Eli (11 page)

Conrad pulled back onto the narrow road and refocused his attention to Eli’s current problem. If you’re trying to be taken seriously as a religious figure, you don’t go into the Hollywood Hills and party with Leon Brewster; it was as simple as that. Leon Brewster was the leading porn producer on the West Coast. It was an absurd move. What could Eli possibly be thinking?

A half hour ago, Conrad had swung by the Motel 6 on La Brea where Suzanne and the others were staying. He’d said it was just to say hi. Granted it had been his fourth visit since they’d come into town last week, but she didn’t seem to mind.

Nor did he. Maybe it was those fleeting memories of the accident, of realizing how close he’d come to death. He wasn’t sure, but it felt good to catch up on old times, and to reconnect with the one person in his life who’d ever mattered. Of course there was another truth, though he was careful to hide it from her, and was doing his best to hide it from himself. He was falling for her. Again. Not that he’d ever stopped. She’d always been there, in the back of his mind, even during the other marriages. And, though he constantly reminded him-hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 75

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self that he had no right to be having such thoughts, the feelings were returning, growing stronger every day.

Still, that would be his secret. Always. Because, despite the swelling he felt inside his chest whenever they were together, the warmth that filled his body, and the way his mind continually drifted to her whenever they were apart, he would not tell her. He had destroyed her life once. He cared too deeply for the lady to do it again.

He’d only seen Eli one time during his visits. They’d spoken briefly, but it was nothing of substance, just chitchat, good-natured ribbing over Eli’s talent for saying such wrong things at such wrong times. The subject of Jesus Christ had not returned.

But, earlier that week, Conrad had swung by Santa Monica. It was only a thirty-minute drive from the office, and he had a little time to kill. Of course, just as he had expected; there were no hippies, the mall had returned to its rightful place, and there was no run-down motel, at least not where he remembered it. And he did remember it. Vividly. So vividly that earlier he’d even called up Dr. Endo in Camarillo. He mentioned nothing of his experience, he had no way to prove it was real, and no need to foster rumors that he was an over-impressionable fruitcake.
“If there are eyewitnesses to such
universes they would be locked up in insane asylums . . .”

Still, he did ask one question.

“If a person were to actually slip into another reality, and if the conditions that allowed him to do that remained, would it be possible for him to do it again, maybe at a different time?”

The doctor’s answer was clear and unmistakable. “Yes.

Remember, I said that time in another universe may not travel at our velocity or be bound by our restrictions?”

Conrad had remembered it. And as best he figured, that’s what had happened. If—
if
—the Santa Monica experience had been real, then somehow he had entered this world at an earlier time, then managed to skip ahead and re-enter it thirty hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 76

76 years later. It was an absurd theory, impossible to prove, but in those uncertain, middle-of-the-night moments, it gave him something to hang on to.

The hill grew steeper, the switchbacks sharper and more treacherous as Conrad dropped the Jaguar into second.

Already he could see cars parked off to the side. Mercedes, Beamers, off-road utility vehicles . . . the preferred mode of transportation by the rich and chic. And the rich and chic were the only guests Leon Brewster ever invited. There was good money in his line of work, and he attracted only the best, or the worst, depending upon your point of view. Actually, the porn itself didn’t bother Conrad much—after all, he was in L.A., the land of tolerant thinking. It was the Internet stuff with the kiddies that made him uneasy. That’s why he was heading up to the mansion. That’s why, after Suzanne had mentioned Leon’s name, Conrad had hopped into the car and was racing to Eli’s rescue.

He took another hairpin curve, and the mansion appeared to the right. It was cut out of the hillside, its marble facade glowing in the milky moonlight. Just ahead, a pair of car jock-eys waited to park his car. They were dressed in black-and-white French maid costumes, complete with fishnet stockings and garter belts. The fact that they were young men was a clear indication of what awaited Conrad inside.

What could Eli possibly be thinking?

Conrad stopped his car, climbed out, and gave his key to one of the attendants. The night air felt warm and pleasant.

And the sweet smell of jasmine lay heavy along the hillside.

He turned toward the mansion. It loomed fifty yards ahead.

With a sigh, he started up the brick driveway toward the open, wrought-iron gate. But before he’d even entered, he heard a voice call from the side, “Conrad! Hey, Connie!”

He peered to the left, toward a large group of oleander bushes, eight to ten feet high, covered with white and pink flowers. “Who’s there?”

Two forms cautiously stepped from the shadows.

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“Jake?” Conrad asked. It was the burly softball player Eli had helped to hit the home run. Beside him was the racist biker, the one with the shaved head and tattoos. “Will?” The men slunk out into the moonlight. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Waiting for Eli,” Jake said, throwing a glance up to the house.

“They wouldn’t let you in?” Conrad asked.

“You crazy?” Will answered. “There ain’t nothin’ up there but Jews and blacks and perverts. No way we’re going up there.”

“But Eli’s there,” Conrad said.

Will said nothing and looked down. Jake nodded sullenly.

Conrad glanced back up at the house. It was obvious these two country bumpkins had more sense than their leader. He turned back to them. “I’m going up to get him now. Just stay put; we’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

Relief flooded their faces, and Conrad had to smile as he turned and started up the driveway. Anywhere else, somebody like Will would have chewed up and spit out Leon Brewster in a second—a black porno king infesting the world, particularly God’s “chosen race,” with his poison. But put some money around him, a fancy mansion, fancy cars . . . and suddenly Will is cowering in the bushes. Funny how money can turn the tables.

The house up ahead was Greco-Roman and anything but understated. Marble pillars, marble steps, and of course marble statues. Lots and lots of statues, each separately lit and each anatomically correct. A dozen in the yard, at least that many surrounding the entrance. Once he reached the porch he was greeted by two slave girls, blond twins, dressed in leather and chains. Their perfume rivaled the jasmine as they pushed open the large brass doors. When he entered, the one to his right was careful to brush against him, just in case he was interested.

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Inside, it was no better. An explosion of bad taste and vul-garity. Turquoise soap bubbles drifted down from bubble machines up in the balcony. Alternating floodlights of blue, yellow, and red lit men of every persuasion, scantily dressed and impossibly endowed women, transvestites, adults with children’s bodies, children with adult’s bodies. Many were drunk or loaded or both, and several sported more body-piercing rivets than a Navy battleship.

Conrad worked his way through the crowd, waving aside the drinks and a silver tray of cocaine that floated past. He entered a large archway and stepped down into the main room. It was encircled by marble pillars and more statues. A large fountain set directly in the middle and bubbled a pink liquid, most likely champagne. And there, sitting on the edge of the fountain, the focus of the room’s attention, was Eli. He wore the same jeans, T-shirt, and sports coat that he’d worn on Charlene’s show. At least fifty guests surrounded him. Several stood; others were stretched out on the floor. All appeared to be listening, enraptured by the story he was telling.

Conrad moved closer to hear. Eli spotted him and gave a slight nod. He was speaking with the same enthusiasm and joy he’d had when talking to the group at the softball field.

“. . . but the younger son, he wanted to get out there and live. He wanted to leave the farm and taste everything the world had to offer. Everything and then some.”

“You go, boy,” an anorexic model shouted in approval.

Others chuckled.

Eli continued. “So he asked his father for his half of the inheritance now. And his father said—”

“No way, child,” a platinum blond transvestite shouted.

“You gotta stay on this farm, shoveling horse pucky, till you croak.”

More chuckles.

Eli grinned and shook his head. “No, not with this father.

Even though he knew what was on his son’s mind, he hon-hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 79

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ored and respected him enough to let him go. He gave him the entire portion of inheritance and bid him farewell.”

“Why, that’s just plain ignorant,” scoffed a handsome black man in his thirties. Conrad recognized him immediately: Leon Brewster, host of the party.

Eli shot him a smile. “No, not for this father. You see, he loved him, Leon. He loved him so much that he was willing to let him go.”

Even though Leon looked away, shaking his head in dis-approval, it was obvious Eli had hit some sort of nerve. The two had connected about something.

“What about the kid?” a buff male guest asked.

Eli continued. “The son had the time of his life. I mean, with his daddy’s money he tried everything, every drug, every club, every party, fast cars, fast women. Until one day it was all gone. The poor kid had run out of cash and he’d completely maxed out his credit cards. Eventually he was evicted and thrown onto the streets.”

“What about his friends?” a pretty teenager asked.

“Without the money, honey, he ain’t got friends,” the platinum blond said.

Others agreed knowingly.

“So what could he do?” Eli asked.

“There’s always Jack in the Box,” someone quipped.

“No way,” a woman in her late thirties answered. She had the worn and haggard look of someone living too long on the edge. “If he’s been doin’ drugs and the party scene, he’s got himself a habit to feed.” She turned to Eli. “Am I right?”

Eli slowly nodded, holding her gaze just a fraction longer than necessary. She gave a nervous smile, then glanced away.

“Maybe he gets discovered by ol’ Leon here,” another suggested.

“No way,” Leon scoffed, “I only hang out with the beautiful people.” A few guests applauded. He turned to the group and played for more. “Am I right?” More applause and some cheers. “Well, am I right?”

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The group clapped and voiced their approval.

“So what happened?” the teen girl called over the applause. “What happened to the boy?”

The crowd settled and turned their attention back to Eli.

“I’m afraid you’re right,” he said. “The kid had no friends, he had no trade, and he had himself a major habit to support.

One thing led to another, and, well, eventually he had to start working the streets, turning tricks on the Boulevard.”

“You gotta start somewhere,” Leon quipped. A few chuckled, but the focus remained on Eli.

“So what happened?” the platinum blond called out. “Did he ever break away and get out?”

Eli answered. “He worked the streets night after night.

Month after month. Eventually he became so skinny and rid-dled with disease that nobody would touch him. And then, one day, standing in line at the free clinic, he suddenly came to his senses.
Why am I here?
he thought.
Why don’t I just go
home and throw myself at my father’s feet?”

“’Cause he’ll kick your sweet butt back onto the streets and call the cops after you,” Leon answered. There was no humor in his voice this time.

Eli nodded. “That’s what he figured. So he thought maybe, just maybe he could go back and become one of his father’s field hands. He wouldn’t even stay in the house; he’d just live like the other migrant workers. He’d do anything, just as long as he could come back.”

“Fat chance, Jack,” someone muttered.

The blond agreed. “As far as my old man’s concerned, I’m dead.”

“And buried,” Leon added, “dead and buried.”

Others nodded.

Eli turned to Leon and shook his head. “No . . . this father was different. Every day the boy was gone, this father had hoped for a phone call; every day when he went to the mail-box, he prayed for a letter.”

“That’s some father,” the teen girl said.

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“Yes, he is,” Eli agreed. “And, though it took a while to save the money, the young man eventually got a bus ticket and headed back home.”

“And you’re telling me the old man took him back?” Leon asked skeptically. “Just like that?”

Eli nodded. “He got the call from the Greyhound station and raced into town to pick him up. And right there, in the middle of the terminal in front of everyone, he threw his arms around his child, embracing him, kissing him, and weeping over him. And the boy cried, ‘Dad, I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry.’” There was no missing the emotion growing in Eli’s voice. “‘If you’ll just have me back, if you’ll just let me be a field worker for you, I’ll do anything, but please,
please
take me back.’”

Except for the fountain, the room had grown silent. Conrad glanced around the group. Everyone was lost in the story.

Some eyes were even shining with moisture.

Once again Eli’s gaze landed on Leon. Only this time it did not leave. “But instead of punishing him or making him pay, the father took him back into his home. He gave him everything he’d originally had and more.” Eli slowly rose from the edge of the fountain. “He even called up his family, his friends, his neighbors, and he threw a tremendous party, all in honor of the boy.”

“Why?” Leon’s voice was softer, thicker.