The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  Sex, someone had once said, was much like money: when you didn’t have enough, you thought about it all the time. But when you were married the problem diminished, ideally disappeared. Like tonight. A touch of their thighs, a kiss, and they were on their way to the bedroom, amiably stumbling as they held each other close, giggling.

  Married …

  That’s how he thought of it, that they were married. Did Ann, too, think of them that way? They’d never talked about it, might never talk about it. Each of them had been divorced. Each of them had two children, his in Detroit, hers here, living with her. Each of them had been deeply wounded by divorce. They’d never talked about that, either. Not in so many words. But each knew that the other wasn’t ready to marry again.

  They’d met a little less than two years ago. On their second date, after dinner at a Russian restaurant on Clement Street, she’d invited him in for a drink. They’d gone to bed that night, made love in the same bed they shared now. Billy and Dan, her two sons, had been visiting their grandparents. He’d stayed all night, and she’d made him breakfast the next morning. The rest had been a love story: a calm, comfortable love story that sometimes seemed too good to be true.

  Then he’d made the mistake of turning his back on a spaced-out cultist who’d been standing within reach of two ceremonial Mayan spears crossed on the wall. The skull fracture had put Hastings in the hospital for ten days. Ann had picked him up at the hospital and taken him here, to her flat, to convalesce. Two months later, he’d given up his apartment.

  He yawned, settled himself more comfortably, turned on his side to face Ann. She was lying on her back, mouth slightly open, profiled against the pale light from the window. Her fine-spun tawny blonde hair lay across her cheek, diffusing the perfection of her profile. Gently, he touched her at the temple, drawing the hair back from her face. When she stirred, he smiled.

  35

  WITH HOLLOWAY INSIDE the first limousine, Flournoy stood on the sidewalk, looking back at the other two limos drawn up in front of the St. Francis. Marvella and the grandchildren were already inside the second limo, finally settled. Now Gloria was striding briskly across the sidewalk, getting into the car, pulling the door smartly closed. The third limo, carrying the security men, the program director, and Pastor Bob, The Hour’s longtime featured soloist, was ready to go. Flournoy nodded to the two security men standing watchfully on the sidewalk, and got into the limousine beside Holloway. One of the security men stepped quickly forward, closed the door, then slapped the car’s roof twice. As the limousine moved away from the curb, Flournoy checked his watch. The time was exactly eleven A.M., two hours to air time.

  Flournoy settled heavily into the limo’s leather seat, glanced at the window dividing the passenger compartment from the driver, checked the switch on the small microphone.

  “I’ve talked to Harlan,” Flournoy said, half turned in his seat to face Holloway, “and he agrees with me, absolutely. So after the service, you and Marvella are going directly to the airport. It’s all arranged. You’ll be going in a chartered airplane. Hennessy will be going with you. He’s got all the details, and your light luggage. The point is, day after tomorrow, there’s a coroner’s inquest. And Harlan thinks it’d be better if you’re not here in San Francisco, in part because you could be subpoenaed. He also thinks it’d be better if you, ah, avoid the reporters. I think so, too. Definitely.”

  Sitting with his head resting against the cushions, eyes closed, Holloway made no response. His head moved loosely, surrendered to the gentle motion of the limousine. The flesh of his face was waxen, sagging in loose folds beneath his jowls.

  Only minutes before, projecting his public persona for the news cameramen waiting for him in the hotel lobby, Holloway had been masterful: the strong, saddened patriarch, majestically bearing his burden, an inspiration to lesser men. That was the myth, those few minutes on camera. This, Flournoy realized, was reality: this tired, slack man, suddenly grown old.

  “Austin?”

  Still with his eyes closed, Holloway nodded. “Yes. Fine. Whatever Harlan says.”

  Relieved, Flournoy settled himself more comfortably. The ride to the Cow Palace would take about twenty minutes. It was valuable time, the two of them alone, able to speak freely, confidentially, concisely:

  “I’ll come down to Los Angeles tomorrow, if I can possibly do it,” Flournoy said. “Gloria will handle all the funeral arrangements. She’ll come down to Los Angeles with the—” He hesitated. “With the bodies.”

  “Yes …”

  “Did Mitchell have any relatives, do you know?”

  “No close relatives,” Holloway answered. “There was just an older brother. But he died several years ago.”

  “We don’t want them buried with the same ceremony,” Flournoy said. “That wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. You’re right. But Mitchell’s ceremony must be first-class. Absolutely first-class. And I plan to speak.”

  “Will you speak at Elton’s service?”

  “No, not at Elton’s. That’s not done, I don’t think.”

  Approvingly, Flournoy nodded. “You’re right.”

  “I’ll speak for Elton today.”

  “Yes …” Flournoy cleared his throat, touched the knot of his tie, glanced again at the glass partition. Then: “I—ah—I’m concerned about Marvella, Austin. She’s not acting normally.”

  “She’s had a shock. We’ve all had a shock.” As he spoke, Holloway opened his eyes, sat up straighter, looked at the other man.

  “But that’s the point. I mean—” Flournoy hesitated, choosing his words. “I mean, let’s face it, Marvella’s been drinking for years. It—it’s part of her daily routine. But last night, according to Susan, she didn’t drink a drop. And she went to see—” Once more he hesitated, this time delicately, regretfully. “She went to see Elton, at the mortuary. Without consulting anyone except Gloria. And today, this morning, she seems to be off in her own world. She’s not connecting.”

  “Susan will take care of her. And Gloria, too. They’ll take care of her.”

  Flournoy nodded. “I understand that. And you’re right, of course. She has had a shock. But I was thinking about today, about The Hour. Maybe you should tell her not to appear today. The people will understand. It could even be a plus, when you think about it.”

  “She wants to appear, though. She told Gloria that she particularly wants to appear, to sing.”

  “Have you talked to Marvella yourself?”

  Holloway nodded. “I spoke to her last night, late. And this morning, too.”

  “And?”

  “She’ll be all right, Herbert. Trust me.”

  Seated side by side on the two jump seats, their favorite places, the two children faced Marvella and Gloria.

  “How long does it take to go to heaven?” James asked. “If Elton and Mitchell started on Friday night, then how long would it take them to get there?”

  “Not long,” Gloria answered. “It just takes a little while.”

  “But how long? Fifteen minutes?”

  “I suppose so,” Gloria answered. “I suppose it’d take about fifteen minutes.”

  “I miss Mitchell more than I miss Elton,” Carole said. “Elton never played with us, even if he was our uncle. But Mitchell played with us sometimes.”

  “Once he let me hold his gun. And I pulled the trigger, too.” As he spoke, James raised a thumb and straightened forefinger, aimed out the window. “Pow. Pow pow pow.” With each shot, he jerked his arm upward, simulating a pistol’s recoil.

  “James, please …” Gloria shook her head. “Don’t do that. Not now.” As she spoke, she turned to look at Marvella, who was staring steadily out the window, her eyes fixed on the western profile of the city: Twin Peaks, with countless houses and small apartment buildings clinging precariously to the lower slopes, and greenery tracing the topmost ridges against a clear blue sky.

  “It’s a beautiful city,” Marvella said
. “It’s magic, really. Pure magic.” Her voice was dreamily soft. Her eyes were fixed on some far distant vista, bemused, lost in time past or time future. “You should live here, Gloria, you and the children. You’d like it here. I know you would.”

  “We’ve got to live in Los Angeles, though. Because of The Hour.”

  “The Hour …” Still gazing pensively out the side window, Marvella gently shook her head. “It’s more important than we are, Gloria. Soon it’ll be more important than James and Carole. Maybe it’s more important than they are already.” She turned to face the children, looking at each of them in turn. “You shouldn’t be here, in this big car, all dressed up. You shouldn’t be onstage, singing. You don’t even know what the hymns mean, most of them. Do you?”

  Frowning, the two children exchanged puzzled looks. Gloria was about to speak when Marvella said, “You should be out playing with friends. It’s a nice, sunny day. You should be playing.”

  “Mother, they—”

  Ignoring the gentle interruption, her eyes unfocused now, Marvella said, “It was the same with me. My father was a preacher, you know. And Austin’s father, too. He was a preacher. So I know what it’s like, how it feels, not to be like other children. And your mother, too—she knows how it feels. Except that, by the time your mother was your age, her father was famous—or, anyhow, getting famous. That was in the fifties, when television was just starting out. Austin had been on radio, you see—and when he got a chance at television, he took it. And that’s when he changed, when he started to change. Or maybe …” Frowning, she shook her head, puzzled by a sudden thought. “Or maybe he didn’t change. Maybe he was always the way he was, and I just never saw it, until the money started to come in. Because that’s all he cared about, then—the money. He was possessed by it, all that money. But now it’s something more, besides the money. Now it’s the power he’s got over people. He’ll do anything to keep that power. Anything at all …” Her voice faded as her eyes wandered again to the window. In the silence, Gloria saw her children look at each other, then turn to look at their grandmother, solemnly studying her.

  “He sold his soul to the Devil,” Marvella said. “He made a pact with the Devil. And we’re part of it, too—we’re all part of it. Because he sold our souls, too, along with his.” She broke off, numbly shook her head, struggled to find the words she needed to finish the thought: “And that’s why Elton died Friday night.” As she spoke, she moved closer to the door, away from the others. Shoulders hunched, head bowed, forehead pressed forlornly against the window, she was withdrawing from them. In her lap she held her purse. She held the purse with both hands, clutching it close, as a child clutches a long-favored possession, for security.

  “Let’s sit down in front,” Friedman said, pointing. “The only empty seats’re in the first two rows.”

  “They’re reserved.” Hastings pointed to a small PRESS ONLY sign.

  Mock-dolefully, Friedman shook his head. “There’re badge flashers in this business, and there’re non-badge-flashers. And you’re just about the most dedicated non-badge-flasher I ever knew, honest to God.” Impatiently, he gestured Hastings into the second row, with three empty seats close by. Shaking his head and raising a protesting hand, a tall young man in a blue blazer was coming down the aisle toward them. Friedman waited for the usher to come close before he surreptitiously produced his badge.

  “Police,” he said. “City police. We’re working with your security people.”

  “But—” Worriedly, the clean-cut young usher shook his head. “But this is the press section.”

  “Exactly. That’s where we’re supposed to be sitting.” He turned his back on the usher, and followed Hastings, who was already seated, eyes front, ignoring Friedman. As Friedman sat down beside him, Hastings said sotto voce, “‘City police’?”

  “I couldn’t very well have said ‘San Francisco,’ could I? And if I’d said ‘Daly City,’ why, that would’ve been a lie.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Thanks.”

  Twisting in his seat, Hastings scanned the audience, all of them seated in the first tier of seats, facing a stage that had been erected close to the front row. A blue curtain divided the cavernous Cow Palace down the center, with the stage backed against the curtain. High above the stage, lights and loudspeakers hung from the enormous curved steel girders that made the Cow Palace one of the largest clear-span buildings in the world. The stage was draped in rich golden cloth, iridescent in the amber glow of floodlights. Except for a plain wooden pulpit and a set of risers for the choir, the stage was deserted. Between the stage and the front row of seats, separated by a steel railing, music stands and empty chairs were arranged in a semicircle around a large organ. Like the draperies, the organ was an iridescent gold.

  “There must be twenty thousand people here,” Hastings said. “And they’re still coming in.”

  “I keep telling you, TV evangelism is big business.”

  “Will they pass collection plates, do you think?”

  Friedman shrugged. “If they do, it’ll probably be just for appearance. The real money comes from the telephone number they run at the bottom of the TV screen.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “We’re going to talk to Holloway. One way or the other, after he finishes, we’re going to talk to him.”

  “We’re going to sweat a confession from him. In Daly City. Is that why we’re here?”

  “We’re here,” Friedman answered, “because, as Canelli observed, Holloway rings all my bells. And that was before his tame gorilla killed his crazy son, the mass murderer.”

  “Serial murderer,” Hastings corrected automatically.

  “You’re pretty blasé about all this, considering that it was you Mitchell was shooting at.”

  “He missed.”

  “You’re getting to an age when you should start to think about staying out of dark alleys,” Friedman said. “That’s what the chain of command is all about, you know. We devise the strategy, and the rank-and-filers take the risks. We get paid for—Ah.” He interrupted himself as a richly robed man rounded the corner of the stage and made his way gravely toward the organ, his head bowed over clasped hands, moving one slow, measured step at a time. “Ah—the show’s about to begin.”

  “Okay, folks, everyone ready?” As he’d done so often before, the assistant director grinned at them: a genial coach, guiding them through these last few seconds before they fixed their smiles in place and stepped through the parted curtains into the heart-racing glare of the spotlights, with the pale ovals of countless anonymous faces upturned in the half-light beyond.

  This was the mummer’s moment of magic, this addictive rush of anxious anticipation, waiting protected in the backstage semidarkness for the final cue that would send them out to face their performer’s fate.

  On the other side of the curtain, the last strains of “Nearer My God to Thee” were rising, holding, finally fading to silence. The applause began, rose, crested, held—and finally trickled down to silence. Now Holloway was speaking, softly at first, gathering the audience to him, working them gently, lovingly, expertly. At the curtain, with his hand resting lightly on the fold beside the parting, the assistant director stood poised, ready. His face had gone blank now, his attention centered on the small earphone that connected him to the control booth suspended high above them, on the far side of the curtain.

  But now, with the cue coming up, the assistant director’s automatic, sustaining smile flickered, suddenly faded. Anxiously, he stepped close to Marvella, urgently whispering, “You’ve got your purse, Mrs. Holloway. Give it to me. I’ll keep it for you.”

  Slowly, gently, she shook her head. “No. I want it with me today.” As she spoke, dreamily decisive, Holloway’s voice was falling on cadence, concluding. Their cue was only moments away.

  “But—” The assistant director looked at Marvella, looked down at the purse, looked appealingly at Gloria. She shrugged, turned awa
y. Now the assistant director looked anxiously at the curtain. Then, peevishly resigned, he stepped to the curtain, nodded to a watchfully waiting stagehand. The two men grasped the heavy curtain, drew it aside. Onstage, at the pulpit, precisely on cue, Holloway turned to face them as they came through the parted curtain: first Marvella, then Gloria, finally the two children. Following Marvella with his eyes as she walked to the spot the director had marked in rehearsal, Holloway raised his arms wide, in loving salute. He was smiling: a patriarch’s sad, grieving smile, consummately projected. A long, sympathetic round of applause had swept the audience as the curtains parted. But then, as he held the pose, still facing his family, still solemnly smiling upon them, waiting for the applause to die, Holloway realized that his smile-for-the-cameras was jeopardized by an involuntary frown as he saw the purse Marvella carried, clutched close in both hands.

  She’s not acting normally, Flournoy had said.

  As always, Flournoy had been right. Ominously right. Because her face was rigid, a stranger’s face, staring at him with a stranger’s eyes.

  But, with the applause fading, he must turn to face the audience, a helpless victim of the performer’s imperative to constantly fill a void. As always, he would make a short speech, followed by the introduction of the “Holloway family hymn.” Backed up by the choir, the family would sing as the cameras came in close on their faces, especially the children’s faces, as they stood holding to their mother’s hands, earnestly singing. Then, with the hymn finished, the choir would file offstage. After a few loving words from Holloway, usually followed by a fond caress for each of the children, the family would follow the choir, leaving Holloway to deliver the day’s sermon.

  Today, facing the audience, Holloway allowed a long moment of silence to lengthen to its outermost limits as he looked out over the thousands of faces, most of them upturned: the faithful, patiently waiting—and the unfaithful, too, also waiting.