Life to Life: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (3 page)

I said, "Look at me, Bruce. Do I look like a
guy coming home from a nice visit anywhere?"

He seemed to notice my appearance for the
first time. He recoiled; gasped, "Good heavens! What has
happened?"

"Trouble—the police
kind—has happened," I told him. "Herman Milhaul tried to kill your
Annie. Don't worry, he failed, but I think you'd better get back
there right away."

"Who in the world is Herman Milhaul?" he
squeaked.

"Nobody, now, in this world," I told him.
"Go home." But he did not hear that, did not need to hear it. Bruce
was already on his way home. He leaped into his car and tore out of
there under about three G's.

I went on into the house,
stripped totally naked just inside the door, paused at the bar for
bourbon and water, and took it with me to the shower. The phone
started ringing before I got the water adjusted to the right
temperature. I have an answer for Murphy's telephone law; I keep a
phone in the bathroom.

But I wished I'd let it ring.

It was Francois Mirabel.
Yeah,
that
Francois Mirabel, producer to the stars. And he wanted me to
hop right back to town and defend Reverend Annie's life with my
very own.

Well, what the hell. Between the cops,
spirit guides, and the one and only Francois—not to mention the
pretty reverend herself—how does a tennis bum like me say no?

No matter—I had already said yes; the rest
was mere timing. Or had the timing already begun even before I'd
heard the question? Probably, yeah. I live in that kind of world,
see. The end is reached before the beginning begins and both exist
in the here and now. Time and space are mere constructs of the
human mind, relativity is an abstract, one is all and all are one,
existence itself is a single clash of the cymbal. In that world,
nothing is for sure and everything is possible.

Even a Reverend Annie is possible.

Never mind all the others. I intended to
find out for myself.

Chapter Three: In the Aura

Francois maintains a swank
palace in Beverly Hills but he is not there a lot, dividing his
time mostly between a couple of other places he owns in Europe. He
has also not bothered to cultivate spoken English beyond the
marginally intelligible level. I speak French not at all. We have a
language problem. We have known each other for several years but
very casually, which is the way I prefer it. Francis thinks the
world is his very own playpen.

It was well past midnight when I reached his
place, but it was bristling with light from every window and the
drive was filled with cars. I had to park on the street. I do not
like to leave the Maserati on any street anywhere at any time so I
went in with a small chip already in place upon the shoulder.

A party, as usual, was in
progress. I detest name-dropping so I won't do that. Just be aware
that this gathering would be enough to induce terminal orgasmic
tremors in your average autograph hound. Some fifty to sixty
people, I'd guess; the hot ones of screen and television mixed here
and there with writers and directors. This is the way Francois
conducted business, negotiated deals, packaged productions. He
threw a party, invited possible candidates, mixed and matched them
until something fell out. Although his name is emblazoned across
screens anywhere, Francois does not actually produce pictures, or
write them, or direct them. He does not read scripts—does not even
view his own movies, I am told. Likes to think of himself as a
catalyst. Actually he is a financier and, of course, he owns what
falls out.

Listening to him describe the process—in his
limited use of the language—is like hearing one of those high
school cheerleaders: "Give me an M—give me an O—give me an
N..."

Francois would say, "Give
me persons and I rearrange them to spell 'money.' Give me director.
Give me writer. Give me leading man, leading lady. Do not give me
picture.
They
will give me picture and
it
will give me money."

He was in it for the
money. An honest man. Or was he? I sometimes wondered if Francois
simply loved the party and was not afraid to invest in it. He also,
I had observed, trusted his instincts—which is another way of
saying that he played hunches.

I found him holding court
on a sofa in the very eye of the party. Reverend Annie was seated
beside him. She wore a stunning toga-style white gown, one shoulder
bared, the dark hair swept over that shoulder in a most appealing
way. Francois sprang to his feet at my approach and gave me a warm
embrace, slapping my back and beaming and saying, "Good boy," over
and over. Annie was watching my discomfort with a veiled gaze
while Francois announced my heroism to the party at large, even led
them in a round of applause. Then he excused us and dragged me off
to the library for a private conference.

This guy is about sixty I think—who would
know? Still dynamic and handsome—very youthful, actually—dancing
eyes and bubbling enthusiasm, but not overdone. I mean, you know,
not tiresome. He could get mean as hell, too. He could also switch
from a twinkle in the eye to a shrewd business gleam in a single
blink so you never knew precisely where you stood from moment to
moment.

He threw one of those at
me the moment we were alone, nailing me with a no-nonsense glare as
he inquired, "What is happen?"

I shrugged and reminded him, "You just told
the folks what is happen, Francois."

"I told what?"

"Never mind," I said. "You already have it.
It happened like you said. That's all I know about it."

"Speak straight to me, Ashton."

I lit a cigarette, went to the desk and sat
on it, told him while gazing at the floor, "Straight as I can find
it, pal. I'd heard of Annie. Who hasn't in this town by now? Never
met her, though. Went to check her out tonight. Purely an impulse.
I was in the neighborhood. The time was right. I had nothing better
to do. So I checked her out. As I was leaving, this guy made a
lunge at her. I intervened. He died. She didn't. Some hero. A
twenty-year-old disturbed human being died tonight, Francois."

I wasn't sure how much of that he was
getting but he commented at that point, "Better he than she."

I shrugged and said, "Maybe. Point is, I
don't feel like a hero. So let's leave off with the applause,
eh?"

"They love her!" he cried,
coming at me with one hand held high overhead and the other leading
the way toward me, almost in a fencing posture. "All love her! Soon
the whole world will love her! And I, Ashton, have a piece of
that!"

I said, quietly, "Congratulations."

"Sure, congratulations!" He sat down beside
me atop the desk and swung his feet in idle circles.

I asked, "Going to make her a movie
star?"

"Nah. Small stuff. Have you regarded the
religion business lately, Ashton?"

I said, "That what it is?"

"What else? It is commerce. Commerce is
money. Ipso-ipso, religion is money."

I said, "That's pretty cynical, isn't
it?"

"Ask the Pope. Ask the Vatican Bank."

"Come on."

He grinned. "Ask your television
evangelists."

"That what you have in mind for her?'

"It is her mind, Ashton," he said with a
hurt tone. "You know I do not create. I underwrite."

I suggested, "You'd better look into U.S.
law and the internal revenue code before you underwrite this one,
pal. Could get your tit in a real wringer on something like
this."

"What does this mean? Tits do not ring."

I said, "Yours will if you start playing
producer to the reverends. Anyway..."

''Anyway," he said after a moment, "you must
continue in this."

"This what?"

"These attempts on her life. You must
prevent."

I said, "Francois,
I—"

He headed me off with: "Name your
price."

I said, "That is not the issue. I had
already decided, even before you called, that I—"

"It is by her request, Ashton."

"What do you mean?"

"She has request your protection."

“
Annie
asked...?”

"Yes."

I said, "Well, I'd already decided...okay.
You're going to underwrite the thing?"

"But of course. She is hot property. Do not
allow her to grow cold."

"Level with me, Francois," I requested.
"Annie is more than another hot property to you. Right?"

He twinkled at me. "Right. So take very good
care in my behalf."

I said okay and we
returned to the party.

Annie was entertaining a
small group gathered at the sofa. As we walked up she was telling
an aging female star who shall remain nameless: "Yes, this is very
positive, you will be working again before the end of this year. I
don't get his name but a really big writer is at this moment doing
the final polish on a beautiful screenplay designed specifically
with you in mind as the female lead. I should think that you will
be seeing this script within just a few days. Go with it. It's
right for you."

The actress was beaming at this news. She
asked, "Can I hold you to that?"

"Positively," Annie replied. "Write it down
if you'd like and date it. I'll sign it."

There was an impressed murmur from the
group. The actress wanted more detail. "What sort of role? Do you
see...?"

Which is the point at which good old Ashton
blundered in. It was pure faux pas and I don't know to this day why
I did it. I am really not a show-off and I am usually respectful of
other people's turf. But I was standing in Annie's limelight
without even realizing it, and my jaw was moving without the
thinking mind telling it to do so. It was almost like absentminded,
like replying to a question while your head is buried in a
book.

"It's a story about a nun who becomes a
prostitute in Paris during the Nazi occupation to save the fleeing
Jews."

Yep. Ashton said that. Annie's eyes were
giving me a measuring look.

I recovered, I think, to
the satisfaction of everyone except Annie. "Kidding," I said with a
chuckle. "Sorry, folks. I have to take the reverend away from you."
I took her hand and pulled her out of there. Francois followed us.
As soon as we were clear I told Annie, "Sorry 'bout that. Just sort
of slipped out. Like gas. Please accept my apology. More
importantly, I want you to know that I want to work this problem
with you and I think we need to start a game plan."

The lady was showing me a
very haughty look. The gaze swept to Francois then back to me as
she said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Ford. I do not see anything positive
here."

"Not blood on my face again, surely," I
said, still trying to keep it light.

"I see death in your aura."

I said, "Then maybe we better work up a game
plan for me.

“
What is—?” Francois
ventured only to be shut down by the frigid reverend.

"That would be quite impossible, I'm
afraid," she said icily. "Good night, Mr. Ford."

I looked at Francois and
Francois looked at me.

I said to Annie, "Good night to you too,"
and went the hell away from there.

Death in my aura, huh?

Shit. There is death in every aura.

And the good Reverend Annie was a lady with
a lot to hide.

Chapter Four: Waiting in the Stream

Let's get it into the record, right up front
here, that I am not antireligion. Many of mankind's noblest moments
have come in the religious quest—our most exalted art, music,
literature, even architecture—the whole search for identity as a
living species has been largely propelled not by the practical
requirements for survival but by an aesthetic appreciation of the
divine possibilities within us.

It would almost seem that the innate human
penchant for religiosity represents the spiritual equivalent of
physical evolution. How else could we dare reach for the stars—and
why otherwise develop the technologies that could put us there?

So I do not knock religion
per se. My respect for the edifice does not, however, prevent me
from noticing the chipped bricks, broken windows, or sagging
foundations that appear from time to time. Churches contain toilets
as well as pews, so not everything going down within the edifice
is necessarily sacred—unless there is some basis for the
expression
holy shit.

Devoutly religious people sometimes do
irreligious things. The same is true of entire religious bodies,
unless you'd rather just forget about the horrors of the
Inquisition, the burning of "witches" in New England, the
acceptance of human slavery in young America, etc. ad nauseam. None
of that, however, invalidates for me the religious instinct.

Where we go wrong, I think—so many of us,
and so often—is in our resistance to fair and impartial inquiry.
Either we defend the faith so stoutly that we refuse (or are
afraid) to look at the broken windows, or else we are so cynical
that we will see nothing else.

Francois Mirabel's remarks
about the religion industry were rather typical of that latter
point of view. Yet the religionists themselves promote that sort
of cynicism through their dogged insistence upon the infallibility
of their own limited view.

There are scoundrels in religion. Why not
admit that, expose them when we discover them, and go on with the
quest?

There are errors in
religion. Why not admit it, correct them when we find them, and go
on with the quest?