“And the man?” Lenny asked through the heaves of a sob-racked chest.
“He’s dead.”
This fact made Lenny cry harder. With both hands he grabbed Xavier’s forearm. He was stronger than he looked.
Ecks wanted to pull his arm away from the kid. Tyler’s description of him was accurate. He had been made into a sewer rat.
But Ecks allowed the tears to run their course. He had to—for Frank.
After a time the sobbing waned and Lenny let go of Ecks.
“I never went to school,” he said, and Ecks was forced to think about Dodo and her journey through Sedra’s business. The Parishioner thought, once again, that he might have sought revenge against the octogenarian slave trader had she survived her own karma.
“They did all kindsa shit to me,” Lenny continued with hate in his voice. “Loretta held the camera while Manly fucked my ass. He tore me apart on the inside. They had a special doctor to sew me up when he was through.
“They’d lock me in a closet and leave a milk bottle for me to piss in. I’d have to shit—”
“I’m not interested in the story, Len,” Ecks said when he realized that pity was part of the young victim’s game. “That was before and this is now. I was asked to find three lost boys and you’re the last one.”
Lenny sat up and cocked his head back.
“Why?” he asked.
“The woman responsible was a teenager when she stole you. She wants to make amends.”
“Make what?”
“She wants to make up for what she did wrong.”
“Money?”
“I don’t think so, no,” Ecks said, but the word resonated in his mind.
“Then what good is it? What good is it? You know they kicked me outta the room I was in. I sleep in a steel box outside the kitchen next to the garbage cans.”
“I don’t care about any of that, Lenny. You know, where I come from there’s so much suffering that it doesn’t bother me anymore. Even with people like you—I just don’t care. What I was supposed to do is find you. Now that I have I need to ask you some questions and you need to answer me.”
Lenny O said that he didn’t know how to make normal conversation, and Ecks saw this to be true. The boy knew how to run and lie, how to be miserable and evoke pity, but he didn’t have the slightest notion of human communication.
Ecks had known men and women like this all through his pimping and drug-dealing days. Many of the players had been the same. His immediate reaction was one of cold distance. If you worried about your clientele and employees you were bound for disaster.
Lenny’s lower lip began to quiver again.
“Start crying and I will slap your face just like Burt did,” Ecks said.
“What do you want?” Lenny said petulantly.
“I could take you home to your real parents,” Ecks offered.
This proposition transformed the fuck-film gofer. He was amazed. Ecks could tell that there was a time that he’d wished for home and love, mother and father. He went to sleep praying for deliverance. Then he was thrown under a bright light and raped for even daring to hope. After many long years of wanting and being punished he’d given up on his dream; then, after a time, he had forgotten his desires entirely.
But right then, at that sky blue concrete table, his memory had been ignited and true sorrow welled up in his eyes.
“What?” he pleaded.
“You heard me.”
“Look at me, man,” Lenny said, almost making himself an equal. “Look at me. How’s a piece’a shit like me gonna go back to a nice couple in a nice home on a quiet street? How can I go out on the lawn of their house and walk the dog?”
“I see you’ve given it a lot of thought.”
This observation stopped Lenny. He wondered whether maybe it was true. Maybe he still wished for deliverance.
“I don’t even know how to think about a real mother and father,” Lenny argued, maybe with himself. “I told you … I don’t even know how to talk to people. That’s why I get high. That’s why I do the things I do.”
“What things?” Ecks asked.
Lenny looked up with abject fear dawning in his visage.
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”
“Nuthin’ don’t sound like that,” Ecks said, quoting the long-ago words and even the tone of his dying friend, Swan.
“I can’t help it, man. I don’t even know what I’m doin’ half the time.”
Completely objectively, with no moral weight at all, Xavier considered killing the tattooed youngster. He might have done it if it hadn’t been for Frank’s sermons and the one hundred and fifty-nine Expressions meetings he’d attended.
“We’re all reprobate,” Ecks said, “from the presidents and popes and prime ministers on down. And if you’re going along the wrong path, that just means you have to turn it around.”
“Wha … what?”
“It’s my job to find you, Len,” Ecks said. “It’s your job to figure out what you want to do.”
The kidnap victim sat up straight and took in a deep breath. He coughed slightly and then cleared his throat.
“It’s too late,” he said.
Ecks took seriously the young man’s declaration. It was too late for Swan. It was too late for the copper-skinned man he shot dead in Sedra’s home. Time wasn’t a promise even if it was forever.
Not everyone can be saved, Father Frank said at least once a month. Some dogs are rabid. Some men are no better than rabid dogs—worse. But even then vengeance is not the reason for punishment, imprisonment, or execution. If there is vengeance in your heart you have no right to seek balance.
“It might be,” Ecks agreed. “It might be that you can’t be saved. But that’s not up to you. You don’t know what your parents might think. And even if they hated you, that doesn’t mean that you did wrong.”
“Are you some kind of preacher?” Lenny asked.
“Parishioner,” Ecks corrected.
“What’s that?”
“Like you, Len, I’m part of a greater whole. A family, a history, and a future that is never set.”
Awe mixed with fear crept into Lenny’s face.
“What are you gonna do to me, man?”
“I’m going to take you out of here,” Ecks said. “I’m going to take you to a place where you will be judged.”
“Jail?”
“No.”
“Court? I got … I got a record.…”
“You will be your own judge, son. There is no power above you.”
Ecks had heard these words many times but had not uttered them himself. The nameless church was a safe harbor where a sinner was free to brand himself. Rich men and even royalty resided inside Father Frank’s walls. But there, on the hillside of Seabreeze City, all congregants were equal under the sun and moon. They didn’t mention God because just the word was a weapon in the mouths of men.
“You want me to go with you?” Lenny asked.
“I do.”
“But what if you find out that I can’t be saved?”
“That’s not my call, boy. Not at all.”
“Can I have a bed to sleep in?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?” Lenny asked.
“The woman who stole you says that she wants to make up for what she’s done. I don’t know if that’s true … I have my doubts. But there is no doubt that you are here and you were ripped from a family and a life. It’s my job, my mission to …” Ecks paused, gauging his words. “To try and help you recover from what happened to you twenty-three years ago.”
“I don’t understand half the words you’re sayin’,” Lenny whined. “And the ones I do understand don’t make any sense.”
Ecks smiled. “I will give you a bed to sleep in and food to eat. I will not judge you and I will help you to think about what you might want.”
“Do I have to fuck you?”
“No. There will be no sex involved.”
“What
if I want to do it?”
“No.”
“How long do I have to make up my mind?”
“When you finish your lunches we’ll be leaving this place.”
“What about my final paycheck?”
“That life is done.”
Simmons and two of his friends were waiting for Ecks and Lenny in the parking lot. This was a possibility that Ecks hadn’t considered. It didn’t matter that they were there.
“Gentlemen,” the Parishioner said while still walking toward them.
“I’m gon—” Simmons managed to utter before Ecks hit him with a straight left. The sound was like a thick branch cracking under the weight of an ice storm. The big man lurched backward into one of his friends and slumped down. The friend, a blue-eyed redhead, didn’t know whether to hold up his fallen comrade, drop him and attack—or run.
Ecks put up his hands in a gesture of false surrender.
“I don’t want any trouble with you men,” he said. “Your friend has a broken jaw and a concussion. It could have been worse. It will be worse if you push this shit.”
The third thug looked to be a foreigner, East European, maybe even Russian. His small, dark eyes surveyed the situation with logic that had a whole different alphabet, like Sedra’s log.
“Let’s go,” the Russian said to the redhead.
Before they could move Ecks put a hand on Lenny’s elbow, urging the quaking youth toward his car.
“What if they tell somebody about what you did to Simmons?” Lenny asked as they drove past the guard post of the parking lot.
“What’re they gonna say?” Ecks asked. He was feeling good about the resolution of the face-off. All things considered, he got what he wanted with the least damage done.
“The security staff at Zebra is some crazy motherfuckers,” Lenny said. “They will put a niggah down.”
Ecks smiled at the young white man’s choice of words—and identity. They understood each other in a world that made no sense.
“They don’t know who I am,” Ecks assured his passenger.
“They … they got cameras that take pictures of every license plate come in there. They got a dude at motor vehicles too. He prob’ly already give ’em your address.”
“Not from those plates they won’t,” Ecks promised.
“They know who I am. They know my friends.”
“Those aren’t your friends anymore, Len. Everything you knew is over … over. Those men might as well be looking for a brown-tailed jackrabbit named Lenny up in the Hollywood Hills.”
The man with the penises on his throat giggled, showing yellowed teeth and red gums.
“But there’s people out there after me, man,” he said, losing his tentative hold on mirth. “When they find out I’m gone they gonna be lookin’ hard.”
“Elmer Fudd,” Ecks said.
“What?”
“Huntin’ wabbits.”
Lenny’s hands and legs were in motion, almost as if he were moving through a dense forest rather than sitting in a classic Ford.
“You got the shakes?”
“I could use a drink or something,” Lenny said. “I keep thinking that somethin’s gonna happen. There’s this one dude named Locke that’s mad at me ’cause his sister died. Ellie and me, that’s Locke’s sister, were together for a while and Locke didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t give her the H she OD’d on. That’s the reason I been sleepin’ next to the kitchen. Old Joey let me stay because Locke blames me, but they won’t let him on the premises. Only I’m tired’a sleepin’ next to the garbage and roaches.”
Ecks was ready for this development. He had prepared various methods to quiet down a disturbed mind. He’d brought along a bottle of specially prepared water, and then there was the glove compartment.
“You smoke reefer?” Ecks asked.
“I certainly do. Yes, indeed.”
“Look in the glove box. There’s a blue joint in there.”
The bald youth pulled open the box and came out with a bright blue hand-rolled cigarette. There was a box of matches too. He licked the spliff and then put it between his chapped lips.
“It’s sweet,” he said.
“Flavored paper.”
Lenny lit up and took a deep hit off the joint. Then he held it over toward Ecks.
“I can’t drive when I’m high,” the gangster said. “Just don’t finish it all.”
“This some good shit, brother,” Lenny said.
“Half flowers and the rest gold,” Ecks opined, remembering days that were over and almost gone.
Lenny took another deep hit and said, “Wow, I feel it right over my eyes. Like there was a cloud up in there and now it’s just bright sun.”
The young man laughed, sat back, and put his foot up on the dashboard.
At least he’d taken off his suede shoes.
At another time Ecks would have complained, but right then he was too deep into the details of his mission.
“How come they didn’t fire you from Zebra?” he asked.
“Tommy Jester,” Lenny said easily. He sank back further into the vinyl.
“Who’s that?”
“VP at Zebra.”
“Why he care about you?”
“Does the sky look pink to you?” Lenny asked.
It didn’t but Ecks said, “A little bit. I think sometimes the air pollution puts colors up there.”
“Yeah. Wow. It’s beautiful.”
“Why does a big man like Tommy care about you?”
Lenny was staring out the window, the joint turning to blue-gray ash between his fingers. Ecks rolled down his window and sniffed the fresh air.
“This shit is strong,” Lenny said. “It’s like I’m lookin’ out at the hills but I’m seein’ across time; it feels like there should be dinosaurs stompin’ around out there.”
“What about Tommy?” Ecks asked again.
“He used to come over to Manly and Loretta’s and fuck me in the garage,” the dreamer murmured. “But he wasn’t like everybody else. He brought me little trinkets and sweets. He always kissed me on the forehead when he’d go. And then, even when I was too old, he’d call now and then to see how I was doin’. When I was eighteen he made Manly let me go. Tommy’s all right. I …”
At that moment Lenny O drifted off into unconsciousness. The marijuana in the cigarette wasn’t really that strong, but the concentrated synthetic opiate the paper was doused in had an especially powerful kick.
Ecks pulled to the curb, plucked the dead roach from between Lenny’s fingers, and let the boy’s seat all the way back. Then he headed for the Farmers’ Market on the other side of the hill.
Before he’d made it over the canyon his phone sounded. He didn’t expect to answer but when he saw who it was he changed his mind.
“Yeah, Bennie?” he said.
“Don’t meet that guy at the Farmers’ Market,” she said, almost shouting. “Call him and tell him to meet you someplace else.”
“I don’t have his number.”
“Then send somebody else from Frank’s to help you. Send ten people.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“No.”
“You have to.”
“Again, Bennie—why?”
“I went to Henry Marcus’s surf shop.”
“And?”
“The police were there. He’s dead.”
“Dead how?”
“Killed. Murdered.”
“And does that have something to do with you, Benol?”
“I honestly don’t know. I mean, I didn’t tell him about where Henry was until after the murder. But maybe he did it anyway.”
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you that, Mr. Noland.”
“We need to meet, girl.”
“You need to make sure that the boy is safe.”
“Tomorrow morning around ten at the Waffle House on La Brea down near Venice. You meet me and I’ll take care of this problem her
e.”
“Okay. Fine.”
“What are you up to, Bennie?”
“I’ll meet you tomorrow at ten,” she said and then hung up.
Theodore “Toy” Meacham hailed from the Midwest but for most of his life he worked as a clandestine agent in major cities and important towns around the world. It was his job to identify and eliminate threats to the American people. For decades he believed that he was a patriot protecting the shores of the United States from those who detested freedom and liberty.
Technically, he worked for a covert subdivision of an independent mercenary operation, but he was aware that the orders he took came from the highest echelons of the United States armed services, the Pentagon, and even, from time to time, the White House itself.
Toy was well versed in firearms and explosives, poisons, bloodletting, and threats of all kinds. He tried to keep collateral damage down to a minimum but understood that sometimes a few innocent lives might have to be shattered or lost for the well-being of the American body politic and therefore the people.
As a rule Toy worked alone. He’d receive a three-line mission statement from an envelope or the lips of some envoy who knew the right cryptogram; then he’d use money that appeared magically and employ his wiles to obtain the results requested.
Toy was a genius at creating catastrophe. Complex designs appeared in his mind while he stalked his victims. Over breakfast he’d deduce the clearest path to nullifying persons, installations, networks, even whole institutions.
He once identified the local director of a clandestine government operation in Mumbai that posed a threat to certain business interests that were essential to American security in Pakistan. He then murdered the daughter of a regional crime family boss, throwing the blame on the targeted director.
Staying in a small French hotel, reading in the daily papers how his plan was developing, Toy unconsciously began to use his genius to decipher what he was doing and what he’d done.
Ahmed al-Bira, one article read, father of three, was gunned down at the New Town Marketplace while holding a melon and asking the price.
Something about that sentence tipped over an intricately curving concatenation of dominoes that, it seemed, Toy had been setting up for more than forty years.
The price of a melon, Toy remembered whispering. The whisper echoed until it was like a scream.
Parishioner Page 19
