“This was your mother’s favorite room,” my father reminisced.
I nodded in acknowledgement.
He asked me to come early. For drinks and what he referred to as some frank talk. The old pair of khaki slacks and the washed-out blue sweatshirt were indicative of his diminution of spirit, a low-grade depression that surrounded him like cloud cover.
“This isn’t how I had envisioned things. This was going to be the term in which I cemented my legacy. By the time it’s over, I’ll be lucky if I can even move my lips.”
“Is that really true? Aren’t there drugs that slow the progress?”
“There’s no cure, Buddy. It’s progressive and fatal. And no fun in the process.”
He leaned forward and stared at me through rueful eyes. His voice displayed only a measure of its once formidable power.
“I’m counting on you.”
“I’ll do everything I can.”
“Do you actually mean that or are you just flapping your gums?”
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t go through this to the finish, Buddy. I’m not going to play the end game. There’ll come a tipping point. And when that arrives, the ride ends for me. That’s when I’ll need you.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of this.”
“I’ll do the research and the planning. But when the time comes, I’m going to need you to help me turn out the lights.”
“Whoa. Hold on. You’re talking assisted suicide here.”
“I am.”
“That’s a big deal, Dad. I need to think about it. Why me and not Regina?”
“What’s in front of me is irrevocable. One way or the other. I refuse to go out a vegetable. When the time comes, Regina will be useless. It’s you I need, Buddy. There’s nothing to think about.”
We were interrupted by Her Honor, who entered the room like a windstorm, switching on all of the lights in her wake.
“What are you boys doing sitting here in the dark?” She bent over my father and kissed his forehead. “It’s glum in here.”
She flashed me her look.
“Good evening, Buddy,” she said. “Word is you had a stressful day.”
She turned to my father. “Buddy had a go-around with the Assistant District Attorney. Not to mention assorted members of the Long family.”
When my father didn’t say anything, she went on. “Are you sure this is what you want the Sheriff’s Department to be doing, Burton?”
My father eyed her warily. “What is it you’re saying, Regina?”
“Only what I’ve already told Buddy. Maybe this isn’t the opportune moment to be turning up the heat under the Longs.”
“If I’m not mistaken,” my father said, “Mrs. Long has gone missing?”
“Not according to Murray Kornbluth.”
“Who won’t produce her so as to put an end to the speculation.”
My stepmother poured a splash of gin over a handful of ice cubes. She downed a large swallow, poured herself another and sat. “According to the family, she’s had a breakdown.”
“So?”
“She’s resting.”
“Where?”
“They didn’t say.”
“They need to produce her,” my father said. “Or at the very least, if she’s been institutionalized, they need to reveal where she is so we can check her out for ourselves.”
“So you’re supporting Buddy in this?”
“That’s not what it’s about, Regina, and you know it. A Long family servant has suggested foul play. The Reverend, in turn, misled us. Mrs. Long is nowhere to be found. It’s time for them to shit or get off the pot.”
“God, Burton. Must you always be so crude?”
He snorted.
Regina turned to me. “Allow me to offer you a bit of mayoral advice, Buddy. You’re making a huge mistake. You don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell against the Longs. All you’ll succeed in doing is embarrassing yourself and your office.”
My father struggled to his feet. “That’s enough, Regina. In the future, please keep your nose out of our business. I’m sure you have enough to do just trying to govern the city.”
He gazed at his watch, and pointed toward the dining room. “Dinnertime.”
Regina stood and, with a scowl, exited.
I turned to my father, who was staring bullets at me. “Don’t forget, Buddy. One hand washes the other.”
Chapter Ten
I poured myself a straight gin and thought about the evening just passed.
My father had vanished into his mortality. He was distracted and fearful. He had always been a physical presence, active and energized, an imposing figure, tall and classically handsome. He frowned on weakness and disability. He was the Sheriff. He perceived himself the equivalent of the noble Sheriffs of yore, powerful and omnipotent. Now he was dying.
Regina, despite being limited by the narrowness of her thought, had been elected Mayor to serve the economic interests of a small town. She was unwavering in her quest to succeed. At the outset, she was goodhearted and kind, but over time, she had developed a veneer of toughness that she wrapped around herself like a Snuggie.
The dynamic between her and my father had come crashing down, leaving each of them in search of a toehold on a new reality that would carry them into their uncertain future. I had re-entered their universe at exactly that moment.
After seasons of living apart, I was now the guardian of my father’s escutcheon and the protector of his diminishing powers. An unwitting participant in his “one hand washes the other” philosophy.
I finished the gin and poured another.
Then I inserted the disc into the DVD player and settled in to watch it. It was taken during last year’s Heart of Our Saviour Celebration.
The Long family was on full display. Reverend Barry was seen welcoming the faithful. Catharine stood beside him, smiling. Four-year-old Three stood between them.
The response was deafening. The camera panned the crowd and frequently settled on the enthralled expressions that lit up the faces of those in attendance.
I hit the fast-forward button. After several moments, when I saw only Catharine on the screen, I pressed Play.
She was twenty-two at the time, fresh-looking, pretty, delivering some kind of homespun homily regarding family and worship. A close-up revealed heavily applied makeup covering an acne outbreak on her chin.
Her thick fair hair was cut short and was stylishly chaotic. She had on a colorful print dress that seemed better suited to a high school social than a revivalist Celebration. She was full-bodied and by the way she moved, proud of it.
She had an appealingly girlish charm. Hers was a pleasant voice and she spoke well. Her smile brightened the screen. I found her attractive and, for her age, quite self-possessed.
She obviously made a powerful impression on the crowd.
Her speech was covered by at least nine cameras, all placed at various positions around the arena, allowing for different angles and sizes of coverage. Her performance appeared well-rehearsed and carefully edited.
The camera director provided us with wide shots as she strolled among the assembled, including coverage of adoring fans fawning over her as she passed.
When her message was more intimate, we were shown medium close-ups, many including wide-eyed admirers.
When her performance was at its most commanding, we saw her in extreme close-up. Full screen. Her eyes ablaze, her mouth pouty and tantalizing, her concentration compellingly intense. The effect of the camera coverage, wide and tight, mobile and stationary, was mesmerizing. Movie star mesmerizing.
When she finished, they gave her a standing ovation and as she walked through the audience one last time, a hush fell as the faithful parted respectfully and lovingly so she could stroll am
ong them unimpeded.
All of it captured on video and for sale in the lobby.
I watched for a while longer, then fast-forwarded again, stopping when Reverend Barry appeared. He was all energy, kinetic and smooth. His voice was seductive and compelling. He was in constant motion, moving easily among the crowd, stopping to touch a hand here, make deep eye contact there. His followers clearly adored him, which the myriad TV cameras dutifully captured.
But cameras don’t lie. There was something disingenuous about him. His performance felt manipulative and his piety seemed forced. To me, his goodness and light were insincere and snarky, at odds with a dark energy that hovered menacingly beneath the surface of his personality.
He wouldn’t take kindly to criticism or contradiction. I could see how retribution might be a factor in his professional and personal conduct. He looked like a “my way or the highway” kind of guy. Lord help the person who got in his way.
Although he had the crowd in the palm of his hand, I found him anything but ingratiating. Barry Long, Junior, seemed a dangerous man.
I ejected the DVD and turned off the TV. I poured myself another gin and thought about the Longs.
Catharine was a star attraction and the camera magnified her charisma. Perhaps she presented a threat to the Reverend, a challenge to his popularity and his authority. He wouldn’t share celebrity easily. Especially not with his beautiful, dewy-eyed young wife. In Barry Long’s universe, everyone had a place. Overstepping boundaries could bring about repercussions.
My curiosity was piqued. “Why did he lie? What happened to her? Where is she? Might he really have killed her?”
The gin had made its point. More than just slightly loaded, I turned off the lights and went to bed.
Chapter Eleven
The morning brought with it heavy clouds accompanied by a misting rain. When I gazed out the window of my rented condo that overlooked the bay, I could barely see anything. I straightened up, put on my raingear, and headed out.
I pulled my Sheriff’s cruiser to a stop in front of Saint Theresa’s, one of Freedom’s two Cathedrals, this one located in the north end, close to the sea.
Built in the 1890s in the Gothic-revival style, the concrete structure had withstood earthquakes, monsoons, and more than its share of ocean-precipitated deterioration.
The 1,100-seat sanctuary boasted a dozen stained-glass windows, each depicting an incident in the life of Lord Jesus. I zipped up my waterproof parka, lowered my Sheriff’s cap, and headed for the rectory.
Father Francis Dugan, a local institution and the acknowledged leader of the Freedom religious community, greeted me warmly.
Father Dugan’s age was a mystery. He had been in place for as long as anyone could remember. He came toward me, slower of step than I remembered, but with the same fierce determination for which he was noted.
An infectious grin brightened his wizened face. His eyes were agleam with wisdom and mischief. His warmth of spirit was contagious. A spiritual being, he was a friend to all, regardless of race, creed, or color.
He led me into his office and offered me a seat in one of the two worn armchairs in a corner of the room, below a dormer window that overlooked the small vegetable garden that Father Dugan lovingly tended. I declined his offer of a beverage.
“What brings you to Saint Theresa’s, Buddy? Not that you ever need a reason. You’re always a welcome sight.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Father Dugan sat back in his chair and rested his legs on a small hassock. He sighed contentedly when he finally settled upon the right comfort level.
“Information,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s fairly common knowledge that when it comes to matters of the spiritual community, you’re the Oracle.”
“Ha! That’s a good one. The Oracle. I like that.”
“It’s true.”
“Let’s say I keep my ears open and, on occasion, I hear something worthwhile. But only on the very rare occasion.”
“Rubbing the blarney stone this morning, are we, Father?”
“Could it be that you’re on to me, Buddy?”
“Only if being on to you is an acknowledgement that you’re the foremost purveyor of the most closely guarded secrets in Freedom.”
“You give me too much credit.”
“Fess up, Francis.”
“What’s the subject?”
“Barry Long, Junior.”
Father Francis shifted his position and looked more closely at me. “Playing with fire, are we, Buddy?”
“I’ve hit a wall.”
“Meaning?”
“I’m not certain I can answer that question.”
“If the conditions were right, I might be able to help you,” the Father hinted.
“What conditions?”
“We never had this discussion.”
“What discussion?”
Father Francis smiled. “Reverend Long’s name has been on people’s lips of late.”
“How so?”
“Service providers to religious organizations often rely heavily on trust, particularly when it comes to issues of credit.”
“Would it be out of line to suggest that instead of parable, you spoke English?”
Father Francis wagged his finger at me. “Don’t be impudent, Buddy.”
“Who, me?”
He chuckled. “It seems that a few of Barry Long’s suppliers are experiencing a disruption in the flow of money owed them for services rendered.”
“You mean they’re not being paid on a timely basis?”
“I’m hearing that some aren’t being paid at all.”
“How could that be?”
“Good question.”
“And the answer?”
“Look to the father.”
“Excuse me?”
“Barry Long, Senior. All roads lead to him.”
“Let me get this straight. Suppliers to the Heart of Our Saviour Ministry aren’t being paid?”
“In a number of instances.”
“Why not? Isn’t the Long Ministry drowning in capital?”
“You’d think.”
“Are you suggesting that the Longs are having financial difficulties?”
Father Francis shrugged.
“And that the root of these difficulties lies with Barry Long, Senior?”
The Father pushed the hassock away and struggled to his feet.
“That’s all I know, Buddy. You’ll have to make do with it.”
I stood. “Thank you, Father.”
“I’m going to say something I’ll deny ever having said.”
I nodded.
“In the spiritual community, there’s an unflattering epithet that’s generally applied to the Long family. They’re frequently referred to as, ‘The son, his brother, and the unholy dickhead.’” Father Dugan followed this by making the sign of the cross in the air. “If you get my drift,” he added, a mischievous smile brightening his face.
Chapter Twelve
My cell phone started buzzing. When I picked up the call, Marsha Russo said, “Judge Feinstein demurred.”
“He demurred?”
“I just said that.”
“Why?”
“According to his clerk, the judge wanted no part of this furball.”
“Somebody got to him.”
“Maybe. Now what?”
“We find a jurist whose opinions aren’t subject to outside influence.”
“You have someone in mind?”
“I might.”
“Where are you?”
“About to make a surprise visit to Long Pavilion.”
“What for?”
“A look-see.”
“Good luck
with that.”
“Thanks. I’ll call you.”
I pulled the Wrangler to a stop in front of the Pavilion, a block-and-mortar structure that had been constructed in the late 1960s as a theatre-in-the-round. Music Circus Enterprises, a San Diego-based real estate company, developed the Pavilion and widened its business interests by creating a West Coast chain of arena-style venues in which they presented stage shows and live concerts, all of them featuring big-name entertainers.
Their idea was to bring star performers into suburban bedroom communities and create a newly imagined revenue stream. Movie stars appeared in roadshow editions of musicals and comedies. Mickey Rooney, Carol Channing, and Lana Turner once played the Pavilion, as did Jerry Lewis, Harry Belafonte, and most notably, Frank Sinatra.
The concept was a great success and thrived until sometime after the millennium, when the mega-show phenomenon gathered steam, filling sports arenas and stadiums that offered larger seating capacities. Music Circus Enterprises called it quits in 2004.
The site sat empty for several years until it was purchased in 2012 by the Long family, who poured considerable sums into a series of major renovations. It was a sizable property, with parking for hundreds of cars and seating for more than a thousand.
The building was situated in the center of a circular parking lot. It put me in mind of the Great Western Forum in Los Angeles, where the Lakers once played and where Jack Nicholson paraded his unabashed fanaticism in front of worldwide TV cameras.
The round stage remained where it had originally been constructed, in the bottom center of the arena, surrounded by ever-widening rows of seats that climbed dramatically heavenward toward the building’s main floor, which was at ground level.
The Longs re-invigorated the space by replacing the narrow seats with more ergonomically appropriate ones. They brightened its industrial look with untold gallons of more colorful paint and enhanced it further by installing a collection of backlit light-boxes, each placed at the top of an aisle, each offering a highly stylized, stained-glass etching of a notable Biblical event.
The dressing room area had been totally reconceived. The star suite was converted into living quarters for the Long family, fashioned after the elegantly appointed luxury apartment that had been created for Celine Dion at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas.
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