Romeo's Hammer

by James Scott Bell

  “A little over five years ago,” Robin said. “He went ex-vet nuts in a thrift store in Panorama City and broke all the china. Because of his service they knocked it down to a misdemeanor and probation. He got some treatments at the VA but then got hired as a bartender-slash-bouncer at a club in NoHo.”

  “How long has he been at Kahuna’s?”

  Robin looked at his phone. “Two years.”

  “You going to give me a copy of your notes?”

  “No,” Robin said. “When we finish here these get erased.”

  “That still isn’t telling me much.”

  “We haven’t got to the nut graph yet,” Robin said. “Here it is. The most current security employment for Mr. Tuputala has been with Tanya Camarasa.”

  He paused.

  I shrugged.

  “She’s a former NYU professor,” Robin said, “who says she can talk to angels.”

  “SHE’S SERIOUS ABOUT it,” Robin said. “And she has a bunch of people with her who are serious about it, too.”

  “Where?”

  “A ranch called Peniel. Strange name, isn’t it?”

  “It’s biblical,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s the place where Jacob wrestled with God, and saw him face-to-face.”

  “You really know your stuff,” Robin said. “Mr. Donahue said I’d be impressed, and I am. You need to join the team.”

  “I’m not a joiner.”

  “There will come a time when you need a team,” Robin said.

  “Where is this ranch?”

  “You’re in luck,” Robin said. “It’s only about two miles from here, up in the mountains. But I should tell you they’re very shy. Invitation only.”

  “Maybe I’ll invite myself.”

  “You could,” Robin said, “if you knew where to enter.”

  He smiled in a knowing way. He and his employer were sure into knowing things.

  The road Robin told me to take was lined with native grasses and brush. The SoCal coastal range is not easily habitable by man. Snakes and coyotes are more at home here. But it’s a great place for hermits and antisocial types.

  A gate with a heavy chain and lock and a No Trespassing sign stopped me. The road went on and around a bend. There was no sign of life or buildings.

  I got out and hopped the gate.

  A lizard the size of a Chicago hot dog scampered across the dirt path, paused to look at me, and hurried away. That’s the way most people live, too—afraid, quick to scamper without deep thought.

  I followed the path around a small jutting hill, and on the other side caught a nice vista of canyon, rock, and sky. This wasn’t so bad out here. It would be prime location for any home developer, but of course it was protected by the state. And anyway, developments weren’t scoring so well with the mad bomber on the loose.

  Still no sign of man or beast. Only lizard and bird. And one ex-fighter trying to make a go of it as a finder of missing persons.

  And then I heard some pounding.

  Drums.

  If this had been an Edgar Rice Burroughs or H. Rider Haggard novel—the kind my father read to me as a boy—then I would have thought I was coming upon some ancient tribal ritual.

  I followed the noise, and coming around one more turn, I could see in the distance a rag-tag jam session. Several people—men, women, boys, girls—banged different kinds of drums. Some of the drums were attached to bodies, some were on the ground. At least one of them was an overturned plastic bucket. The people were using hands and sticks to pound out what could only charitably be described as a rhythm.

  In the middle of the semi-circle of percussionists were some people dancing to the improvised beat. By dancing, I don’t mean Astaire. It was all waving arms and springy legs and bobble heads.

  I stopped and watched for a moment from about forty yards away. Ecstatic dance has long been a staple of mystery religions, and if what I was walking into was Angel Talk Central, this might be considered business-as-usual.

  On the outskirts of the gyration knot was a big guy with blond, curly hair. He turned and saw me and started to approach. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt with TOTO across the front of it. I wondered if that was for the band or the dog. Or maybe it was his name. I wasn’t about to ask him.

  “How you doin’?” he said. He had huge teeth in a mouth the size of a household trash compacter.

  “What is this place?” I said.

  “The place to be,” he said.

  “That’s the place I’m looking for.”

  “Cool.”

  We looked at each other.

  “Tell me more,” he said.

  “More?” I said.

  “Why you’re here.”

  “Oh, I was just hiking. Never been around here.”

  “Did you pass a No Trespassing sign?”

  “I’m dyslexic,” I said. “I thought it said Gnissapsert On.”

  His cave-sized mouth gaped.

  “I need to ask you a question,” he said.

  “Shoot,” I said.

  “Are you with any governmental or law enforcement agency?”

  It was a cool, practiced question. Completely useless, of course. People seem to think cops are not allowed to lie.

  I said, “I wouldn’t be an agent for any government, foreign or domestic.”

  “Very, very cool. Are you a journalist?”

  “No way.”

  “Would you mind if I patted you down?” he said.

  “I only get patted down by people I’m engaged to,” I said.

  He scowled.

  “Sure, go ahead,” I said.

  He gave me a once over like he was an ex-cop himself. I’d left my phone in the car and only had keys and a wallet.

  “So what’s going on here?” I said.

  He turned to look at his drumbeating friends, then back at me. “What do you think of Earth?”

  “I like it,” I said.

  “I mean, really. What is it to you?”

  I pretended to think about it. “Well, I think we’re doing a pretty bad job of keeping it clean. But there doesn’t seem to be much we can do about that.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I wish there was.”

  Toto nodded and showed those teeth again. “There’s someone I want you to meet. Come on.”

  He started walking, looked back to make sure I followed.

  I followed.

  As we passed the drum and dancing corps I looked hard to see if Brooklyn might be there.

  She wasn’t.

  TOTO TOOK ME up a twisting path, into a grove of native oaks and finally a clearing. In this clearing was a collection of tents.

  “Welcome to Peniel,” Toto said.

  “Is this a campground?” I said.

  “This property is actually owned by a winery. The owner lets us use it in return for some labor. He also believes in what we’re doing.”

  “And what is that exactly?”

  “Trying to save our only home, my friend, before it’s too late.”

  We walked through the camp. It was set up with a main path through the middle. It reminded me of pictures of old mining camps I’d seen in books about the Old West. Or hippie communes that were the rage in the ’60s. Outside one tent, sitting cross-legged, was a bearded guy in a wool hat sucking on a major blunt. The unmistakable odor of cannabis bit the air. Behind him, a little girl of seven or eight, barefoot and in a dirty pink dress, held a doll close to her and eyed me with suspicion.

  The guy with the beard smiled and nodded at me.

  At the end of this main path was another kind of tent. Huge. Right out of Lawrence of Arabia. Or what a well-heeled dad would rent out for his daughter’s wedding reception.

  The opening was spacious and I could see rugs and pillows inside, with a definite favoring of burgundy and gold.

  Toto asked me to wait. He went in and stepped behind a cloth partition in the middle of the tent.

  The d
rums were still pounding in the distance. It sounded like thunder.

  A minute later, Toto came back and waved me into the tent.

  THERE ARE PEOPLE who can take over a room just by walking in. They say Bill Clinton, once a president of the United States, was like that, and if you kept your hand on your wallet and locked up your daughter, you could appreciate the charisma.

  I imagine some of the great stars of the golden age of movies were like that, too. Gable. Hepburn. Certain people the camera loves, and others have what used to be called It.

  Something you feel immediately.

  I was feeling it now.

  She was medium height with hair like black satin. Her earrings were the size and sound of wind chimes. She wore a red silk pants suit, accented with a gold floral design. And no shoes. As to age, well, if there was a magazine that wanted to extol the beauty of women in their early fifties, she could have been their cover model.

  With an incandescent smile she approached and put out her hand. “I’m Tanya.”

  “Mike,” I said.

  “Welcome to Peniel. Will you have tea with me?”

  “I’m not much of a tea drinker,” I said.

  “You will be after tasting my blend,” she said. She asked Toto to bring some and motioned for me to sit on a large, burgundy pillow with gold tassels. I parked myself on it. Tanya dropped elegantly onto a similar cushion and crossed her legs, yoga style.

  She opened a silver box next to her pillow and took out three small sticks. Incense.

  “Don’t go to any trouble,” I said.

  “This is not trouble, Mike,” she said. “This is an awakening.”

  She placed the sticks in a small, glass vase. From the box she removed a very plain lighter. That was kind of a letdown. I expected at least a turbaned eunuch with a candle to do the honors.

  When the sticks were all infused with fire, tendrils of scented smoke curled toward me. I gave it a sniff.

  “Not bad,” I said.

  “Lavender and frankincense,” she said. “For your crown chakra. This will bring you into a consciousness of your own divine nature.”

  “I’ve been looking for that,” I said. “I thought I misplaced it.”

  With a half smile she said, “You like to make light of things, don’t you?”

  “Laugh or die, that’s my motto.”

  “I like it. We don’t have enough laughter in our world, because we’re choking to death on fumes.”

  Like this incense? I didn’t say it.

  “Now,” she said, “what brings you to our community?”

  “Well, Tanya. May I call you Tanya?”

  She nodded.

  “It started as just a hike, and I ran into some folks drumming away, and then started talking to that fellow, and it sounded interesting to me. So he brought me here. I’m kind of impressed.”

  She gave me the thoughtful eye of the lab researcher observing a rat. Then she said, “Do you believe in angels, Mike?”

  Right to the heart of things. It was a quick, probing question and I knew she was going to listen carefully to my answer. Was I really who I said I was? Some random hiker? Or did I have an agenda?

  “I guess that depends on what you mean by it,” I said. “I’ve met some good people in my time.”

  “I’m talking about a race of beings we cannot see, unless they choose to be seen.”

  “Ah, incorporeal.”

  She seemed pleased. “You have an education.”

  “I read cereal boxes as a kid.”

  She laughed. It was an easy, attractive laugh. “I used to be a college professor, at NYU.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Until I discovered there is no truth there, not even a pretense of seeking the truth.”

  “I hear you,” I said. I held up my left arm for her to read.

  She did. “Truth overcomes all?”

  “Close enough,” I said. “Impressive.”

  “You impress me. Tell me, do you believe in a spirit world?”

  “I don’t think you can rule it out,” I said.

  “Exactly! The utter pretentiousness of ignoring an entire realm of reality, simply because it cannot be measured or observed. That’s what finally got to me in the academy.”

  “I guess the science people would ask how we know it’s there if we can’t see it.”

  “Can you see love, Mike? Can you photograph it? It’s there, isn’t it?”

  “Good point. Angels, too?”

  “Ah, but I have actually seen Michael. I have even seen Gabriel. And they have given me messages. My role in this life is to speak for them. I’m telling you, that is a much higher calling than trying to teach a bunch of naive freshmen to think.”

  “The hard part,” I said, “is convincing people that you actually saw what you say you saw, heard what you heard.”

  “You are exactly right, Mike. Which is why I am prepared for this to take years. This is my preparation time, like John the Baptist. Right now I am a voice crying in the wilderness.”

  “Sounds positively biblical,” I said.

  “No, the Bible is old news. Ancient. It has been used to justify humankind’s rape of Earth. The angels are not pleased by this. Not at all.”

  “Why do you call this place Peniel, then?”

  “Because this is where I wrestle with God.”

  “With God himself?”

  “Herself, Mike. Ah, here’s our tea.”

  TOTO PLACED A silver tray on the floor. It had two cups with steel tea infusers in them, and a pot in the middle. Toto said nothing and left.

  I followed Tanya’s lead, took the infuser out and lifted the cup. It was like we were toasting.

  I took a small sip. It tasted like old bog.

  “I like it,” I said.

  “It’s made from a native flower and my own selection of herbs,” she said.

  “You sell this?”

  She shook her head. “That would be prostitution.”

  She drank some more, waited for me to do the same. I faked a sip.

  “What do you do for a living, Mike?”

  “I’m sort of in the ranks of the unemployed right now,” I said.

  “What kind of work have you done in the past?”

  “Odd jobs, here and there.”

  “Somebody with your education and intelligence?”

  “Not a lot of permanent positions for philosophy majors.”

  “There might be here,” she said. “For you.”

  “Is this a job interview?”

  “Mike, there is a global movement and awakening to what’s happening to Earth. The problem in the past is that people have tried to make things happen to stop it. What we’ve failed to realize is that we are being called upon not to act, but to react.”

  I nodded as if I was interested.

  “Over a billion years ago,” she said, “angels came out of Earth and became guardians of it.”

  Instead of snorting, I forced myself to take another sip of tea.

  “You don’t believe this?” she said.

  “I don’t know anything about it,” I said.

  “Of course not. It has not been revealed to us until these latter times.”

  “Angels did the revealing?”

  “The archangel Michael,” she said. “He came to me in a vision, Mike. Right out there, about a hundred feet from where we’re sitting.”

  “What did he look like?” I asked.

  “Very big and very strong, and glowing.”

  “Did he have wings?”

  “That’s just in children’s stories,” she said.

  “Did he introduce himself?”

  “The first thing he said to me was, ‘Do not be afraid.’ And then he told me that the time was coming when those who love Earth must be gathered.”

  “Which is what this is,” I said, making a roundhouse gesture with my arm. Which suddenly felt very heavy.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Did you hear about the
explosion near the …”

  “Near the …?”

  I couldn’t remember. It was there somewhere in the thick broth that was my brain. A broth that smelled like lavender and frankincense and something else.

  “Getty ...” I said.

  She just looked at me.

  “And the … website, talks about Michael …”

  Her face started to blur. The tendrils of incense smoke, which had been blowing my way the whole time, become hands. A thumb and forefinger closed my nose. My head started its own drum circle behind my eyes.

  I think I mumbled something that sounded like pastrami.

  And then I was in dreamland.

  IT STARTED OFF as a pleasant dream. Somebody was playing acoustic guitar and there was a sunrise coming up over the mountains. A horse walked over to me and snorted, then turned into a plane. A hatch opened up and a conveyor belt was dropped and luggage started coming out. The luggage all looked exactly the same.

  Then Sean Connery slid down the belt. It was the Sean Connery of Indiana Jones. He looked at me and said, “Trouble?”

  My dream self stood mute.

  The plane had propellers. They started to go around and round. I was walking into them. I tried to stop myself but I kept moving forward, almost like I was on a belt myself. Then the propeller started on my face.

  It stung but it did not kill me.

  Again and again and again.

  Then I woke up.

  Somebody was slapping me.

  “He’s coming around,” somebody said.

  Whoever was standing over me working on my face had onion breath.

  “Hit him with the ice,” a distant voice said.

  Two men.

  My eyes were just making out Claude, the muscle from Jon-Scott Morrow’s beach house, when he dumped a bucket of ice water on me.

  That’s when I realized I was tied to a chair, clad only in my briefs.

  The shock to my system did its work and my nerves went on full alert.

  Shaking the water from my face, I tensed to find out where the major restraints were. My arms were behind me and there were several loops of rope around me. Tight. They knew their work.

  The room was cold and windowless and dark except for a single light bulb attached to a low ceiling. “How you doing there, Bambi?” Onion-breath Claude had his face right in front of mine.

  Bambi?

  “Who’s your girlfriend?” I said.