“What about you, Coll?” he said. “Seeing anybody?”
“I really need to get you a book on the fine art of conversation.”
“Right. So?”
She shook her head no, took a sip of beer.
“Well, I’m not seeing anyone right now, either, if you were wondering. I saw you checking out Deena’s gear.”
Colleen blushed. “There’ll be a legion of eligible candidates next time the band with no name plays The Pitt.”
“Life’s too short to fuck around, Coll. Almost losing Mel taught me that. And you’re the one who got her back for me.” He came up close, so close she could inhale his wonderful natural scent. He didn’t touch her, but she knew he wanted to. She wouldn’t have minded. “That puts you at the front of any queue.”
She looked into his eyes, took a breath, steadying heartbeats. “You’re making my day, dude, but I want to see you and Melanie gel first—without some crazy ex-con in the mix.” Melanie wasn’t over her mother yet, didn’t need complications.
“Long as you know where you stand.”
“I really didn’t come over here just to nose around, Steve, although it’s been fairly productive on that front. I do have a favor to ask. A big one.”
He dug a pack of Lucky Strikes out of his shirt pocket, shook one loose, pulled it from the pack with his lips. “Shoot.”
She told him about the possible link to Pamela.
“That’s bloody great, Coll.” He leaned back against the counter, lighting his cigarette. “Boom said something about giving you a hand with something the other night.” Boom was also the part-time roadie for Steve’s band, how Colleen had met him in the first place. “I thought he was being deliberately vague, yeah?”
“The less you know, the better.”
“Got it.” He smoked.
She told him that she thought Pamela’s last stop had most likely been Die Kerk. How she couldn’t get her foot in the door. “You used to know the guy that bought the mansion they use for their headquarters. I remember you telling me about him. He was a big star, back in the day.”
“Who’s that, then?”
“Arnold Saint James,” she said.
“Arnold Saint James,” Steve said, nodding in recollection. “The Chords were the warm-up act for him, ’65, when he came to the UK. Before my big fuckup. He’d just written that tune that’ll keep him in silk knickers for the rest of his life.”
Steve’s “big fuckup” was waking up in a London hotel room in 1966 to find a dead girl lying next to him. It was the end of a career that had just begun.
“Arnold Saint James is Barend now,” she said. “That’s his perfect name.”
“All sounds a bit new-agey,” Steve said.
“If it was only just that,” she said. “Arnold is my big favor.”
Steve tapped ash into the empty beer can. “Go on.”
“You could use your charm, of which you have an overabundance, and call your old buddy Arnold Saint James—Barend—and say you’d like a visit to Die Kerk. Tell him how you’ve seen the success of some of their members and wouldn’t mind a piece for yourself. That you’ve come into some money now that your royalties are finally settled after all these years. When Die Kerk is done falling over themselves to invite you over for a tour of the facilities, you can bring me along as your date. And while you and Barend are regaling each other with sordid tales of rock ‘n’ roll excess, I can slip off and nose around. And find out where Pamela might be.”
“All good—in theory. But it sounds like it could be potentially dangerous.”
“I know you’ve got Mel to worry about. Your part will be minimal.”
“I mean dangerous for you, Coll. If Boom was helping you out, this little venture ain’t benign, yeah?”
She shrugged. “What Mel is to you, Pamela is to me. Only I hope Melanie never puts you through a tenth of the grief.”
He took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled smoke away from her. It bounced off the glass cabinets. “It was worth a try.”
“You were sweet to do so. But it’s too late for that.”
He dropped his cigarette in the beer can. It sizzled. “Then I, madam, can’t find a good reason to turn you down.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After another fruitless visit to Mr. Philanderer’s love nest, Colleen went home, cranked up the gas heater, took a shower, wrapped herself in her kimono, put on The Lost Chord’s album from 1966, dimmed the lights, tried to relax. Tried not to think about Pamela. And wondering who invented motherhood.
The phone rang.
“Fancy going to a party tomorrow night, love?” Steve Cook said.
“Die Kerk?”
“They’re going to make time for us.”
“Can I bring a friend?” More people meant she’d have more of a chance to get away and sneak around.
“The more the merrier, as the bishop said to the actress.”
“Guess I better pick you up,” she said. “Since you don’t have a motor car.” She said the last two words in a poor attempt at a British accent.
“And since I don’t know how to bloody drive one to begin with. We’re supposed to be there at eight.”
“See you at seven thirty. What about Mel?”
“Aunt Deena’s babysitting.”
Steve’s drummer and ex-flame had a soft spot for Steve. “Ciao.”
She called her friend Alex, in Half Moon Bay.
“Hey!” Alex said when the butler put Colleen through. “I was just about to call you.”
“I wanted to catch you before you went out with your thrill-seeker friends.”
“I was actually going to stay in for once. I hear they have these things called books.”
Colleen was relieved Alex was giving her liver a rest. “Want to go to a party tomorrow?”
“Is that a trick question? I’ll even shave my legs. What time should I pick you up?”
“I’ll drive. Be here sevenish. But I need to warn you—it’s not the kind of party you’re used to. To be perfectly honest, it’s not really a party at all.”
“No?”
She explained about Die Kerk. Pamela.
“That sounds heavy, Coll. But I feel like I know Pam. I want to help any way I can.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“Damn right you will.” Alex laughed.
“Since you’re in such a receptive mood, I guess this is a good time to tell you that Steve is going to join us.”
There was a pause. “Okay.” Alex had always been a little bit jealous of Steve.
“He got me in to Die Kerk,” Colleen said. “And we’re just friends.”
“Uh-huh.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“What time do the vampires come out?” Alex said.
She was sitting in the back of the Torino, Colleen and Steve in front, the three of them looking at Die Kerk’s black and gold mansion on Pacheco Street in between swipes of the windshield wipers. The car rumbled in front of the wrought-iron gates in the light rain. There was no obvious party noise, no music, laughter, which didn’t surprise Colleen. All three of them were suitably decked out in their best gear, smelling good. Colleen sported a rust-orange patterned minidress with sheer flounce sleeves, white pantyhose, tan boots, and raincoat. She had her trusty leather shoulder bag ready for any potential information gathering. On the car radio, The Jackson 5 were blaming it on the boogie.
“I’ll get them to open the gate,” Steve said. His double-breasted light gray suit was unbuttoned, revealing a black T-shirt and the top of a hairy chest. “We’ll park inside. It’s raining.”
“Hold off,” Colleen said. “Let’s park out here—in case we have to beat a hasty retreat.”
“Good point,” he said, sitting back. “I guess we get wet, then.”
“That’s why God invented umbrellas,” Colleen said, holding up her collapsible.
“One umbrella for three people,” Alex said. She wore a deep red sequined cat suit, pla
tform shoes to match, and a black bolero jacket to take it down a notch. Elvis, Las Vegas era, one of her favorite themes.
“Sharing is caring,” Colleen said, backing out of the Die Kerk’s driveway with a squeal.
She parked down the street.
Moments later, they were clipping across Pacheco, shoulder to shoulder under the small umbrella, headed for the former mansion.
Steve announced them at the intercom, and they were quickly buzzed in.
As they hurried up the long driveway, a wood-and-glass door opened on the spacious portico supported by gold columns. White light spilled out as a plump man in a white kaftan appeared. He had a bowl haircut and a mild waddle.
“Steve!” he shouted jovially. “Long time, no see! You should have parked up here. You’re getting wet.”
“Now you tell me, Arnold!”
The three of them got under the overhang.
“It’s Barend now, Steve,” he said, coming out to greet them. He wore sandals. A strange cross with wings on it hung around his neck.
“Right,” Steve said, taking his hand. “Barend.” He turned to introduce Alex and Colleen as Alex and Carol Anne. “I brought a couple of friends, yeah?”
Barend, or whatever his name was, eyed Colleen, then Alex, with beady eyes at first, then a shrewd grin. Colleen could tell that, despite whatever suspicions he might have, he didn’t mind extra women.
“Well, hello, ladies.”
Colleen reached out to shake a hand, but Barend came in for a bear hug instead. He stunk of stale sweat.
He did the same to Alex, and Colleen caught her look of disgust over his shoulder.
He led them inside.
“Jeez, Louise,” Alex whispered, fanning her nose as she gave Colleen a wrinkled grimace.
“One of the rules to perfection is bathing weekly,” Colleen whispered back. “Whether one needs it or not.”
Steve followed.
A large man in a black tunic that stretched across his broad shoulders shut the door behind them. He wore sunglasses that didn’t hide the fact that he was seriously checking out Alex. He radiated a sharp pong of sweat as well, and had bodyguard written all over him.
Inside a red-carpeted foyer with harsh overhead lighting from a high chandelier stood an older Indian man in black shirt, baggy white slacks, and pointy shoes. His hands were folded in front of him like a salesman about to close in. He had white-gray hair swept back in a pompadour and piercing eyes. Behind him stood another man, tall and wiry, also in a black tunic.
On one wall Brother Adem Lea looked down from a large painting, stringy hair parted on either side of the slightly lopsided crucifix tattoo in the center of his forehead. His long nose pointed off into the distance with what was no doubt meant to be a sense of purpose. He was shirtless and the painting did not reveal anything below the waist but the feeling was that he was again naked. Underneath, a plaque read Die Kerk van die Volmaakte Dood. Colleen reminded herself to look up dood next time she was at SF Public Library.
At the bottom of the elegant stairwell, corridors led off on either side downstairs. Colleen wondered where the office was, where the member records might be. The foyer was large but still smelled like a gym on a hot day, despite the fact that a joss stick burned on a side table over an incense tray.
“Steve,” Barend said. “I’d like you to meet Gust—our director of operations.”
Gust was the Indian man Colleen had spoken to on the intercom yesterday.
“Brother Adem is on a pilgrimage,” Gust said in a Pacific accent. “Otherwise he would have been here himself to greet you.”
Colleen prayed Pamela wasn’t part of that pilgrimage but her instinct told her otherwise.
“That sounds so interesting,” she said to Gust. “Pilgrimage where?”
Gust ignored Colleen’s question. “Before we proceed, we’ll need to see some identification.”
Colleen started. Alex gave a look.
“Get away,” Steve said, not one to mince words. “Don’t you bloody remember me, Arn—Barend?” He laughed.
“It’s just a formality,” Gust said. “Our house of worship has been the subject of more than one spurious attack.”
Colleen had her bogus ID, but Alex and Steve didn’t; although Die Kerk certainly knew who Steve was. But Alex, with her well-known last name and fortune, would be a prime target for a shady organization.
“Fine,” Steve said in a tone that implied it wasn’t as he got his wallet out of his jacket.
Colleen leaned over to Alex and dropped her voice. “You know what, Alex? You don’t need to be part of this. Tell them your handbag is in the car, go get it, and don’t come back. Wait for us in the car.” She held out her car keys.
“Sorry, Charlie,” Alex said. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
Colleen shook her head and put her keys away as Alex fished her driver’s license out of a minute beaded purse.
Gust collected licenses, turned in the direction of the far corridor by the stairwell.
“Wait,” Colleen said. “Where are you going with those?”
Gust turned back, blinking impatiently. “To make copies.”
Colleen stood forward, reaching out. “Just hand them back and we’ll be on our way.”
Gust looked at her with what only could be called aggravation.
“Very well.” As she suspected, he handed everyone’s license back, but without a word. The tension in the air thickened.
Colleen, Alex, and Steve were shown into a large hall by the big guard with the sunglasses. The room had the atmosphere of a sterile temple. More red carpet and white walls. Several rows of chairs faced a podium. The smell of incense emanated from a clump of joss sticks on an altar below yet another painting of Adem Lea. He had one of those sickly mustaches in this one, the kind that don’t fill out. There was a list of eleven reëls—rules—in Afrikaans. Airy music played over the loudspeakers, flute and guitar with a man reciting in Afrikaans as well. For all they knew, he was reading the railway timetable. But it was still unnerving.
“Catchy,” Alex whispered to Colleen.
“And so relaxing,” Colleen added.
A very young woman, barely out of girlhood, in a thin white embroidered muumuu and dark braids, was running a handheld sweeper across the carpet, barefoot. She stood to attention, holding her sweeper in one hand, head down submissively. She had dark skin and eyes and would have been stunning if she weren’t also trembling. Colleen shivered herself at the incongruity and what might be going on here. She hoped this girl hadn’t been subject to a nude shaming like the two women at the service she’d attended.
“Tea?” the girl asked, almost inaudible, avoiding eye contact.
No one wanted tea. She excused herself with a whisper, silently left the room with her sweeper.
The three of them were left with Sunglasses the bodyguard, who stood at the back of the room, hands behind his back, watching impassively, Alex mostly. Colleen and Alex took a seat in the front row, while Steve stood before them, hands in his pockets.
“What the bloody hell is going on?” he whispered to Colleen, rattling change in his pocket to cover his words.
“I don’t think they know what to do with us,” Colleen whispered back.
“No shit,” Alex said brightly, looking around.
Barend entered the room, red-faced. He’d probably gotten his ear chewed off for inviting guests who had the temerity to question Die Kerk’s security procedures.
He called out to Steve, “Gust can show you around now, Steve. And then you and I can catch up.”
“Just me?” Steve said.
“Right,” Barend said tightly.
“What about my friends here?”
“They’ll have to wait here.”
They were being punished for questioning the ID system.
Colleen said, “Go ahead, Steve. We’re good.”
“Great,” Steve said to Barend with a hint of sarcasm, giving Colleen an uncer
tain look.
Then it was just her and Alex, under the watchful eye of Sunglasses.
“We don’t rate a tour,” Alex said.
“I need to snoop around,” Colleen said quietly. “How good are you at intriguing big burly guards?”
Alex lowered her voice too. “You mean the kind that don’t bathe?”
“Bingo.”
“I’m not just a pretty face.” Alex winked, stood up, sashayed over to the guard in her slinky red pantsuit. He had been pretty much glued to her the whole time anyway. She started making small talk, beginning with how long he’d been with the church. Colleen noticed Alex made a point to get in close. Within no time, Alex was touching his arm.
“Say, you must work out.”
“A little,” he stammered.
“More than a little, I’d say.”
Colleen left her bag on the chair, got up, headed to the door, stopped at Sunglasses and Alex on the way.
“I’m sorry,” she said to the guard. “Where is the Ladies’ room?”
“To the left of the staircase,” he said. “But wait—I’ll get someone to take you.”
Alex patted his arm playfully. “She knows how to go to the restroom all by herself, you know. She’s not three years old.”
He laughed, awkwardly. “Yes, I know. But …”
“Are you married?” Alex asked him. “I don’t see a ring.”
“Die Kerk does not recognize marriage.”
“How interesting. Neither am I.”
Colleen slipped out the door.
No one in the lobby. She headed under the stairwell where dimly lit hallways led off to either side. She took the right because she heard a murmur of voices in that direction. Passing several closed doors, she overheard Barend speaking. “All I can tell you, Steve, is that Die Kerk changed my life.” Colleen had no doubt about that. “My ability to focus now is incredible. I’ve reached another level. My new album is proof.”
“I do like the sound of that,” she heard Steve say.
“All you’ve got to do is let go and let Adem be your guide.”
“I’m not so sure about that, though, mate.”
“Trust me. It’ll revive your career. I just know it. Hell, I’d be willing to take a personal interest in you, Steve.”
Bad Scene Page 11
