The Famous and the Dead (14 page)

R
ov
anna holed up in the mountains where he didn't think the cops would look for him, a little village not far from San Diego called Wynola. Rovanna, meet Wynola, he thought. He got a weekly rate on a motel cabin because it was off-season and cold. The owner was in no way curious about him and she accepted his cash and his story of stolen ID. He signed in as Donnie Archibald. That first night he saw the eleven o'clock news story with the Reverend Steve Bagley. Rovanna saw now that it was careless to use his real name inside the church.

His cabin was small and mostly clean. He took in his suitcase, prepacked before the Neighborhood Congregational visit just in case of trouble. He waited until nightfall to bring in the radios, six of them, various shapes and sizes—two powered by nine-volt batteries, three by AC, and the other a hand-crank unit meant for emergencies. All of which he found amusing because they didn't need external power to be heard.

Now he sat in the darkness with the radios deployed around him and the Love 32 loaded with a full magazine and hidden under a bed pillow. His motel was built up close to the busy road, and there must be some kind of biker rally, he thought, because the Harleys growled and grumbled and roared at all hours, singles and pairs and big convoys of them twenty and thirty at a time. So the voices coming from the radios picked their moments to be heard. They were all soft, reasoning voices, two men and four women today, the opposite of yesterday. Though he only understood the English, the radios spoke several other languages that Rovanna recognized, and others not necessarily of this planet.

Later he walked to the pizza place and sat in the back, spiking his soft drink with vodka from a water bottle he carried in a cloth market bag along with the Love 32. The pizza was excellent. A woman dining alone gave him a hard look as she walked out. She was older than Rovanna but not old, and she wore a heavy black knee-length sweater and black gloves and leggings. Her hair was auburn, touched with gray. Avoiding her eyes, he noted her boots, old-fashioned lace-ups with low heels, something he imagined Belle Starr might wear. The leather looked ancient and worn of color, and could have been suede or finished, he couldn't tell, though the modern, lug-pattern soles looked new and squeaked on the floor as she went by.

He watched the TV for a while, then went outside into the surprising cold. As always he wore cargo shorts and slip-on sneakers but he did have his hoodie. He walked down the curving mountain highway, past his motel and a saloon and a beauty salon and a restaurant. The trees were high, jailing the quarter moon, and invisible patches of ice waited along the roadside. A pack of motorcycles snarled by. Rovanna followed a dirt road down into a swale surrounded by trees but open in the middle. He stood still for a while in the close darkness and listened. No voices out here. Not one. What a strange thing. He picked his way through the rocks and skidded where the road was steep and found himself locked in by the trees again, trees so high when he looked up he couldn't see the tops against the black sky. He heard the distant gurgle of running water. Down the slope he stepped and slid as the rocks clattered beneath his feet and the cloth shopping bag knocked against his leg.

Suddenly he found himself standing directly in a stream. The water was vividly cold and his sneakers were instantly soaked through. The water rippled over the stones, sending up bright sounds—chirps and bell-like ringing, and the clear tinkle of glass. He had avoided bodies of water his entire life because he couldn't swim but now, hearing the water music, he felt no fear. He heard something behind him but when he turned he saw nothing. He put one foot in front of the other and walked into the current. The stones were smooth and extremely slippery. After a few yards he couldn't feel his toes. Then his feet. He stopped again to experience the voicelessness around him. The stream warbled and the highway was just a faraway hiss. He thought of the Identical Men and what had happened when they attacked him in the church and he felt that he had done the right thing. Stren's voice joined the stream and highway, a three-part harmony:
There is nothing wrong with you, Lonnie. Sometimes friends are all we have. And voices speak to all of us at different times. Listen to them and do what you think is right . . . use this gift to protect yourself and those around you and to advance the ideals you believe in.

He waded farther upstream. His ankles were aching but not unpleasantly, because Rovanna could separate himself from himself at times, just observe. He heard rocks clatter behind him but when he turned, again there was nothing. Then another a voice broke through but it wasn't a voice he was expecting. He could see the owl hunched black in the sere branches of a cottonwood, and he could see the flat metallic eyes blink when it adjusted its head to better behold him. “Owl. Don't say anything more. Too much talk on earth. Plainly.” Rovanna sloshed along until he was almost under the owl, then he stopped and looked up. The animal watched him for a long while. Then without warning its wings spread and it rose from the branch as if pulled by strings and disappeared into the blackness. Rovanna saw the feather spiraling down toward him and he caught it and put it in his bag.

Back at the roadside a car was waiting. It was a newer economy car like Rovanna's, but red. The passenger door stood open and inside Rovanna saw the woman from the pizza place. Her sweater was buttoned up tight, the cowl almost covering her ears. Her auburn hair had a coppery sheen in the weak interior light. “I'm Joan,” she said, her breath fogging. “Get in.”

Rovanna sat close because the car was small. The defroster was set to roar. Before shutting his door he looked at her face, which was grave and prettier than he had first thought. She did not smile. He glanced at her aged boots encrusted with brown dirt, one on the brake and one on the clutch. The car smelled faintly of cherries. He set his market bag on the floorboard and fastened his restraints.

The little car revved high and jumped onto the asphalt and sped up the mountain toward Julian. “Lonnie, you have no chance if you try to do this alone.”

“Do what alone?”

“Survive. In the glove box there's a book, and your meds from the El Cajon house. Take them out. Put the pills in your pocket and the book on your lap.”

Joan turned on the interior light, and Rovanna found the small leather-bound Bible and his Tramadol and Zoloft and did as she said. He saw the cherry-shaped cardboard air freshener on top of some maps. He looked at the backseats and saw the neatly rolled sleeping bag resting on a bed pillow, a laptop computer, two milk crates overflowing with electronic pads and pods and gadgets and cords and chargers.

She turned off the light. “First, you must take your medications. They work for you. Over time you can teach yourself to live without them. But for now you must take them or your mind will betray you into foolish actions.”

“I left them behind in El Cajon on purpose.”

“That was bad decision-making, Lonnie. Second, do not talk to Stren again. If he shows up, hit him with that Bible. Literally pound him with it. It will repel and sicken him. The Torah and Koran can be used also. Electronic editions are not effective. But, the most important thing you can do is to not stalk Representative Freeman at the Alternative Book Fair in San Diego.”

At the word
Freeman
, Rovanna flinched inwardly. “How do you know about—”

“I don't have the time to explain myself to you in a way that you're ready to understand. But I know you. Believe me, I know you. It really
was
nice back there on the little stream, wasn't it? When you stood in that cold water and listened and there were no voices. For a short time, at least.”

“I haven't experienced that in years—no voices for minutes on end.”

Joan wound out the little four-banger on an uphill run. Rovanna watched the pines sweep past. She came up fast on a couple of belching Harleys, downshifted, and gunned the little car into the oncoming lane, passing them on a blind rise, then veering back into place ahead of them.

“I got a blue Focus,” he said.

“These new economy cars are really something,” said Joan. “The mileage and power and comfort. I put between eighty and one hundred twenty thousand miles a year on cars. This is like my third or fourth one.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“Sales. Look, Rovanna, I can't take that gun away from you. You know, the machine pistol in the shopping bag at your feet right now. I'm not authorized to take it. But I can tell you this: You are a troubled man now being manipulated by a devil, and the final cost to you will not be the pain you inflict, but the pain that you will receive. It will be utterly unbearable and you will not survive it. Take your meds, read that Bible, and keep it with you always. Most importantly, stay away from Scott Freeman.”

Again Rovanna flinched. It was a physical reaction to the word and the man it identified.

“Do not attend the book fair,” Joan continued. “I implore you to leave that gun with me tonight. Just leave it where it is when you exit my car. If you are not strong enough to do that, then
do not attend the book fair for any reason.
”

“I'm not going to let some stranger take away my last gun.”

“I didn't think so.”

With this Joan braked and downshifted, then threw the little coupe into a tire-screeching U-turn that ran them onto the dirt shoulder, then back to the pavement. When they passed the bikers coming up the mountain, Joan honked her horn on the way by. She looked into the rearview and smiled as if she'd really shown them.

She pulled into the motel lot and drove to his cabin. Rovanna looked out where the headlights hit his front door. “Would you like to come in?”

“No, thank you.”

“I want to thank you for helping me.”

“I don't feel like I've done enough.”

“I never feel like I've done enough.”

“Bible. Meds. No Stren. No book fair. Pray, Lonnie, pray with all your heart. Start simple, with these seven words:
I thank and praise God. Help us.
That's all you need to say.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Open your door.”

Rovanna unslung his harness and opened his door, then turned to kiss her only to find the sole of her lace-up boot planted in the middle of his chest. She pushed him out of the car so hard he flew halfway to the cabin before hitting the ground butt-first. He felt the strength of five men in her. He crabbed away, momentarily belly up and on all fours, then struggled upright, pissed off. He felt his anger and shame flare and his face flush. He marched forward and braced himself with one hand on the door frame in case she tried anything else and, without taking his eyes off her, he snatched his shopping bag from the floor mat.

“God will bless you if you let him, Lonnie Rovanna. He has spoken to you through me.”

He slammed the car door and didn't look back. But he did peek out the cabin door half an hour later, just to see if there were tire tracks in the packed dirt where Joan had let him off. Hard to say. So he stepped onto the landing and looked down in the dim porch light and saw what could very well be the neat narrow tracks of an economy car. And he saw a two-orbed impression right where he remembered landing, hard, at least ten feet away from the car tracks. He thought of her astonishing strength and the smell of cherries. An incredible woman. She had known exactly what he was thinking while he stood in the freezing little creek. Still, he knew that he was not sane and that sometimes he saw things that weren't really there. Then, almost embarrassedly, he turned square to the porch light and looked down at his sweatshirt. There it was, plain to see, the proof he wanted—the dirty outline of her boot on his chest.

T
he following night, in the stately, chandeliered lobby of the Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles, Mike greeted Bradley with a strong hug and a grand smile. His tuxedo was notch-lapelled and expertly fitted and somehow gave him added height. With Mike was his lovely associate Owens, inches taller than he was, in a sleek pewter-colored dress that matched her eyes. Pearls around her neck. Bradley hadn't seen her since she came to visit Erin, shortly after helping her survive the ordeal in Yucatán four months ago. He took her hands and kissed her cheek and glanced at the scars on her wrists and furtively inhaled the scent of her though he tried not to.

“I like your new dental work,” she said.

He'd certainly needed it after Yucatán. “The new teeth complete my smile.”

“And I like your conservative haircut. Are you an old-fashioned conservative, or just one of the new ones out to wreck the country?”

“I love this country. And look at you—the same old beauty you always were.”

“Why, thank you. I hope you don't find it tiresome.”

“Boys and girls?” Mike handed Owens a small silver flask and she smiled, then sipped.

Bradley took it and swirled and smelled it. Cream? Cucumbers? Mint? It was perhaps nonalcoholic and very cold, in spite of being inside Mike's breast pocket. Bradley thought of the absinthe bar he'd had at his and Erin's wedding down in Valley Center. What a night. And another day and another night and morning until the last celebrants were gone. Tents in the hills and all the guest casitas full and someone getting the fighting bulls drunk and letting them out of the corral. They'd made Bacchus proud. “What is this stuff?”

“Let's head down to the basement ballroom,” said Mike, swiping back the flask. “We can hit the bar for an ordinary drink and work the crowd.”

Owens fell arm-in-arm between the men. They swept down the broad stairway toward the downstairs ballrooms, and with each step Bradley felt lighter and more confident and even more clear in the head. What
was
that stuff? He felt like stripping to his briefs and diving off a ten-meter board. Just before hitting the water he'd arch his back and spread his arms and fly down to Buenavista, knock out Hood with a left uppercut and zoom back here with Erin on his back. For some reason a conversation he'd had with his mother came back to him now, word for word, their voices exactly as they'd sounded when he was five, like someone was playing a tape of it in his head.

“Exactly what crowd will be here?” asked Bradley. “The marquee in the lobby had New England Dental Association, Model Train International, and Western States Fabrication and Manufacture.”

“The last,” said Mike.

“People in your bathroom-products business?”

“Well, in all fields of fabrication and manufacture, Bradley.” Downstairs Mike flagged a waiter and a moment later their three drinks arrived. Bradley got a Bombay martini up with a twist and told himself to go easy on the booze tonight. Mike had gotten him a room but his plan was to leave early and make Buenavista by midnight. He had a full tank in the Cayenne, a “maybe” from Erin, and a nine-o'clock phone call scheduled. He had no doubt that she would want to see him.

The ballroom was crowded and an orchestra played. There were tables set up for dinner but not many people yet seated. Some were dancing. To Bradley there seemed to be no dress code at all. On the men he saw tuxedos, dinner jackets like his own, suits and sport coats and slacks, open-collared shirts without ties, polo and rugby shirts, work shirts with names stitched on the chests, guys in aloha shirts and shorts and flip-flops. The women had a generally higher level of presentation—mostly dresses and suits—but he did see two women dressed in 1890s prairie calico and heavy boots; and three others in buckskins and moccasins festooned with beads and feathers; and two more wearing sheer bathing suit cover-ups over bikinis, and heeled sandals with rhinestones across the toes. He guessed the age range to be twenties to early sixties. No children. Mostly whites, Native Americans, Latinos and blacks, and a few Asians. There was a giant with razor-cut hair and enormous hands, dressed in a tuxedo, and two dwarves in tails. The room was loud enough with conversation to compete with the music. Entire groups burst into laughter. The laughter struck Bradley as knowing and ironic. Everyone seemed to know everyone and there were no name tags.

Bradley sipped the martini, lightly. He noted that nearly all of the guests were drinking highballs or apparently straight liquor and the waiters and walk-up bar were quite busy. Empty glasses were already stacking up on the bar top and bus trays. He also saw that many of attendees were drinking from silver flasks like Mike's, often offering the flask around to others, as Europeans offer cigarettes.

The three of them went from group to group, where Mike and Owens unfailingly drew warm hugs and hearty backslaps and words of good cheer.
Fantastic work down there in San Diego, Mike—wonderful!
Mike introduced him as Bradley Murrieta, the new partner in MFB—Mike Finnegan Bath—a man he hoped would help to “resuscitate MFB's wheezing bottom line.” The conferees were polite but seemed slightly skeptical of Bradley, which was fine with him. Owens positioned herself at his side, and occasionally held his arm in such a way that drew looks.

Mike and Owens danced a waltz, then she and Bradley drew a brassy foxtrot and, when it was over, light applause for a dance well done. Bradley was struck again by her lustrous beauty and easy humor. Even now in the late days of winter her skin was tanned brown and smooth, and her black hair was wavy and shiny as obsidian. Silver gray eyes.

Bradley knew that Erin had spent many hours with Owens in Benjamin Armenta's castle in the Yucatán lowlands, where Erin was held for ransom for ten days. Owens was Armenta's mistress and Erin had distrusted her at first. But Owens had helped Erin preserve her sanity, and protected her and her baby from men far more wicked than Armenta. From that remote jungle fortress without computers or telephones, Owens had shown Erin how to communicate with her husband, at no small risk to herself. Owens had even helped Erin attempt an escape. Now as Bradley danced with her he was aware not only of her beauty but of her strange history—illegitimate daughter of a powerful Catholic monsignor; attempted suicide; devotee of Mike Finnegan; consort of cartel kingpin Benjamin Armenta; actress, cipher, and siren. What else was she, and what had she done and what did she want? Bradley understood that she was far more versed in life's shadows than he was, and therefore somehow his superior.

They dined at one of the eight-tops with a two-man extrusion-mold-making company based in Grass Valley, a patent lawyer from Fresno, and two tool-and-die honchos from the Bay Area. The conversation was arcane to Bradley, all about people he'd never met and events outside his experience. It was plain that they were all part of a huge, complex industry about which he was uninformed:

And I told Delmonico himself, right then and there, that we could help this man and why wasn't that enough? Isn't that what we're about? My prospect was a good-enough prospect—maybe not a brilliant man, but—oh, Bradley, can you pass the Thousand Island?

And:

We've got to quit apologizing, everyone. We need to be more confrontational. People crave it in this short, violent century. It's simple as that. Transparency and honesty. They need to know the facts so they can decide.

Or:
I've never seen such a tender being turn into such a producer. You should have seen the swath she cut through those happy Presbyterians! It just made me realize again how talent can hide in a person and how our job is to bring it out.

Bradley followed as best he could, wondering what a customer's history or this short, violent century or cutting a swath through Presbyterians had to do with fabrication and manufacture. He thought of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department social events and how it was all cop talk. How much of that would these guys understand? They probably had no idea what a 187 was. He wondered what Erin was doing. He pictured her sitting in that shadowy, low-ceilinged adobe living room of Charlie Hood's, could see the play of the lamplight off her fine face, and the round outline of their future alive inside her.

By the time dinner was over, Bradley felt tipsy with half the martini and one glass of red wine down, plus whatever Mike had given him from the flask. But he still felt solid, too. They made the rounds from table to table. The conversations became harder to decipher.
The miasmal soul I told Delmonico I had secured? At the last second of the final minute of the eleventh hour? Betrayed. Betrayed!
Bradley noted that practically every attendee was drinking far more than he was. He watched them carrying two empty glasses at a time to the bar, and two full ones away. The bus trays were overloaded and drinkers were setting their empties on the floor beneath the stands or on the stage or neatly along the baseboards of the walls. The waiters had given up stately attendance for old-fashioned hustle. Bottles were appearing at the tables, buckets of ice and stacks of clean tumblers. The giant delivered a case of something to his table, balancing it high over his head on his fingertips. Yet none of the conferees appeared in the least intoxicated to Bradley. Slightly more animated, but only slightly.

“We can certainly hold our liquor,” said Mike, taking Bradley by the arm and heading to an empty table. Owens led a tall man to the dance floor and looked over her shoulder at Bradley with an oddly apologetic expression. The men took off their jackets and put them over empty chairs and sat with their backs to the wall. The giant swung by with a bottle of Scotch that Bradley recognized as rare and expensive and placed it in front of Mike with three glasses. His face was huge and bony but pleasant enough. He gave Mike a smile, then strode away.

“Bradley,” said Mike, opening the bottle. “I'm worried for you.”

“Don't be—things are good. The Blands are gone and Dez is pushing Warren into retirement. Hood's on the run and it's only going to get worse for him. Carlos has a new business plan for me, according to Rocky, but Rocky can't tell me what it is. And Erin? Well, I think she's coming around. I think I'm starting to add up to something in her eyes again. It's all coming together, Mike.”

Mike poured them each a shot, held his glass up to the chandelier and twirled it. He looked pensive. “It's Erin. She is your love and your reason for living. What worries me is this—what if something happens to her?”

Bradley sipped the Scotch. “Nothing's going to happen to her.”

Mike raised his eyebrows and looked away. “What if? Accidents? Disease? Enemies?”

“That's why I'm trying to get Erin back to Valley Center, like ASAP. I can protect her and the baby there. It's secure now. Nothing like that kidnapping will ever happen again. Me, her, and Thomas. The family unit. That's how it's going to be. I can feel it, Mike. She's going to come back to me. Soon.”

“What if she doesn't? What if you don't know her heart as well as you think you do? You've been quite surprised by her thus far, correct? By her independence and anger and strength in resisting you? What if she moves further away from you with the birth of Thomas? What if all of her heart goes to him? This is commonplace in many women.”

Bradley drank again and studied Mike's face. Mike looked concerned but crafty. Bradley surveyed the crowd and saw the same basic expression on every face in the room. Mike's worries about Erin and him were ridiculous, he thought. “Are these people all like you?”

“You could say that.”

“Are a lot of them partners?”

“Very few. I applied for permission to bring you and it was granted. We keep the partners segregated until we or someone upstairs finds a synergy. Then introductions follow. Hitler and Himmler are a good example. But most of our work is far more subtle—thousands of couplings over the centuries.”

“Upstairs?”

“Well, we here are only the foot soldiers. Journeymen. Both sides of this competition are dictatorships, basically—the only organization model that can really work on this scale. The King on one side, and the Prince on the other. Beneath them are clearly defined hierarchies. Of course the nature of devils is to rock the boat. So you can imagine the delinquency, trespassing, obstruction, and insubordination that go on between us mid-levels. Endless, really. It can get competitive. That's what almost everyone in the room is talking about by now—their work. It's shoptalk. These biannual rallies are our watercooler, our place to gossip and catch up and brag and berate.”

“How do you drink so much booze and not show it?”

“We metabolize differently, which is necessary for very long life. Alcohol is only about one-tenth as strong as it is for you.”

“What's in the flasks? Everybody's got one.”

“What's in the flasks is a closely guarded secret. I can tell you it's all organic and is nonalcoholic. It's actually a mild antidote for alcohol, kind of an energy drink. It promotes clarity, confidence, energy, and even a small amount of generosity. It brings forth memories in startling detail. So, the more alcohol, the more antidote. It's a big standoff is what it is. We crave abandon but utterly detest being out of control. Just like people. Some of us practically live on the stuff.”

“How does that potion stay cold up against your body like that for hours?”

“Cucumbers. And that's all I'm going to say about that.”

Bradley wanted a good shot of the secret potion. Mike nodded and handed him the flask, and he drank the cool, sweet liquid. He remembered Mike's words during their visit to Beatrice in the mine:
A journeyman devil can hear human thoughts from thirty feet away, so long as those thoughts are clear and emphatic.
“You don't doubt me as you used to.”

“No,” said Bradley. He took another little sip and handed back the flask.