Chapter 40
Not knowing if I’d survive what awaited me in the tunnel rumblings to the north, I grabbed all my loose change and sought out the nearest phone booth.
My parents were disheartened to hear I was hitting the road without any set destination.
“I’ve got money. I’m just going to travel and draw pictures. Don’t worry about it. It’s for my next show.”
Stephanie gabbed excitedly that she liked the same music as I did, wore bell bottoms, and floppy hats with feathers in them. She said things like “mom and dad are so straight” and that one of her friends had “dropped out.”
“Everybody thinks it’s so cool when I tell them Rolly Dixon owns one of your drawings.”
“He has two now. He bought another.”
“He did? Far out. Wow.”
“Hey, did I ever tell you how he got that first drawing? A few years ago I traded it to him for one of his guitars.”
“Rolly Dixon’s guitar? This is too much. Where is it?”
“I guess it’s still at Teresa’s.”
“Oh cool. She’s so nice, I wish you two had never broken up. She wrote me such a nice letter when you... when, uh, we all thought you were, like, dead.”
“She did?”
“And she remembered my birthday. I just got a card.”
“Oh, that’s right. Happy birthday. How about if I send you a headband from Haight-Ashbury?”
“Cool. My friends will flip out.”
After calling the private investigator in L.A. about progress in his search for Sam, I dropped quarters into the phone’s coin slot but couldn’t get my fingers to dial the numbers that would connect me to Teresa.
Hi, I may have a good lead on where Sam and my child are. They could be right here in San Francisco. Almost next door. But let me tell you why I’m calling you even though you don’t want to hear from me. I think I’ve found a major clue about how to trace a path to the ruined tunnel. And hey, listen. After I got laid by a bird woman, I dreamed of you, and I know none of the women I’ve been with compare with you, but this bird woman knew this trick... where she... in the tunnels... with her... Oh, never mind... And by the way, I may be dead again soon.
Someone tapped on the glass, wanting to use the booth.
Sure, okay. No reason for me to be here.
The investigator had told me he’d have definite news in three days. If Sam was in San Francisco, I’d go see her, but my plan was to follow the sky rumblings north and look for Cassandra’s mushroom pasture.
Say hello, then goodbye. Was it money I had decided to give Sam—is that all? And how do I explain to a baby that there’s a time travel tunnel that needs fixing, so I can’t stick around?
Three day delay. I bought some supplies for the trip, remembering the need of a flashlight, canteen, and a water-proof match case. I placed a can of Spam in my old knapsack in memory of Johnny, bought a guitar, sunk into a hypocritical depression thinking about Teresa being with other men, and figured out how to play the Zombie’s “Tell Her No” and The Stones’ “I Used To Love Her.”
On one of my shopping runs, I saw a poster announcing that the band Ghost was at the Fillmore West. Rolly’s former rhythm guitar player, Scott Caledonia, was having success as the band’s lead guitarist and vocalist. I decided to go to the concert, wondering if he would remember me.
He stood on stage wearing an oversized, knee-length furry coat. He didn’t seem to recognize me twenty feet away in the crowd. The band was flawless. Jeff Beck followed with a set that I couldn’t pull myself away from, so when I asked a roadie about Scott, I was afraid he might have already left.
“Nah, they usually party backstage for a while after a show.”
I stationed myself outside the ballroom on the Harley, figuring I’d say hello and see if he wanted to smoke a joint. While I waited, I wondered about Santa Pigeon helping Cassandra in and out of the tunnels. What’s her role? Why not let me in on the big secret? A nursery schooler could teach Pan and his gang communication skills. My ruminations were interrupted by the loud roar and coughing of six motorcycles pulling up next to me.
A guy with an iron cross pinned to his vest spit a wad of brown tobacco at my feet. “That ain’t your bike, motherfucker.”
“Maybe it shouldn’t matter to you. Stogie told Lucas to give it to me.”
“Who the fuck is Stogie?”
Another biker said, “You ain’t from Berdoo.”
I recognized the rat tattoo around his neck. He had ridden with the motorcycle gang I had traveled along the coastal highway with. “Never heard of it.”
All six dismounted and circled the Harley.
Rat Neck spoke. “Lucas disappeared back in June. And now you’re riding his chopper. My mama told me how to put two and two together.”
Iron Cross’s eyes flashed an order to the others. Two grabbed for my arms, but I managed to slip away from one and thud my elbow into the other guy’s chest. Then all six of them had me cornered, and I was wondering why my magic hand hadn’t just blistered them by now. I never could tell when I had to use my symbol or when the power just went automatic.
They pounced, growling, swearing, and punching, and pinned my arms behind my back. I fell to my knees, started to trace my dog-star magic with my fingers pressed against my back. Somebody kicked the side of my head, and I went sprawling on the pavement, the attempt at magic interrupted. Rat Neck pulled a knife and kneeled down in front of me. He held the sharp steel an inch from the tip of my nose. My head felt exactly like a head would feel when kicked by a brute wearing motorcycle boots. Dazed. Rung. Pained. I had bitten my tongue when I had gone down.
“Where’s Lucas? You got one chance here, asshole, but the bike’s ours no matter what.”
“Take the damn thing. The last I saw of Lucas was months ago at some bar on the coast road. Same place I last saw you.” My mouth tasted of blood.
“I don’t know you from shit.”
Then a new voice. “Hey, what’s going on here?”
The bald drummer from Ghost was the speaker. Scott stood next to him, still in his stage fur coat. The rest of the band and three other guys and two women stood further back.
The black-leather gang turned their attention to the musicians.
“Just a disagreement that we can handle, baldy.”
Rat Neck stood and pushed his way past his brothers, leaving me in a heap on the sidewalk. Traffic was passing by on Van Ness. A street car rumbled down Market.
Scott stepped forward. “Hey, we just wanted to make sure no one was getting hurt.”
The gang grumbled a variety of insults at Scott.
“Mind your own fucking business, weirdo.” Iron Cross raised his foot to give me another head-stomping.
I yelled, “Abracadabra.” My fingers flew through my magic pattern, and the next thing I knew I was sitting on my bike, directly in the path of the confrontation between the Hell’s Angels and the band Ghost.
“Jesus, did you see that?”
“What the...?”
“No, it can’t... How?”
“Wow,” Scott yelled in awe.
Both groups were stunned by my miraculous appearance in front of them. No one moved.
Bursting momentarily with relieved laughter, I faced Rat Neck and his Angels.
“You guys play hell really well. All havoc and brutality, I know that, but I’ve met Beelzebub, man, Prince of Chaos, and I tell you, you’ll be whimpering with regret if you ever deal with that dude.”
I turned to the hairy-coated Scott and the hairless drummer. “Thanks for helping me out. Gave me time to pull out my bag of tricks. You guys played great tonight. Don’t know if you remember me, Scott, but we jammed once with Rolly back in New York.”
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“Well, I really cou
ldn’t play, but we had a good time.” Thinking it best that I should just get home before people started asking questions or the gang decided to attack, I kicked at the machine’s starter. “Nice coat, man.”
Scott slowly removed the bear-like jacket, never taking his eyes from me, and handed me the fur. “Here, take it, as a gift. Are you the guy Rolly told me had disappeared in the jungle?”
“Yep.” I shrugged into the coat. “Fits great. You sure?”
“After what I just witnessed, consider it a small gift for a magnificent one.”
I leaned closer to him. “Mushrooms, portals, tricky tunnels. It can be very dangerous though, and no guarantee.”
A look of rapturous understanding lit his face. “Portals exist?”
I nodded, revved my engine. Pulled in the clutch. “Thanks for the coat, man. Very cool.” I then gunned the engine, picking up speed, but my switch into second became a prolonged series of grinding and tearing noises. After it finally meshed into gear, I cruised at half-throttle and looked back at the crowd still standing still, watching me.
Probably in shock. Happens to me, still, when I witness the miraculous. This little incident tonight was a harmless and hopefully beneficial trip for those dudes back there.
That pathetic gear change sure took the drama out of my exit. I should turn around and pop a wheelie with this behemoth machine into a tunnel right in front of them. Man, they’d freak. Man, it would be more fun than what I’ve gone through so far on this quest. Too bad that’s not the reason I’m involved with the gods. Just hop in and out of the pipelines to blow people’s minds, plant a seed of wonder, and reappear somewhere else. Better than church. Kind of like Pan and his spreading the mushrooms everywhere.
As I drove home, I wondered what would happen once my task was done and if I survived. Would I have to go through more guessing games and Steel’s torture scenarios on some new mysterious assignment? Because of my ability to crack the tunnels, it didn’t seem likely the gods would want me cavorting around the universe in them.
I theorized without resolution about the fact Shadow Creature was from a time before the gods. Maybe every action in this universe has been born from the injured god’s experience. Is everything going to change if Shadow Creature’s not around anymore? Hopefully, the gods have developed a plan to deal with the universe ceasing to exist or going all topsy-turvy.
Okay, I’ve got to calm down, then search for the signs, find the damaged area, and heal the wounded god. It’s all I can do—while hoping for the best.
Chapter 41
The private investigator from L.A. had given me an address in the North Beach area, about fifteen blocks from my studio. Standing outside the building, the reasons for me being there became clouded. About to die, back in the South American jungle, I had seen my failure of being a father clearly. Now, I didn’t know what my intentions were. Yes, I could help support the child, maybe develop a relationship as he or she grew older. But the truth was I still felt reluctant to be committed to a lifestyle that I viewed as interfering with my freedom. Freedom? Did I really have freedom? Gods pushed at me, immortals interfered, demons set traps.
My mind fought my approach to the front door. Is the baby even safe knowing me? Is this the right thing to do? Or should I wait until I fulfill the gods’ demands of me?
A disquieting thought surfaced—the quest to heal the broken tunnel could mean the end of my life. Taking a few deep breaths while considering my possible demise helped me to admit my fallibilities and push excuses aside.
I’ve got to do what my own father would do for me, what Teresa’s dad could no longer do for her. Even he, a murderer, had loved his daughters.
Nerves jangling, I stepped inside the door of the four story, Victorian-era building and saw the names S. Wilson/T. Roth on the mailbox for apartment 2B.
As I ascended the stairs to the second floor, two guys were descending. One of them was bushy-haired, in blue jeans and a T-shirt. The other wore a baggy paisley shirt, chinos, and a floppy wide-brimmed hat. I glanced at them, took a few steps upwards, twisting my body slightly to let them pass. Thinking about the possibility that Sam might be in her male mood, my second appraisal of the couple concentrated on the slighter of the two men, whose hat and head tilt hid part of his features, revealing little of his face except a slight amount of peach fuzz along the jaw and a weak auburn mustache over full lips.
“Hi.”
They looked at me and smiled. “Hey, man.”
The long red hair that flowed from beneath the hat and the delicate face peppered with freckles was unmistakeable. But what was the feeble facial hair?
“Sam.” I was enthusiastic, glad I’d found her despite all my misgivings of the last few years.
“Uh, yeah.”
“It’s me. Deets.”
It took her a few seconds to see beyond my beard and my scars, before recognition and disdain flared in her eyes. “Oh god, no.” And she tried to brush past me.
Her reaction startled me. “Wait, Sam. We’ve got to talk.”
“What? About what?” She turned on me, her voice rising. But yet, it had a deeper timbre than I remembered. “There’s nothing between you and me. Why did you follow me?”
She glanced worriedly at her friend, and I surmised she might talk to me if he wasn’t around.
“Hey, man, Sam and I need a few minutes to get straight on something.”
A mustache?
Sam glared at me. When our eyes met, I knew she detected a hint of the madness and loss that now posed as my soul. What I saw in hers, alarmed me. A hatred burned there. Blame, pain, anger, her own self-loath. Then she seemed to find some resolve deep within her, somewhere that was tired of hating me, and herself.
Her posture indicated surrender. She slumped onto one of the steps.
Her partner looked bewildered. “What’s going on?”
“Hey, it’s cool. I just need to ask one question.”
A mustache?
Sam nodded in resignation. “You can stay, Tony. Deets is... somebody I used to know. I was going to have to tell you about him someday, anyway.”
Her lover.
Tony’s expression turned from confusion to alarm. Clearly, he feared rejection.
Sam combed her fingers through the wisps of hair above her lip and said to me, “You’ll never understand.”
I didn’t. “That’s real, isn’t it? Not just a new modification to your man outfit.”
She became annoyed again. “I’m having a treatment done to feel more like a man. More than just cross-dressing does. In a few years, I’ll have an operation.”
“How can...? You mean you’d become a man, sort of like that Swedish guy Jorgensen became a lady?”
“Yes.”
“You’re nuts. You’re a beautiful woman. You’d ruin yourself.” I dropped down to my knees in front of her.
She slapped me, hard.
“Jesus, Sam.”
“You deserve it for more than just that stupid comment.”
“What? Yeah, okay.” I stopped myself from telling her a man would’ve punched. “Look, I don’t understand, maybe never will.”
“No, not many do.” She took Tony’s hand, leading him to sit next to her. “Tony, about two years ago, I became pregnant with Deets’ child. He didn’t want the baby, and I moved from New York to L.A. The baby was born in San Diego on June twenty-third of last year.” She graced me with a soft but melancholy expression. “It was a boy.”
My mind tumbled with the news, spinning out of the orbit my thoughts were usually preoccupied with—demons, gods, tunnels, battles to the death. Now, so simple a joy took hold—an innocent baby. I felt exhilarated and wanted to see the child. Everything was going to be fine.
But we were one flight down from their apartment, and Tony didn’t know about her child. There was no bassinet u
pstairs, no Gerbers, no howling and crawling and diaper changing.
I rose up, a terrible dryness in my throat, a heavy hammer whacking the inside of my brain.
“What happened? Where’s my baby?”
“Your baby? You ridiculous asshole, I had to give him up for adoption. They wouldn’t even let me name him.” Sam stood up and jabbed a finger at me. “You want to know what your cowardly decision did to me.” With her full rage focused at me, she snapped at Tony, “I need that minute alone now. Wait for me outside.”
After the door shut, she whispered harshly, gritting her teeth. She was about to rip me to shreds and feed on me. “When I left New York, I had nothing. Not a penny. Do you know how many hand jobs it takes to hitchhike across America? I was so scared. I got arrested in Podunk, Kansas for stealing some food and spent three days in jail until I agreed to let the police chief’s wife play with his handcuffs and me while he watched.”
“What? This is terrib—”
She slammed her palm against my chest. “I hated myself. I hated everyone. I hated, still do, you.” She pushed half-heartedly against my chest as if I wasn’t worth the effort of her rage anymore. “By the time I reached California, I didn’t want your baby. I felt like your disregard for life had raped me for three thousand miles.”
“I... I’m sorry.”
“Of course you are. Me too. I kind of loved you once. By the time I reached L.A., I felt so useless, so abused. I realized I didn’t know how to survive except by whoring or stealing or letting some lover take care of me. Anyway, I entered into a Catholic home for unwed mothers. Ha, can you imagine? The nuns were nice though, and there was one, Sister Rose, who set up everything for the adoption.” Her hand was resting lightly on my chest now. She withdrew it. Dejectedly, she said, “I never cried.”
Miracles (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 3) Page 27