Night Prayers (17 page)

Naturally.

"Well," she said, scooting out of the booth and inching toward the stage. Her stomach began to rumble again. "It was really nice meeting you… Preacher-boy, but I've got to —"

He stood up right along with her. "Yeah, the
dinner
. Well, how about if I stick around and walk you home when you're finished."

Home.

Home was a tiny one-bedroom condo in Sylmar she bought back in '92 when she still thought being a single, independent woman meant something. It meant shit somewhere in a galaxy far, far away.

"No. Thanks, anyway," Allison said, her inching away becoming full steps. "I don't know how long this thing will last and I… wouldn't want to keep you from anything."

"No, it's okay. Really." He followed her like the Blind Date From Hell, refusing to take the sugar-coated "leave me alone, you creep" hint. "One of the good things about working nights is I can sleep till noon if I want."

Allison's retreat picked up a little more speed. As did his pitiful advances.

"But what about your
…flock
? Won't they miss you?"

He shrugged and stuck his hands into the back pocket of his jeans — the movement was just enough to showcase the bulge pressing up against the stain at his crotch. Both the stain and bulge were bigger than Allison had first guessed.

He looked even bigger than Seth.

Her stomach grumbled angrily.
Feed me! Now
!

"Look, Mica, I'd love to stand here and talk but I
really
have to go. Okay? And don't wait. Please."

Allison could feel Luci's eyes crawling over her as she got closer to the stage. The preacher was still following.
Shit… maybe I should just sprout fangs
…

Then he'll never leave, Alley-cat. Chill out and use some of your NATURAL talents. Things aren't all that different.

You're telling me.

"Look," Allison whispered, leaning forward until her nose started twitching, "I'm just on probation here, okay? I don't want to get into any trouble… you know."

He looked over her shoulders at the group and nodded. His eyes were slate grey.

"Think I might be able to see you again?" he asked.

Lifting her chin, she reached out and flicked a straggly curl off the cross-shaped scar on his forehead. The tips of her fingers suddenly felt like she'd stuck them into a vat of hot bleach.

"Yeah, you can see me again," she said, jerking her thumb at the stage, using the gesture to curl her throbbing fingers into the coolness of her palm. "I'll be dancing right up there tomorrow night."

"Oh… oh, yeah. Yeah, I'll be here, but what I meant —"

"Great! I'll see you tomorrow night then." Tossing her head, Allison spun on the stiletto heels and began the slow, hip-grinding walk to the stage. "Be sure to look for me… I'll be the orange tabby cat."

She didn't have to turn around — she could feel the shock radiating off him like light from an Atomic blast.

Nope, some things didn't
have
to change.

Mica frowned and flicked his jacket at a scrawny weed growing in a crack of the sidewalk. Seemed like nothing grew in the smog-filled L.A. basin but weeds and palm trees… and he was getting sick of both.

When the jacket missed its mark, Mica changed directions and stomped the dandelion into mush. It didn't make him feel better.

Allison.

The woman who wasn't Piper.

The woman who somehow managed to reach right down into his brain and snatch out the sinful image he'd conjured of her.

Allison.

Mica's frown worked the scar deeper against his skull and made it itch.

"Yeah, I know You're there, Lord," he muttered. "I know."

But somehow that didn't help as much as it normally did.

Shaking his head, Mica scraped the weed mush off his shoe and tossed the jacket over one shoulder. It was still too sultry a night to put it on and, of course, there were
other
things to consider. He once made the mistake of wearing the pink satin monstrosity home and had every Butt-Boy on Selma Avenue.

"… prancing after me like I was the fucking Queen of Sheba!"

Damn.

Mica glanced skyward and grinned sheepishly.

"Sorry, Lord. I guess I'm too tired to hold my tongue."

"I'll hold your tongue for you, mister," a soft voice said from the shadows. "For twenty-five I'll hold anything you
want
."

Mica kept walking — eyes straight ahead. He didn't want to see how young the boy was… didn't want to see the evil that already lay like a mantle over the small body. If he did, he might feel compelled to take matters into his own fists.

"Mister?"

"For the Love of God, kid," Mica said, quickening his pace, "isn't it past your bedtime?"

"If you got a bed it is." The child's voice had took on an excited 'Christmas morning' edge. "I'm real good in bed."

Dear Lord…

Mica stopped and took a deep breath of exhaust fumes. He could feel the child stepping around him as dawn began lightening the sky over Cahuenga Blvd. The boy didn't look any older than twelve. Smiling, he reached up and laid a hand against Mica's arm.

His skin felt so hot it almost burned.

"I'm
real good
," he whispered.

"Are you? Are you
real
Good? Because only the
good
go to Heaven. Are you
that
good, kid? Are you
really
?"

The jacket lay crumpled at his feet as Mica grabbed the boy's tee-shirt and lifted him to his tip-toes. The yellow lights made the terror on the boy's face almost comical. Almost laughable if it hadn't been so damned pitiful.

"Because if you are I could send you to the Lord right now. It would be so easy… you being so good and all… I snap your scrawny, ass-fucking little neck and
wham
—" Mica shook the kid and heard his teeth click together. "—you're an Angel If you're as good as you say you are.

"But if you lied to me and meant it some
other
way, you're going to be bent over spreading it for demons that have harpoons for dicks. You understand?"

Tear-spit splattered across Mica's knuckles when he straightened his arms (he'd have to remember to wash with cleanser… God only knew what diseases the kid already had). Mica held him there while he whimpered and tried to get away.

"No, you don't understand. You
can't
get away until you turn your back to this sin —"
Bad choice of words, Lord. Sorry
. "— until you
renounce
the sin you've chosen and accept the Lord back into your heart. Do you?"

Mica snapped him like a dishrag — just to remind him of the Power behind the Spirit.

"Do you accept the Lord?"

"Y-y-y-y—"

"Do you renounce your sin?"

"Uh-uh-uh-h-h-h—"

"Do you ask the Lord to Forgive you?"

"YES!"

Mica pulled the sobbing child to his chest and hugged him.

"Praise the Lord," he shouted at a blinking airliner as it passed overhead. "Another lost sheep has found its way back to the flock. Now, get the hell home, kid… and if I ever see you doing this again I'll tear you a
new
asshole. God hates backsliders almost as much as I do."

The kid took off at a dead run, heading back up Selma to Highland. Bending to retrieve the jacket, Mica hoped he wouldn't run into the pervert in the dress… a newly saved soul was so fragile.

So easily broken.

Allison.

Mica fumbled the jacket back to the sidewalk and almost followed it down. What the hell did
she
have to do with anything?

Grabbing the jacket, Mica wadded it into a ball and pressed it against his belly as he broke into a slow jog. Dawn was soaking the darkness out of the sky and for some reason that bothered him… made him think about the night and hair the color of autumn leaves.

"Hey, man," someone wearing a black plastic garbage bag shouted as Mica rounded the corner to Cherokee, "slow down 'fore you bust the sound barrier."

But he
didn't
stop running until he collapsed against the side of the Crazy Croatian's Coffee Shop
— established 1969, bankrupted 1970.

"But what a year it was," Mica panted, repeating the litany he'd heard at least once a day, every day, for the last eight years since Mrs. B had found him preaching at the Farmer's Market and brought him home.

Home.

Taking a deep breath, Mica scooted his back along the loose boards and listened to the age-blistered paint crinkle under him. The city had been threatening Mrs. B for years to get the place (1) brought up to code or (2) torn down. Neither of which she would do.

Her husband —
may he rest in peace —
had enclosed the front porch of their 1930s bungalow and turned it into the thriving business with his own hands and she would be in her grave before she let the city change so much as one broken light fixture!

Mica suspected that it wasn't so much her husband's memory that made her so adamant about keeping the eyesore as it was to spy on the group of hookers who plied their trade directly across the street from it. Sometimes she'd even cook up a batch of popcorn and invite Mica to join her.

Tossing the wrinkled jacket over his shoulder, Mica stood up and walked to the mailbox marked 1611 1/2 — and smiled at the collection of
Occupant
mail he'd received that day. His parents had long ago given up trying to persuade him to come back to Tulsa, and Piper…

Piper wouldn't have known where to even start looking for him.

Mica pulled the envelopes out of the box and tapped them against his chin. Smiling. Mrs. B hated to think that he was so alone in the world that he only got junk mail, and try as he would, Mica still hadn't convinced her that he
wasn't
alone: He had the Lord. And if
that
still wasn't enough, he had his Calling, his Ministry, his job, his…

Allison.

"NO!"

A moment later Mica heard the creak of ancient bedsprings through the security-barred window behind him .
Dammit
.

"Mica?" a low voice asked. "Is that you, dear?"

Mica looked down the rutted drive to the tear-drop shape emerging from the shadows. The little trailer was the "1/2" of 1611…
home sweet home
with shower privileges every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday in the "big" house.

And,
Lord
, how he wished it was Monday, Wednesday or Saturday. His skin felt like it was covered with grease and his crotch kept sticking to his jockey shorts.

Allison.

"No… I mean,
yes
! Yes, it's me. Sorry if I woke you, Mrs. B. I — I just stumbled. A little."

The bed creaked again. He could hear the slow, uneven shuffle of her bare feet against the worn carpeting as the old woman walked to the window. When the frail, hunched figure appeared at the window, Mica accepted the consequences of awakening his landlady/surrogate mother and wrapped his fingers around one of the wrought iron bars.

It jiggled in his fingers. Just because an old lady living alone has to put up iron bars like a prison doesn't mean she has to bolt them down and die in a fire like you read about in the papers
— she said. Often. Every time Mica offered to fix them.