Romeo's Hammer

by James Scott Bell

  The periscope pulled back.

  I waited.

  Slowly it came back.

  I waved.

  It disappeared.

  I knocked on the door again. Still nothing.

  “Sure wish I knew who lived here,” I said.

  The periscope came out about an inch.

  “Yes indeed, I sure wish somebody could tell me who lives here.”

  The periscope stayed put. Then I heard a small voice say, “Desiree.”

  A boy’s voice.

  “Desiree lives here?” I said.

  The mystery voice said, “Uh-huh.”

  “I wish I knew where she was.”

  “Store,” the voice said.

  “You must be the watcher of the building, huh?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “My name’s Mike.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you know Brooklyn?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Have you seen Brooklyn lately?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Why don’t you come out and talk?”

  The bit of periscope receded.

  I waited for the watcher to appear.

  He did not.

  I went to the back of the building. There was a carport there with four spaces.

  But no boy with a periscope. Well, this was his territory. He had to know all the best hiding places.

  I was about to venture to the other side of the building and check with another neighbor when a red Hyundai pulled into one of the carport spaces.

  A woman about forty got out and gave me a quick eye, then popped her trunk and pulled out a blue bag with straps. The bag said Trader Joe’s on the side.

  She started walking toward unit number four.

  “Desiree?” I said.

  She almost jumped out of her blue jeans. She had shoulder-length auburn hair and a Roman nose. She looked at me like I was a Carthaginian.

  “I’m a friend of Brooklyn’s,” I said.

  She held up her keys. “Don’t come near me.”

  I saw her thumb on something. A little pepper spray canister.

  “Her father hired me,” I said.

  “Then you’re not her friend,” she said.

  “Can I explain?”

  “Stay there.”

  “She’s missing.”

  Desiree paused. “What do you mean?”

  “Her father wants to find her and I’m trying to help. Can we talk a minute?”

  “You can’t come inside.”

  “Out here will work.” We were standing in the middle of the asphalt lot.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw something move. It was my little periscope friend again, this time on the opposite side of the building.

  “Go on the other side of my car,” Desiree said.

  “Sure.”

  I went under the carport cover on the far side of her Hyundai. She got under the shade, keeping the car between us. She also kept her thumb on the pepper spray.

  I took a well-worn Ira Rosen, Attorney-at-Law card out of my wallet. I placed it on the roof of the car.

  “I work for a lawyer. I’m an investigator.”

  She took the card, looked it over.

  “I have to put my groceries away,” she said.

  “I won’t take long.”

  Desiree looked around, as if to see if anyone was listening. Or around to look at me.

  “All right,” she said. “You can come in. But I’m leaving the door open. There’s lots of people in this building.”

  “I like a close-knit community,” I said.

  THERE ARE APARTMENTS that feel transitory, like the person inside wants to get out and buy something as soon as possible. Or get married. Or move in with a boyfriend. Or go back to the parents’ home in Toledo.

  Then there are places that feel permanent, well lived-in, last stop—unless you hit the lottery.

  Desiree’s apartment had a last-stop feel to it.

  Her furniture showed its years, though nothing was messy or about to fall apart. There was a People magazine on a coffee table next to an official California voter guide addressed to Desiree Parks at this address.

  A fat gray cat jumped onto a chair and checked me out the way felines do—assessing if I was worth the time of day or a doofus to be ignored.

  “That’s Silverado,” Desiree said. “He’s friendly.”

  “Won’t he try to get out?”

  “No. Total house cat.”

  Desiree set her bag of groceries on the kitchen counter. She opened the refrigerator and started putting items away.

  “You can sit down,” she said.

  I sat on the sofa. Silverado stared at me.

  Desiree came back to the living room. She still held her keys, though her thumb was off the pepper spray.

  “Okay,” she said.

  I said, “I helped Brooklyn the other day. I live at the beach, Paradise Cove, and she was there one morning when I was running. She was sick. I got her some help. She was grateful, we had a meal together, breakfast. A few days later her father comes to me and says she’s missing. I want to help him find her. She was living in number two, right?”

  Desiree nodded. “I don’t know her all that well. She pretty much is out all the time. I guess when you look like she does, you’re not going to be spending a lot of time alone.”

  “There are different ways to be alone,” I said.

  She nodded, like she knew exactly what that meant.

  “There was one time,” she said, “when Brooklyn came over here. She was a little drunk. She was depressed about something and she wanted to talk to me. People always want to talk to me, I don’t know what it is.”

  “It’s not a bad quality to have,” I said.

  “Always the friend, never the … whatever. So she was saying how she got her shot, which I think meant her shot at becoming a star.”

  “She said she got it?”

  “Got it and it didn’t work out was the impression I got. She said she was supposed to be in a movie with this big star, but she wouldn’t say who. She only said they’re all … she used a word I don’t like to say.”

  “I can guess,” I said.

  She got quiet then, and looked at her hands.

  “Is there something else?” I said.

  She pursed her lips, then said, “Something kind of crazy.”

  “What is it?”

  Desiree said, “She started talking about somebody named Michael. Went on and on about Michael was coming. Finally I asked her who this guy was, and she said he wasn’t a guy, he was an angel. In fact, he was some kind of other angel … a …”

  “Archangel?”

  “That’s it. What is that?”

  “In the Bible, the archangel Michael is depicted as the leader of the heavenly army, and he does battle against Satan. In the Book of Revelation, Satan is a dragon and Michael and his angels go to war against him.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s the story, anyway.”

  “She said Michael was really coming, to save the earth. And she knew where he was going to show up and was going to see him.”

  “Did she say where this was going to happen?”

  Desiree shook her head.

  “Can you think of anything else she might have said, any kind of name or place?”

  “I’m sorry, I really can’t … wait, no, there was a friend. She said she had a friend and they were going off together someplace, someday.”

  “Can you recall the name of this friend?”

  “Linda … no, Lindsay. That was it.”

  “Lindsay who?”

  “She didn’t give a last name.”

  “Okay. Thanks. You’ve been a help.”

  “I hope so. I hope you find her.”

  I nodded.

  “Pretty weird to believe in angels, huh?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, standing. “There are weirder things people believe.”

  “Like what?” she said.<
br />
  “Oh, that you can make nice with evil and it’ll make nice with you.”

  She blinked.

  I nodded and left.

  BUT WHAT DID I believe?

  Who was I to say there wasn’t any archangel Michael? Maybe he was out there right now, planning a comeback, and maybe Brooklyn was one of those crazy people who turns out not to be crazy after all, but has an insight that everybody else misses and ignores.

  Traffic was hellish all the way to Las Virgenes, so I had some thoughts about eternal damnation. It would be one big traffic jam, everybody honking at each other and cursing and sometimes whipping out a gun and blasting. And you’d move about ten feet every million years and then, boom, you’d be right back at the beginning again.

  When I got to the Cove the sun was sticking its feet in the ocean. I went to the sand and watched until night flowed over Los Angeles. And the thought came to me, distant and blinking like a star, but definite—Brooklyn Christie was probably dead.

  NEXT MORNING I went to Ira’s to fill him in on my meeting with Desiree.

  “You are really playing the role now, aren’t you?” Ira said.

  “I’m making honest money doing work for our client.”

  “He is not our client yet. I haven’t even met the man.”

  “Trust me,” I said. “He’s our client.”

  “Your use of the word our is troubling,” Ira said.

  “Now isn’t it time you did a little work?” I said.

  Eyebrows narrowing, Ira gave me something of a low growl.

  I said, “Put your thinking yarmulke on. Desiree mentioned that Brooklyn started talking about the archangel Michael, and how he was coming back.”

  “Archangel Michael?”

  “He figures in Revelation, right?”

  “Yes, but if you’ll recall, Mr. Romeo, I am a Jew. What I know of Michael is from the prophet Daniel and the post-canonical period.”

  “The name means the one who is like God, right?” I said.

  Ira shook his head. “No, in the Hebrew the name is a rhetorical question, ‘Who is like God?’ Meaning, no one.”

  “I’ll buy that.”

  “I’m not selling. It’s just the truth. You take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  With a sigh, Ira said, “The prophet Daniel’s final vision is concerned with the course of eastern Mediterranean political history, from the fall of the Persian Empire through the reign of the Seleucid emperor Antiochus IV Epiphanes.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that is of interest to Brooklyn Christie.”

  Ira gave me a long look. “You’re thinking something.”

  “Just a thought,” I said.

  “I already established that. A thought about what?”

  “I have this feeling she’s dead.”

  “Why would you think that?” Ira said.

  “No explanation.”

  “Then it’s irrational, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” I said. “Don’t you believe in intuition?”

  “I believe in evidence,” Ira said. “And connections.”

  “So why don’t you give the computer a little spin and see what you can find out? Do I have to do all the heavy lifting around here?”

  “There’s a turkey leg in my freezer,” Ira said. “Bring it to me so I can beat you with it.”

  I did not get it. I went out to the back yard where I’d spent some good days trying to get my life back into a consistent and helpful motion again. There was a bench and some chairs here and a nice shade tree. I sat under the tree and thought about Desiree. There had been something in her voice that I couldn’t quite identify when I was there.

  It wasn’t fear, though that could have been the undercurrent. It was more like she expected a shoe to drop. What kind of shoe? A light pump or a steel-toed boot? And why?

  Maybe she was just nervous around me. Maybe she never quite let her guard down. Which I could understand. I’m not usually one to set people at ease.

  But there was something dangling out there that wasn’t a dead end. Joey Feint said you found that in every case. There was always something that bothered you, like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle. But you couldn’t force it. The piece had a specific shape and all you could do was find it.

  If you didn’t, you’d never forget about it. It would be one of those cases that gnawed at you. Get enough of them and booze could become your palliative, as it had for Joey.

  After a few more minutes of chasing my mental tail I went back in the house. Where I heard Ira murmuring, “Well, well, well.”

  “What’d you find?” I said.

  “A curious confluence of events. I like it when that happens.”

  Ira wheeled himself back a bit so he could face me. “That explosion you heard, it was at a development site in the hills just above where the Getty is. That’s all supposed to be protected space, until recently.”

  “What happened?”

  “There was a push-through exception made. There’s supposed to be a tract of high-end homes. There was equipment up there, big cats and heavy machinery to start scraping. Most of that was blown up. So was a general contractor named Sykes.”

  “So now it’s murder.”

  “And the murderer wants us to know who he is. This was posted on a website not half an hour ago. It was obtained anonymously, but the author is claiming responsibility for the explosion. Sit down and read it.”

  I pulled a chair over the computer and looked at the screen.

  Let these 10 theses be a warning and a call to awaken to the Spirit of the World

  1.

  Mankind has machined itself into oblivion, wreaking havoc upon the Earth. Those countries that purport to lead the world vis-a-vis economic “progress” have visited poison, death, destruction and destitution upon the Fourth World. Nature herself is being destroyed. Nature herself, under her own laws, is entitled to self-defense. The aggressor shall be stopped.

  2.

  Systems are inherently evil.

  3.

  It is permissible to use violence against evil.

  4.

  If evil is allowed to continue without opposition, it will inevitably deaden the spirit of the world. The spirit of the world is not material, by virtue of the very definition of the word. The spirit of the world has always existed and always will exist. It was not created. It is itself the creative force. It has no one personality. It is everything and everywhere.

  5.

  Rapists of the land are in bondage to the system, and therefore are slaves who unwittingly advance evil. We hold no animosity toward slaves. But slaves must be freed, either by removing them from the system or taking their lives—for in death there is also freedom, if one is enslaved to evil.

  6.

  Children are indoctrinated into the system almost from birth. There are some exceptions to this, but not many. The entire edifice must be brought down to save the many. If the few are sacrificed in the effort, that is not “collateral damage.” It is in fact dying for the greatest cause of all—the salvation of the Earth.

  7.

  There is One who oversees the Earth and leads armies to protect it. Anyone who is seeking to despoil the Earth is at war against it, and thus is rightly opposed by the Army of Light.

  8.

  The One who oversees the Earth is named Michael, and he is among us.

  9.

  There is no legitimate Jewish state.

  10.

  There is only one option for mankind on Earth, and that is to surrender to Michael and cease war. A refusal to do this will only result in more warfare and bloodshed. All building must stop. A return to the Earth and simplicity, or death.

  “NOW, GRASSHOPPER,” IRA said when I’d finished, “what strikes you as odd about this document?”

  “You mean besides the whole thing?” I said.

  “Think, boy, that’s what you’re supposed to be good at.”

  I scanned the theses again.
“Number nine is out of place.”

  “Why is that?” Ira said.

  “Wasn’t the angel Michael a protector of Israel?”

  “By Jove, you’ve done it!”

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” I said.

  “Now, what’s the connection?” Ira said.

  “From Brooklyn to Michael to an explosion to this document. Related?”

  “Maybe and maybe not,” Ira said.

  “I’m so glad we had this chat,” I said.

  “What else might this be?” Ira said.

  He looked at me with his Socratic gaze. He loves doing this. So I furrowed my brow to make him believe I was thinking.

  Which I was.

  Finally, I said, “It’s a signature.”

  Ira smiled, nodded. “Like something one of those movie serial killers leaves behind, so the cop can eventually catch him.”

  “This guy’s an anti-Semite who just can’t help himself?”

  “I like that theory,” Ira said. “Let me keep that in mind as I do more digging.”

  “You keep digging,” I said. “I have another matter to attend to.”

  “Ah, your date.”

  “Yes.”

  “I shall pray for her.”

  JOHN “THUNDER” MCMAHON was the toughest man I ever fought.

  He looked like the devil’s pit bull and smelled like no other human I’ve ever been nose-close to. His was a scent somewhere between a garbage scow and Mississippi road kill. He was from Jackson, actually, and I do believe he worked on his smell as much as on his grappling.

  It was one of his advantages.

  The other was extremely long arms at the end of which were massive paws. He was a freak of nature or, as Seinfeld once noted about “Man Hands,” something out of Greek mythology.

  And mean.

  And a cheater.

  It took every skill I knew, and the ability to hold my breath, to get him to tap out.

  This was who I thought of when I was around Sophie. It was a trick my mind played on me. It was telling me I was better off in a cage than in an intimate setting with a woman.

  Especially one who could knock me out with a look.

  She smiled from a booth when I walked into Hammett’s at noon. She had a book on the table along with a coffee cup.