“I’ll find it.”
“Just ask for the cemetery where Sharon Tate is buried. Nine p.m. Leave your car in the parking lot and start walking. When I’m sure you’re alone, I’ll find you.”
“I understand.”
“Do you also understand I’m not stupid enough to keep the briefcase laying around my apartment? In case you were thinking of dropping by.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. Mention this conversation to our buddy, Billy, and you can kiss it good-bye. Think you can retain all that or should I send you a fax?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow at nine.”
Grace forked a pile of spaghetti onto Jon’s plate before serving herself. She was upbeat now, a new spring in her step. Her entire life, she’d fantasized about making a big score and now she’d finally managed it. One million dollars in 1989 was real money. She’d move away, invest it wisely and never have to worry about finances ever again. She would disappear, abandoning her dreary life in Los Angeles, telling no one. Good riddance. Cooper continued his rumbling growl from the bedroom.
“Cooper! For fuck sake, shut the hell up already!”
But that didn’t help. Nothing did.
“I apologize, I’ve never seen him like this. He’s normally a chickenshit, barely even barks, but he’s got a serious problem with you for some reason.”
“Yes, I get this a lot. Dogs and kids. I’m pretty certain it stems from my childhood.”
“How so?”
“I was born in what you might describe as a barn. My parents were homeless at the time – not the best family planning. Anyway, the family that took us in rescued stray dogs, sheltering them in their barn until they could be adopted. The dogs were displaced in order to accommodate us and there was a savage hailstorm brewing outside. I suppose they’ve never forgiven me. Then, a few days later, this little kid dropped by to visit the dogs, but they were no longer there. The kid brought along his toy drum and the next thing you know, I owned the drum. My mother claims it was a gift but I’m not so certain.”
She regarded him for a moment, mildly amused, wondering if he was a comedian or a weirdo.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Jon.”
“You’re a funny guy, Jon. I’m Grace. Where do I know you from?”
“I don’t believe you do.” Jon said, completely aware that he was surrounded by statues of Buddha.
“No, I know you from somewhere. You live around here?”
“I just moved in across the street.”
“You grew up in this area?”
“No. Far away.”
“Where?”
“Overseas initially. Then this place up north. Very isolated.”
“Hmm, I can swear I’ve seen you before. But it’s more than that, really. Feels as if I know you. I mean, like not just in a casual way either. Weird, huh?”
“You remind me of someone as well. Coincidence, I suppose.”
“Maybe we ran into each other in the early 80s when everyone was walking around all coked out.”
“No, that wasn’t me.”
“Hmm. It’ll come to me, I’ll figure it out. What do you do, Jon?”
“What do you mean?”
“For a living.”
“I used to dabble in woodworking. I suppose I’ve become more of a philosopher now.”
“So you’re unemployed.”
“In the traditional sense of the word.”
“What other sense is there?”
“I’ve been living in a largely socialist environment. Everyone’s well taken care of.”
“Oh, you’re from Canada.”
Jon responded by commenting on how delicious the spaghetti was before turning the focus onto her.
“What about you? What do you do?”
“I’m a survivor.”
Across the street, Pumpkin Eater awoke to find Buddy chomping down on a huge sandwich.
“Are you still here?” Pumpkin Eater asked, his voice as brittle and uninviting in his pre-waking hours as it was at any other time of the day.
“Where should I be?”
“Out procuring employment, perhaps?”
“I could’ve been an historian once, but there was no future in it. He’s across the street in Gracie’s apartment, I think they’re having noodles but it’s hard to say for sure, might be risotto, her drapes are partially closed now.” Buddy offered, sensing Pumpkin Eater scanning around the room for Jon.
Buddy pointed out a couple of grocery bags filled with containers of food.
“I borrowed your credit card and went to the grocery store to hook us up with some eats. I figured you wouldn’t mind. They don’t ask for I.D. at supermarkets, it’s a beautiful thing.”
“Where is my credit card right now?”
“Back in your pocket, where I found it.”
Pumpkin Eater searched through his pocket, coming up with it.
“Don’t ever do that again.” Pumpkin Eater said, trying to wipe the image of Buddy rummaging down there so close to his privates.
“Ease up, I’ll fix you a ham sandwich.”
“I don’t eat pork. And neither should you.”
“Why not?”
“It parts the hoof and is cloven-footed but does not chew the cud, that’s why not.” Pumpkin Eater said, shaking his head at having to explain such simple directive to ignorant humans.
“That’s an Old Testament thing, right?”
“It’s common sense.”
“But I’m not Jewish, I’m not bound by that sort of stuff in the Old Testament. That’s the deal, isn’t it?”
“I hope you get sick.” Pumpkin Eater responded as he sifted through the grocery bags for something to eat. He came up with a bag filled with something he found potentially very appetizing, holding it up as he asked…
“Are these pumpkin seeds?”
“Yeah. They were on sale.”
Pumpkin Eater tore open the bag and fingered a few seeds into his mouth, visibly savoring the moment. Buddy produced a Bible he had earlier borrowed from a library during his shopping trip. Plenty of passages had perplexed him over the years and he thought he’d get some answers from one of the best sources available.
“Eleven hundred and forty-two pages. Most of it because of Staan. I mean, what’s up with that guy? He’s up in paradise at one time, the most powerful archangel, nice set of wings, all the autonomy in the universe, why mess up a cool gig like that?”
Pumpkin Eater ignored him, shoveling handfuls of pumpkin seeds into his mouth now. Buddy watched for a moment, then…
“You know, I don’t think you’re supposed to eat the shells.”
“Says who?”
Buddy shrugged. Yeah, says who? To each his own, he thought, remembering how he used to enjoy picking his nose and eating the spoils as a youngster in school. He was one of those kids. Teachers and classmates would always berate him, but he didn’t mind the taste and he found the crunch pleasant and satisfying. He made a quick mental note to try it again as an adult before cracking open his Bible.
“Curious about a few other things. Here’s one. Genesis 2:18. Man was created before the other animals, right? Well, earlier in Genesis, the author describes God creating man after the other animals. What’s up, misprint?”
Peter hissed air through his mouthful of seeds, responding with studied patience, as if Buddy were mentally challenged.
“He simply made things in one order and placed them here in another. How could you possibly have misunderstood that?”
Buddy nodded, impressed. This was exactly what he had hoped for. Clear, concise explanations. He eagerly thumbed through more pages as Pumpkin Eater suddenly objected.
“What version is that?”
“Original King James. 1611.”
“Traitorous kiss of Judas, man!”
Peter seized the Bible, holding it with only two fingers, as if it were contagious. He crossed for the window and tossed it out into the st
reet.
“Okay then. What just happened?” Buddy asked, completely perplexed.
“That, that thing! Transcribed by English Protestants! Of what do they know but divorce and adultery?”
“What version should I be reading?”
“The original Aramaic text for the Old Testament and the Greek, specifically the Koine Greek edition for the New Testament. A multitude of passages were hideously corrupted over future translations.”
To clarify Pumpkin Eater’s hateful off-the-cuff remarks about English Protestants, it was untrue that he held any animosity against them. He was referring specifically to one English Protestant, namely, King James, who, Pumpkin Eater believed, authorized the Bible’s translation for political purposes – and did so quite haphazardly. The printing press had been invented and people were printing competing English translations of the sacred texts. And quarreling over them. King James believed that a single authorized English version was a social necessity, hoping it would bring together the warring factions of the Church of England and the Puritans, who were threatening to tear both church and country apart. It didn’t work.
First of all, the translators hired by his Kingdom were untrained in Koine Greek, the original language of The New Testament. The majority, of them, in fact, didn’t even know what Koine Greek was. The language had been a dead language for over a thousand years when the translations were published in 1611.
To add further fuel to the fire, King James issued over a dozen directives that the translators had to follow. He disapproved of the Puritan Bible, referred to at the time as The Geneva Bible, because commentary in the margins did not show enough deference to kings and the royalty class. King James also ruled that only his new Bible could be read in England’s churches.
“I don’t understand either of those languages.” Buddy said.
“That’s quite evident, judging from that stupid question.”
Buddy peered out the window, spying his borrowed Bible lying out in the street. He hoped it would still be there by the time he walked down to retrieve it, otherwise this was going to cost him ten cents per day in library fines in perpetuity. He turned to find Pumpkin Eater gluttonizing even more now.
“Can I ask you a question? I mean, I’ll understand if you can’t answer, it might be classified, but it’s about my father. My mother was a saint, I know she’s just fine but the old man, he didn’t exactly leave behind an unsullied slate. Nothing too serious, I mean he didn’t kill anyone—”
“What is your question?” Pumpkin Eater barked, impatiently interrupting.
“I just wanted to know if he made it through the gate.”
“You shall never see him again.”
Buddy leaned back, his flesh suddenly feverish. The thought of his old man hanging out in Staan’s outhouse was too much. He found himself worrying about his mother all of a sudden, how she was taking it – so he asked.
“How’s my mother taking it?”
“You shall never see her again either.” Pumpkin Eater explained, enjoying the disclosure just a little too much.
“What? That’s impossible. She was always helping people, practically lived in church. Why didn’t she make it?”
Pumpkin Eater just stared at him. And it finally dawned on Buddy.
“Wait… are you saying, I’m not going to make it?”
Pumpkin Eater smirked.
“Why? I’m not a bad person, I’m on your side, remember?”
“You are a single sided coin.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You are a homosexual.”
Buddy’s face reddened. His mouth dried. He shifted spasmodically on his feet, nerves in wild clamor. As taboo as homosexuality is today in some circles, things were much worse in 1989. It’s easy to forget through our contemporary prism just how uncomfortable things were for members of the LGBT community back then, but the fact was this; homosexuality was still considered a deviant personality disorder by the vast majority of people living outside that community. Buddy tried desperately to find his moxie.
“But, that’s not my fault, is it? I was born this way.”
Pumpkin Eater actually chuckled at that.
“Are you telling me I’m condemned because I’m gay?”
“Because you acted on your impulses. Love the sinner, hate the sin. I believe the correct intent of that verse was translated properly.” Pumpkin Eater explained as he crossed his arms, still chuckling. He was really enjoying this.
Buddy stepped forward abruptly, crossing for the door. Vulnerable. Distant.
“I feel sick.” Buddy said through a glazed, hopeless expression. He disappeared.
Minutes later, across the street, Grace cleared the kitchen table of dishes.
“That was really good. Thank you.” Jon said.
“You’re welcome. Least I could do for someone thoughtful enough to return my property. And for what my dog did to you and your clothes. I want you to go out and replace them and bring me the bill.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I insist.”
“Okay.”
She leaned over, catching him off guard as she planted a quick kiss on his cheek, smearing it with cheap lipstick. He just looked up at her, rigid, bracing himself for another possible assault – and one might’ve come had it not been for the knock on the door. Grace found Foster’s gun as she moved to peek through the peephole.
“Who is it?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, madam. My name is Peter, I’m Jon’s friend.”
Grace glanced at Jon for confirmation and opened the door a moment after he nodded – yeah, he knew him. Pumpkin Eater immediately noticed the lipstick on Jon’s face.
“Libidinous Delilah!”
“What do you want?” Jon asked.
“Your mother entrusted me to look after you. I’m keeping my promise.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Look at you, you weak, weak man.”
“I said leave me alone.” Jon echoed, refrigerator-voiced this time, which, for him meant a couple of degrees cooler than normal.
“I’ll expect you home before sundown.” Pumpkin Eater warned before leaving. Grace shut the door, eyebrows twisting into question marks.
“What the hell was that all about?”
“He makes me so angry sometimes.”
“Your mother sent a chaperone?”
“She worries. I’m her only child.”
“How old are you?”
“Older than you think.”
“That’s what I thought. What kind of trouble was she expecting her older-than-you-think son to get himself into?”
“The kind I’m looking at right now.”
A smile slashed across her face because she took that as a compliment.
“Look, I need to take my dog to the vet now, he’s got this intestinal issue, but I want you to drop by one of these days with a bill for your new clothes.”
“Really, that won’t be necessary.”
“I insist, I told you. Maybe you could drop by tomorrow night, say around seven? I have an errand to run, thought maybe you’d like to come with me.”
“Okay.”
“Course, it’ll be well after sundown before we’re back so you might want to check with your chaperone before committing.” Grace teased.
“I’ll be here.”
Tony fumbled with loose change as he dropped coins into a phone booth’s coin slot. He’d been sitting outside Grace’s apartment for a while, keeping it under surveillance. He didn’t recognize Buddy as one of the men he’d encountered in the alley as Buddy exited out onto the street from an adjacent building, wandering off. Buddy was cleaned up and no longer looked homeless. When he noticed Pumpkin Eater exiting minutes later and crossing for Grace’s building however, Tony knew he might be on to something.
Fusco took his call. Tony explained what he’d seen, theorizing that the briefcase was being kept in an adjacent apartment building. It had to be. Fusco
agreed and advised Tony to keep up the surveillance and to call back when Tony could validate that the apartment was vacant. Rocco would join Tony – they’d both toss the place. Tony asked what he should do if the apartment never became vacant. Fusco advised him to prepare for a home invasion under those circumstances. He and Rocco were going to barge in there, one way or another. Tonight. Tony hung up.
Jon entered his apartment to find Pumpkin Eater licking the inside of the now empty pumpkin seed container.
“That was very embarrassing, checking in on me like that.”
“Just doing my duty. I promised your mother. What happened to your clothes? Did she paw at them?”
“Her dog. Where’s Buddy?”
“Did her dog smear you with lipstick as well?”
“Where is he?” Jon asked, unwilling to humor Pumpkin Eater any further.
“He left. Out consuming alcoholic spirits now, I presume. His daily routine.”
“She seems so normal, Peter.”
“She isn’t.”
“I need to implement a strategy to find out why her soul has become so dark. I want you to stay out of my way.”
“Allow me to point out why you will surely be unsuccessful. People like her can’t be influenced to do the right thing, they must be commanded to do the right thing.”
“I’m not like my father.”
“Aye. He’s a hands-on leader. You’re an absentee chair. Imagine where we would be now had your father ruled by your example. Pleading with these insects to do his will instead of taking charge. Ask Noah how many people of his time could be influenced.”
“I suspect my father regrets that action. A lot of innocents drowned, babies, barely born.”
“It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, Pinky Boy. Get used to it. Survival of the fittest. Darwin may have been wrong about many things, but he was certainly right about that. Men need to be told what to do. Under strict penalty.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m dead right. In the meantime, as pointless as it will surely be, it seems to me your strategy should involve researching her past, speaking to her friends and former foster parents or otherwise looking up public records, those sorts of things. Start there.”
The Trouble In Dogflat Hollow Page 7
