"I said you there," Dalton called. "What are you doing around here? Get lost, you worthless piece of trash. Go on, bitch, get the hell out of here."
Clarissa straightened, careful to keep her face away from Dalton, who had stopped a few feet from the end of the trash bin. She wanted to desperately run, but that would surely give her away. Instead, she struggled for control, pulled the olive work shirt tighter around her, and walked bent and hunched toward the end of the alley. When she reached the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and turned west toward Westwood Boulevard, she broke into an open, flat out run. Finally, the pain in her shoulder and side caused her to stop a couple of blocks away, and she sagged to the pavement on a side street.
A late model car with two men in it stopped and asked her what she was doing and said that she was trying to get to the Catholic Church to go and attend early morning Mass. They decided to leave her alone and even gave her directions to a local church. When they asked her if she wanted a ride she said no but that she would say a prayer for them. Letting out a sigh of relief, the car moved on and Clarissa was along on the dark street.
The rain was showery by the time Clarissa had found the church. No one had answered her repeated knocks on the rectory door, and all of the church doors were locked tight. A sign of the escalating crime in Los Angeles, when you couldn't even take sanctuary inside a church for fear of robbery, desecration, or vandalism. Clarissa sat in the deep recess by the front door, at least out of the rain and wind. Her eyelids were heavy and she wanted to sleep away the pain and terror. The church bell in the steeple chimed five times. Five o’clock in the morning. It was close to dawn. Clarissa drew her knees up to her chest and rested her head in the fold of her arms. She did not hear the taxi pull to a stop in front the church, but her eyes snapped awake at the gentle touch to her shoulder." Come with me, Clarissa," Virginia's voice was firm and with a sense of urgency. "You can't stay here. I can get you to safety, but we have to hurry. We haven't much time.
The city cab left behind the high-rise condominiums of Westwood and the exclusive shops and department stores of Beverly Hills. It headed east down the near empty Wilshire Boulevard toward downtown.
"How did you find me? Clarissa asked, stifling a yawn.
"I watched you with binoculars from my window after Santos left," Virginia replied. "I saw you head down toward Westwood, watched you at talk to someone in a car. I figured you were looking for some place to hide. It was easy when they pointed in a north direction. The only thing up there is the church. Really, Clarissa, if I could find you this easily, how long do you think it would take Morgan's army?"
"Why didn't we take your car?"
"All of the staff cars have GPS," Virginia said. "I didn't know mine had one until Dalton mentioned he had checked the monitors and my car was still in the garage. I should have known better, even though I own my car. All Morgan's cars are monitored on the security screens. That's how Marco found you in the Jag."
Clarissa turned away to stare at the passing shops and buildings.
"It's a miracle you're alive, Clarissa. I don't know what you've got going for you, but you're damn lucky. No one I know has ever gotten this far."
"What if he finds out you've helped me?"
Virginia’s silence was answer enough.
From Wilshire Boulevard the cab turned north on Western Avenue, heading toward Santa Monica Boulevard, and threaded its way past graffitied tenements and hole in the wall liquor stores with iron gates pulled fast across their doors. It turned onto a side street just before the Hollywood Freeway northbound on-ramp and stopped in front of an old four story brick building on the corner. A struggling white neon sign sputtered that it was the Hempstead Hotel.
"Why are we stopping here?" Clarissa demanded. "What is this place?"
"My friend's place," Virginia replied as she opened the cab door. "Wait for me," she instructed the cab driver. "I'll just be a few minutes."
"Virginia, you don't expect me to stay here?"
"Come with me," said Virginia. "Now, Clarissa. I don't have time to waste with your whining. I have to get back."
Clarissa glared defiantly at Virginia. "If this is your idea of a joke..."
"Get out of the cab," Virginia ordered. Clarissa turned her face away. "They're holding a room for you. You'll be safer in there than out here. Take it or leave it. Look, I don't care if you go in there or not. You don't like it, fine. This cab is taking me home. Now, get out."
Virginia reached across Clarissa and pushed her door open. Clarissa shrank back into the seat, arms folded protectively across her chest.
"I can't, damn it," Clarissa cried. "I can't stay here."
"You'll be dead by morning if Morgan finds you," Virginia's voice was suddenly placating and smooth. "Think, Clarissa. He knows every place that you would go. He's probably got his men checking every one of your friends, every place you hang out. He won't find you here. He wouldn't even look in a place like this."
"It's filthy," Clarissa spat hotly.
"Its government run. They keep it clean inside for the homeless. It's a shelter."
"The homeless? Oh my, God, Virginia....I can't."
"It's only for a day or two. I'm going to wire your brother Andrew in the morning. By night after next, you'll be winging your way to the Middle East and away from Morgan."
"I can't do this."
"Fine, okay. I've done all I can for you. I found you a place where Morgan won't look, I've given you the clothes so that you won't be discovered. You're dead, Clarissa. Driver, Bel Air, please."
"No!" Clarissa's scream echoed like a crack of thunder. In the distance, a window slammed shut and someone yelled "shut up!"
"It isn't bad inside," Virginia coaxed. "Come on. We shouldn't be seen out here."
"I need my purse," said Clarissa suddenly alarmed. "I left it at your place. I had some money in it."
"I'll bring it to you tomorrow," Virginia promised. "This is just temporary, Clarissa. In two days you're out of here. Just stay in the room they give you. You'll be fine. I'll call tomorrow before I come. I promise."
Clarissa got out of the cab and stood on the sidewalk looking up at the building, the small, dark, soot covered, barred windows, and the rusted iron fire escape. It looked more to her like a prison than a shelter. Virginia grabbed her arm and propelled her through the glass front door.
The lobby was dark and musty, heavily paneled in dark oak. A once elegant mahogany staircase dominated the lobby and a narrow, dimly lighted hallway stretched away into darkness. The faded, threadbare red carpet, with just the ghost of a paisley print, covered the creaking floor. The hotel's desk lined the opposite wall. Made from the same dark wood as the walls, it was scratched and worn. The top was enclosed to the ceiling in stiff wire mesh, offering some protection to the gaunt and pale elderly man asleep in a chair behind the desk.
Virginia led Clarissa up to the wood framed opening in the mesh and cleared her throat loudly. The man's right eye opened, he snorted once, and forced the other eye open.
"What the hell took you so long getting here?" he eyed Virginia with disdain and pulled his skeletal form out of the chair. "Been waitin' most of two hours. You know what time of night it is?"
"This is the girl I told you about, Dusty," she replied curtly. "You told me you could keep her for a couple of nights. You owe me a favor, remember?"
"I'd like to forget I do, Miss Essex," Dusty said as his eyes traveled over Clarissa's body. She instinctively backed away. "She wanted?"
"Only by her pimp," Virginia lied and squeezed Clarissa's arm painfully before she could protest. "Her name is Sally Dugan. She needs a place for a couple of nights until her brother can come and get her. She doesn't have any money and this guy is pretty pissed off at her. Probably kill her if he finds her."
"I'm not a....." Clarissa started but Virginia's glare silenced her.
"Holding out on him?" Dusty sneered. "We get 'em all the time. If her pimp shows up, we'll call the police. They don't like th
at much but it keeps it quiet in here. What's this guy look like?"
"Latin, dark hair, not real tall but muscular," Virginia said. "Intense looking, with dark brown, almost black eyes that kind of droop at the outside corners. Goes by the name of Marco."
"She ought to be okay here," Dusty said. "I'll get her key."
Dusty disappeared into a small office in back of the reception desk. Virginia pulled Clarissa back away from the desk.
"Dusty knows about Morgan Wolfe," Virginia hissed angrily. "I can't tell him it's Morgan that's hunting you. He would never let you stay. Play the hooker part for now. Just trust me and keep your mouth shut."
"I'm leaving," Clarissa shook loose from Virginia's grip, hysteria puncturing her meager reserves. "This is too much. I can't do this. Damn it, I just need a phone. One lousy phone call. Why is that so hard? Damn it, I don't even have a damn quarter. I have to get out of here."
"Go ahead," Virginia replied calmly. "I'll make one phone call for you to shut you up. It won't to be Andrew Hayden." Virginia waited for the panic she knew would send Clarissa into a frenzy at the mention of calling Morgan. "Your life is in my hands. I think you'll do as I say."
"You're just as bad as he is," Clarissa said as she fought back tears.
"Not quite. You're worth more to me alive."
"Here you go, Miss Dugan," Dusty reached out through the opening in the mesh with spider-like fingers. He handed Clarissa a room key. "Three ten is empty tonight. There are rules, young lady. Can't cook in the rooms. Pay phone is over there on the wall. Outgoing local calls only. I can't be running up and down a four story building every time someone gets a call."
"Linens are changed every week or so. Don't leave nothing in your room when you go out. Might get stolen. Fact it most likely will get stolen. You'll also need these."
He thrust some slips of paper at Clarissa. "If the government inspectors come around they always want to see these so make sure you got these chits. Guarantees you a room for the night courtesy of the county. I gave you a month’s worth. Not supposed to, but since you probably don't want to be seen down here in the lobby too often because of your pimp looking for you, I'll break the rules this time. When you leave, give me back what you don't use."
"What do I do with them?" Clarissa asked, her voice becoming small and pinched.
"Sign one and give it to me each night you're gonna stay here. I come around and collect about seven o'clock. I stamp 'em and put 'em in the drawer. Don't know what for. Inspectors don't ever check. Most I don't ever stamp. That's how I can break the rules. The church down the street has more if you lose those or run out."
Dusty opened a worn book and shoved it through the opening at Clarissa. "You gotta sign in." Clarissa stared at the book, reluctant to move. Virginia shoved her toward the desk, the flat of her hand against Clarissa's back.
"Sally Dugan," Virginia whispered in her ear.
Clarissa picked up the pen and scratched the name on the next available line. In a sudden fit of anger she threw the pen at Dusty and stalked toward the stairs.
"Thanks, Dusty," Virginia said to the old man as she slipped an envelope through the wire mesh opening. Dusty nodded and the envelope disappeared into his pocket.
"Thank me by never coming here again, Miss Essex," Dusty's voice was level but there was a hint of anger imbedded in it. "Your employer almost ruined my son. You got those papers out of Morgan Wolfe's hands in time and I appreciate what you did. But you still work for him and I don't want you coming around here again. This is a one-time thing for your friend there. We're square, you and me."
With that he turned away and went back into his office.
Virginia turned toward the door without saying anything more to Clarissa. She stopped before she pushed open the glass door, paused in thought, and turned back to face Clarissa. The young woman's face was a study in fear. She reminded Virginia of a little girl on the first day of school, watching as her mother left her in such an alien, hostile place. For a moment, there was empathy in Virginia's heart, but just for a moment.
"You had better be back here tomorrow night with my purse," Clarissa said.
"You'll be alright, Clarissa."
"Just stop telling everyone I'm a prostitute."
"Would I be that far wrong?"
The anger well up in Clarissa like a tidal wave. Before she could unleash it on Virginia, the secretary merely turned and disappeared through the front door. Clarissa waited until the cab had pulled away from the curb before she summoned up the courage to climb up the stairs.
The stairs creaked and the banister felt sticky with moldy grime. Clarissa wiped her hand on her shirt and decided that she could climb the two flights to the third floor without touching anything. The stairwell was close and thick with dust. A stale odor of cigarette smoke, urine, and sweat, hung in the air like an invisible fog and clung to the peeling maroon print wallpaper.
A baby cried in short staccato blurts and someone with an almost constant hacking cough rasped and choked on the floor above. A woman with a high pitched voice cackled in drunken laughter, and the echo of an argument in Spanish drifted among the other night sounds.
Half way up the stairs, Clarissa stopped. She could go no further. Behind her, Dusty's cage was now dark as was his office in back. The hotel's front door was a shadowy glass rectangle into the unknown and it wasn’t even locked. Clarissa slid down until she was sitting on the stair, her back pressed against the wall. She pulled the olive work shirt tight around her as if it could possibly afford some protection. Her hands shook and she clenched them into fists. She could not take her eyes off of the front door, but neither could she make the move toward it.
Yesterday she had everything. In the span of a few short hours, everything was lost. A tornado had ripped through her life, leveling every semblance of her dream. She had been stripped of even her dignity in the rags she now wore, and the homeless shelter in which she was forced to seek refuge. Only her chipped and broken red fingernails gave a glimmer of evidence that there had been another life. Clarissa sat wedged between Morgan's stalkers out there in the night, and the bitter reality that the only thing she had left was the thin thread by which her life hung.
Her reserve was gone, spent. For the first time she gave herself completely to the exhaustion and despair and let the sobs come in great convulsing heaves. When they had subsided, she sat with her eyes closed, tears still stinging her reddened cheeks, her arms aching from bruised muscles clamped tight to her knees, yet unable to let go for fear of retching.
She did not hear his soft footsteps on the stairs, did not feel his dark eyes studying her. There was a vagueness to his presence, just the hint of old leather and tweed. It was not until he touched her, wiping a strand of damp blond hair out of her eyes that Clarissa's eyes snapped open with renewed fear and she recoiled up to the next riser.
"What are you doing here, child?" his voice was raspy and cracked with age. "You gotta a room?"
He bent closer to her until his thin dark face under the faded black fedora was inches from hers. He smelled of dime store after shave and whiskey. Clarissa held her breath and pressed herself tighter into the wall.
"This ain't a good place to be this time of night," he told her. "We get a lot of bad folk come in here and sleep in the lobby some times. You got a room, you better get up to it and lock yourself in."
Clarissa pulled the room key from the pocket in the work shirt and held it open in her palm for the man to see. He took it in gnarled hands with skin so thin it looked like the dark brown peel of an onion. He turned the key over and read the room number.
"Three ten," he said half to himself. "We're neighbors. Three fifteen."
He extended his hand in a friendly gesture to Clarissa.
"I'm not your neighbor," she spat at him in a voice that was still thick with tears. "I don't live in this rat hole. Just leave me alone."
"I was just trying to be friendly, child," he replied, and he sounded a little hurt.
Clarissa choked back an acid remark as she looked into the old man's yellowed, red rimmed eyes. His deep brown face was lined and wrinkled, his chin was covered with a ghostly gray shadow of a beard. He smiled slightly, showing uneven teeth with a gap in the front. His frayed tweed jacket was clean and smelled of strong soap. His worn white shirt was once an expensive one. He wore a gold watch loosely on his bone-thin wrist and an onyx ring on his left hand.
Clarissa took in each detail of the man down to the leather loafers and neatly pressed slacks frayed at the cuffs. She could not help but wonder what he was doing here, in this homeless shelter and wanted to ask but did not dare. He might ask her the same question and the thought of reliving the last few hours again would make them too real and painful. Better to keep silent.
The man tipped his hat to her and started up the stairs. "I'll be seeing you, child," he said over his shoulder. "You all got yourself any problems, you knock on old Doc Rowland's door. Hear? Three fifteen."
She watched him disappear into the dark void at the top of the landing and listened to his uneven shuffling footsteps blend and fade into the muffled din of the night. Clarissa pulled herself slowly to her feet and followed the old man's footsteps to the third floor.
CHAPTER 6
Saturday morning was cool and overcast, with more rain in the forecast. The dark clouds were gathering and there was an oppressive stillness to the air. It reflected Virginia's mood as she swung the midnight blue Mercedes through the gates and up the winding driveway of the Wolfe estate. One side of the gates was bent and scraped with gray streaks. Virginia gave it a cursory glance and it renewed a grudging respect for the woman she had hidden away from Morgan.
Morgan had called early in the morning to say that he needed her at least half the day. It was not unusual. She worked many Saturday mornings, sometimes the whole weekend if Morgan had a heavy schedule of business meetings to prepare for during the following week. Virginia liked the Saturday work. Morgan usually played a round of golf or racquetball with business associates and she could get a lot more work done. The phone never rang and there were few, if any, interruptions.
Domino Page 9