who had just lost a lot of money on the stock market.

  “Would you like me to take you back to your hotel?” Sydney said.

  “No,” Hunz said.

  “The station?”

  “No. I’m going with you.”

  “To the game show? I thought you said it was a waste of time.”

  “It is.” Hunz Vonner’s jaw was set. The Billy Peppers lead hadn’t panned out. All they could do now was wait for the FBI to do their job. And it was obvious that Hunz Vonner was not very good at waiting.

  Dwarfed by the size of the cargo planes on the tarmac, Billy Peppers smiled at seeing Buster again. Buster wasn’t smiling back.

  “Hey, man, I’m glad to see youse and all,” Buster said, “but what you’re asking me to do is impossible. I could get in a lot of trouble. I could get fired. I know you gots me this job, and I’m grateful for it, believe me I am, but this this is just asking too much.”

  “I didn’t get you this job, Buster. God did,” Billy said. “And now it’s time to give back to God.”

  A hulk in a gray Global Air Freight jumpsuit, Buster Kozloski’s body resembled an inverted triangle with the sum of his massive shoulders twice that of his hips. Like many cons, he’d spent all his exercise time in the prison weight room. As a result, Buster the parolee was double the size of Buster the defendant.

  “I don’t know ” He looked around for his shift supervisor. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

  Billy had met Buster a little over a year ago. Having reverted to his old ways, Buster was breaking into a Radio Shack store. It was one of those sweltering LA nights, the kind when you couldn’t buy a breeze, and Billy was looking for a cool place when he happened upon the break-in. Buster threatened Billy with a tire iron. Billy leveled Buster with the Holy Spirit.

  “I have to get back to work,” Buster said, apologetically.

  “The plane you’re loading, it’s going to Chicago, right?”

  Buster took a step back. “How’d you know that?”

  “God wouldn’t have led me here if the plane wasn’t going to Chicago,” Billy said. “I have to get to Chicago, Buster. I’m on a mission.”

  “What kinda mission?”

  “A mission from God.”

  “That’s not good enough. I need to know more if I’m going to get involved.”

  “You’re going to have to take a step of faith, Buster.”

  Buster was staring at the shoe box. Couldn’t take his eyes off of it. Maybe it was the way Billy was carrying it; maybe it was because of all the security measures that had been instituted at airports, all the warnings about packages and bombs.

  “What’s in the box, Billy?”

  “Angels.”

  Buster’s eyebrows rose. “Did your angel visit you again?”

  “I’m not going to try to convince you, Buster. This is something you’re going to have to do on faith.”

  “It’s about all this death watch stuff, isn’t it?”

  “Buster, what difference would it make if the whole world needed saving, or just one soul? God’s giving you a chance to be part of his mission. You know he won’t force you, and neither will I.”

  Buster looked around again. “Okay,” he sighed. “Wait here. Keep an eye on that ramp.” He pointed to a ramp leading into the belly of a cargo plane. “When I give you the signal, you skedaddle up the ramp as quick as your old bowlegged legs will carry you, understand?”

  “God will bless you for this, Buster,” Billy said.

  He crouched in the shadows of the hangar for twenty minutes as men and forklifts went in and out of the belly of the cargo plane. The activity became more sporadic; the intervals between forklifts grew longer.

  Buster appeared at the top of the ramp. Keeping an eye on the portion of the hangar Billy couldn’t see, Buster made a quick waving motion.

  Billy scurried out of the shadows and up the ramp into the plane. It was longer and steeper than it looked, and midway up the ramp he was laboring for breath.

  “Hurry!” Buster said, frantically checking the hangar.

  When Billy managed to make it to the top, bent over and gasping for air, Buster led him to the midsection of the plane, past a section of animal crates—dogs, cats, parrots—where a large wooden crate lay open. Inside, Buster had fashioned a bed of pink packing peanuts. A heavy jacket lay on top.

  “It’s the best I could do,” Buster said, sweating from exertion or nervousness, or both.

  Billy ducked inside the crate, pulled on the jacket, and nested in the middle of the packing peanuts.

  “You’ll need this to get out.”

  Buster handed him a hammer.

  “I’m proud of you, Buster,” Billy said.

  “Just promise me that someday you’ll explain exactly why I risked my job tonight.”

  Buster lifted the side of the crate to nail it shut.

  “Buster?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Does this flight serve complimentary drinks?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “And now, America’s favorite game show—Wonder Wheel!”

  APPLAUSE

  APPLAUSE

  APPLAUSE

  Cued by the flashing sign, the studio audience erupted with noise—clapping, yelling, a couple of wolfish whistles. After all, this wasn’t your grandmother’s game show; it was a game show for the postmodern generation, one in which the viewing audience participated.

  “And the host of Wonder Wheel—Skip Hirshberg!”

  The smiling, trim master of ceremonies jogged into the bright studio lights, dressed in casual tan slacks and a black polo shirt. He gave the appearance of being an easy-going, fun-loving guy, the kind you’d feel comfortable inviting over to the house for a few laughs. Though in his midfifties, Skip had a perpetual boyish charm about him, largely due to his hair, which was all his, color and all.

  “Goooood evening, America!” Skip shouted to the audience. “Are you ready to play Wonder Wheel?”

  The audience was on its feet, shaking the rafters with their shouts and stomping.

  Sydney and Hunz stood in the vomitory, an entrance to the stage cut beneath the stadium seats. Hunz was holding Cheryl’s daughter Stacy in his arms, the surprise of the night.

  Three-year-old Stacy had taken to Hunz at the hotel the moment she saw him. More surprisingly, Hunz had taken to her. Sydney had never pictured the German newscaster around children. He didn’t seem the type.

  While Cheryl made one last pass through the motel room, gathering up her things, little Stacy grabbed Hunz by the finger and pulled him into the back room to show him her coloring book pictures and Brenda doll, a knockoff of Barbie with a modest figure. International news broadcaster Hunz Vonner followed enthusiastically.

  Actually, there were two surprises at the hotel. Hunz and Stacy were the second surprise. The first was when Cheryl opened the door. She greeted Sydney with an embrace that was surprising for both its enthusiasm and its duration. It was a lingering hug normally reserved for dear friends and long-absent family members.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Cheryl said, her breath warm on Sydney’s ear.

  Sydney couldn’t remember the last time she’d been hugged by another woman with such genuine affection. The affection soothed an ache in her soul and brought tears to her eyes.

  “Tonight will be a lucky night for one of our three studio contestants, or possibly someone at home!” cried master of ceremonies Skip Hirshberg. “It could be you!”

  Along with the two o
ther studio contestants, Cheryl McCormick stood behind an electronic podium smiling radiantly, her red hair ablaze under the studio lights.

  “Let’s meet them, shall we?” Skip said. “Our returning champion and reigning queen of Wonder Wheel, Barb Whitlock!”

  “Hello, Skip,” Barb said with a note of familiarity. A matronly middle-aged woman wearing a conservative print dress, Barb could easily be mistaken for a research librarian with her short brown hair, black-frame glasses, and thickset figure.

  “Barb Whitlock is a district manager for Southern California Edison. She lives in Alhambra, California, with her husband, Phil, and pet cockatoo, Sir Talks-a-Lot. To date, Barb has won $123,568!”

  Cheryl joined the audience applause, as did the middle contestant, a male in his late twenties, well over six feet tall, with a belly that hung over his belt like a flow of thick ooze, straining his shirt buttons. He weighed three hundred pounds easily.

  “Our second contestant is Wendell Wicker Jr., a senior at Cal Poly, Pomona, where he is majoring in computer science. Welcome to Wonder Wheel, Wendell.”

  “C-c-call me Junior, Skip.”

  As he spoke Junior’s eyes bulged, revealing an abnormal amount of white surrounding the pupils. It was as though they were gasping. He repeated this annoying habit two or three times a minute, more when he was nervous.

  “Tell me, Junior,” Skip said. “When you’re not hitting the books at Cal Poly, do you have a hobby? Or a girlfriend?”

  The big man tittered. His eyes breathed. “Video games, Skip,” he said. “I just changed my major from French poetry to computer science so I can make some really awesome games. You know, Skip, video games are good for society. They keep kids off the streets.”

  “How often do you play, Junior?”

  Junior shrugged. “Five hours a day, minimum.”

  “Our third contestant tonight is—my, my, my, she certainly is, isn’t she?—our third contestant is an expectant mother and last night’s winning telephone contestant, an elementary school teacher from Evanston, Illinois. Meet Cheryl McCormick!”