Remember Me, Irene

by Jan Burke

“You’re Corky?” she asked the man in fatigues.

  He nodded.

  “Irene is trying to find one of her friends,” Rachel said. “We thought you might know him.”

  No laughter. They all looked away from me then.

  “Come on, now,” Rachel said. “Nobody is trying to get anybody into trouble. She really is just looking for someone she knows.”

  “You know how it is, Rachel,” Blue said. “Somebody don’t want to be found, we ain’t gonna find ’im. It’s the way of things.”

  The others all murmured their agreement. Following Rachel’s lead, I let the silence stretch. Corky nudged Blue and whispered something to him.

  “Well, Corky, that’s a good point. Corky was saying there was no harm in listening to you say who you was lookin’ for, but—well, first off, you wouldn’t happen to have another one of them cigarettes, would you, Rachel?”

  “Sure I do,” Rachel said, but didn’t reach inside her jacket for the pack.

  Blue narrowed his eyes. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

  “No, I carry them just in case I meet somebody who might like one.”

  “Tradin’ on our bad habits, you mean,” Beans said.

  “Tell her what she wants to know,” Corky said crankily. “You all knew she was a snoop before she drove up.”

  “I’m looking for a man named Lucas Monroe,” I said.

  They looked at one another blankly, all except Corky. He was studying us.

  “You might know him as the Professor,” I added.

  “The Prof,” Corky said.

  “The Prof?” Blue said. “You looking for a black dude?”

  I nodded. The cigarettes came out of Rachel’s pocket, but she didn’t extend the pack.

  “Corky knows the Prof real well,” Blue added.

  The pack made the rounds again.

  “Now Rachel, don’t get mad at me,” Corky said. “This is the God’s truth. The Prof isn’t around much anymore. He got religion or something. He’s living at that new shelter, going to AA and the whole bit.”

  “Hell, Corky, you haven’t told me a thing I didn’t already know,” she said.

  “How could I know what you do and don’t know already? What am I, woman, a mind reader?”

  She gave him a look that made him bundle up tighter in his worn fatigue jacket.

  “He hasn’t been to the shelter for a few days,” I said. “He missed his curfew on Thursday night, and hasn’t been back since. Have you seen him in the last three or four days?”

  Corky shook his head. “Any of you seen him?” he asked the others.

  Solemn head shaking.

  “Before he cleaned up,” I asked, “where did he sleep?”

  “Buses, mostly,” Corky said. “Sometimes he stayed in one of the old hotels.”

  “Which hotels?” Rachel asked.

  “The Hyatt and the Hilton.” It brought out a round of laughter from the others.

  When Rachel and I didn’t join in on the joke, he scowled. “How do you know the Prof?” he asked me.

  “I was his student once.”

  “The Prof was a real prof?” Blue asked.

  “He taught at Las Piernas College,” I said. “I ran into him at a bus stop one day. A friend at the shelter told me he might be looking for me.”

  “Wait a minute,” Corky said. “You the reporter?”

  “Yes.”

  The others stepped back again.

  “Aw, relax,” Corky told them. He turned back to me. “You’re not here to do a story on any of us, right?”

  “Right. Just want to find Lucas—the Prof. Did he mention me to you?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Saw you when he was sleeping one off on a bus bench. That was before he went on the wagon.” He paused, a distant look coming over his face for a moment. “Twenty.”

  “Give me a break,” Rachel said. “I could start an auction right here among your pals and do better than that.”

  After some arguing with the others, Corky said, “If you fellows don’t learn to stand your ground, others will continue to take advantage of your misfortune.”

  “Cork it, Corky,” Blue said, then turned to Rachel. “The minute he starts talking like that, he knows he’s beat. He’ll tell you for fifteen.”

  Rachel looked to Corky, who scowled, then reached out a filthy hand.

  “Oh no, let’s hear it first.”

  “Prof said he knew some reporter on the Express. Said one day he was going to go see her, tell her his story. Said it would be big news.”

  “That’s worth zero to me,” Rachel said, “unless you know what this big story was.”

  Corky got a speculative look in his eye.

  “Don’t even bother making something up,” Rachel said.

  Corky looked resigned. “Nah, he didn’t give away a lot, even when he’d been drinking. Christ, Rachel, give a man a break.”

  “We’ve been talking to people all day. They tell us you’re his buddy, the one he hangs out with.”

  “Used to. Until he sobered up,” Corky said.

  “Tell me where he stayed when he wasn’t sober.”

  “Prof likes the Coronet, the Sunset Arms, the Angelus, the Piccadilly,” Corky said. “He likes the tall ones, the upper floors. Used to make me climb all those damned stairs with him.”

  “Those hotels are all condemned,” I said.

  Corky laughed. “Right. Never have to worry about them having a vacancy.”

  “It’s a start,” Rachel said, and gave over the fifteen bucks. Corky quickly stashed it inside his fatigue jacket.

  “Have any of you seen him at one of these places in the last few days?” I asked.

  Another round of head shaking.

  I was noting the names of the hotels when I heard Rachel ask, “Who else has been looking for him?”

  Complete silence. I looked up to see them shifting uneasily.

  “Ten bucks,” Rachel said.

  No takers.

  “Five bucks each,” I said. Rachel rolled her eyes.

  The others looked at Corky. “All right, all right,” Corky grumbled. “But I better not find myself standing up against him alone.”

  “Ain’t we stood by you so far, Corky?” Blue said. “I’m not scared of tellin’ her.” He turned to Rachel. “There’s this one guy—name of Two Toes. Used to call him Holler. You know him?”

  “Haven’t had the pleasure,” she said.

  “Won’t be no pleasure. Guy’s a 5150. Nuttier than a damned fruitcake. Makes up weird poetry, talks all kinds of religious stuff. And he’s a real knucklehead to boot. Used to call him Holler ’cause that’s all he does, day-in and day-out—hollers at people. He was always hassling Corky, but the Prof made him lay off.”

  “Long as he could, anyway,” Corky muttered.

  “That’s right,” Blue said. “Two Toes punched the Prof a good one a little while back.” He pretended to wallop himself on the cheek, complete with sound effects. “Pow! Old Prof swelled up like a damned chipmunk.” He laughed a little, then slanted a glance my way and grew quiet.

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “Not too long before he sobered up, I’d guess,” Corky said. “Few weeks ago.”

  “Where’d Two Toes get the new nickname?” Rachel asked.

  “Cut off two of his own toes,” Corky said.

  “And ate them!” Blue said.

  “I don’t believe that,” Corky said, looking as if he did.

  “He’s been looking for Lucas? For the Prof?” I asked.

  “Always. Thinks the Prof’s ring is magic,” Beans said.

  “His college ring?”

  “Yeah,” Corky said with a wheezy laugh. “I told him if it was magic, it would have been from my alma mater, not some lousy place like Las Piernas College.”

  “Your alma mater?” Rachel asked.

  “Yeah, UCLA. And if you’re a Trojan, I’ll just thank you to keep your mouth shut.”

  The others stared at him. He lo
oked down at his pair of stained Adidas, as if suddenly embarrassed. I began to despair of getting any further information from him.

  “Where’s that five bucks?” Blue asked.

  No one paid any attention to him. We were watching Corky.

  When at last he looked up at me, his eyes were hard. “Keep your lousy five bucks.”

  “He don’t mean it,” Blue said, but I was watching Corky walk away.

  “Corky and Prof were good friends,” Rooster said. “Prof only hung around with the rest of us because he liked to talk to Corky.”

  There was a lot of nodding on this point.

  “Where can I find Two Toes?” Rachel asked, as I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out a handful of fives.

  “It’s Sunday,” Blue said, not taking his eyes off the cash. “He’ll be out in front of St. A’s.”

  “St. Anthony’s?” I asked.

  He nodded. “He stays on his knees in front of that statue out front. Can’t miss him. He’s a big guy with a crazy kind of hat on, and a big beard. He’s been Catholic the last few Sundays. Better catch him before he turns Baptist or something. And watch out for them fists of his.”

  ST. ANTHONY’S IS A BEAUTIFUL old Catholic church. I like it better than my old parish church, which—after redecorating—went so ultramodern that I feel like I’m on the set of a cheap science-fiction film every time I set foot in it. (Which is admittedly so rare, it could have changed back to something more traditional since the last time I was there.)

  But St. Anthony’s has stained-glass windows, mosaics covering the walls and parts of the ceiling, marble on the altar, and all sorts of alcoves and nooks and crannies with statuary and candles and holy water. If you’re the kind of Catholic who knows what it is to own a calendar with red fish printed on the Fridays, then St. Anthony’s is your kind of place.

  I wasn’t going to see the inside that day, though, because the man we were looking for was right where Blue had told us he would be—outside, kneeling before a statue of St. Anthony of Padua. Patron saint of the poor.

  The “crazy kind of hat” turned out to be a long stocking cap of rainbow colors—it vaguely resembled one an aunt gave me in the 1960s, the Christmas after she got a knitting machine. His beard, which was dark brown, was almost as long and pointy as the cap. There was a sort of symmetry in it, I suppose.

  Inside the church, a mass was being said. I could hear the congregation singing the Gloria. “Glory to God in the highest, and peace to his people on earth,” they sang, a group of guitars strumming in the background.

  Two Toes was a big man. I could see that, even while he was on his knees. He heard us approaching and suddenly stood. He turned toward us, his feet planted wide apart. He pointed at us, his eyes narrowed, and he sniffed the air, as if catching a scent.

  Rachel immediately put me behind her, her own stance one of calm readiness. “Hello,” she said, watching him.

  “Who are you?” he thundered.

  “I’m Rachel,” she said in a quiet, but firm voice.

  “This is Irene. We just wondered if we could talk to you for a minute.”

  He tilted his head to one side, tried to peer around to see me. “Tell her not to hide behind you,” he said to Rachel, not shouting now. “This is the Sabbath. A day of rest. Peace be with you.”

  I stepped over to one side, but Rachel said in a low voice, “Whatever you do, don’t get between me and him.”

  “Have you lost something?” he asked.

  Rachel looked puzzled, but I said, “Yes, that’s why we’ve come to St. Anthony.”

  “Good, good,” he said. “St. Anthony prays for those who have lost something. Then the Lord helps them find what they have lost. A saintly service, free of cost.”

  “Of course,” Rachel said, her own Catholic days coming back to her.

  “What have you lost, my dear? I have St. Anthony’s ear.”

  “I’ve lost a friend,” I said.

  He closed his eyes and swayed a little on his feet, began humming to himself. “Tell me more,” he said after a moment.

  Any minute now, I thought, Toto will pull back the curtain. But if this was the way he was going to play it, there wasn’t much I could do about it.

  “My friend is named Lucas. Some call him the Prof.”

  His eyes flew open. He raised a fist over his head. “Step back,” Rachel said to me in a low voice. “Slowly.”

  “No!” he roared. “You are not worthy!”

  Inside the church, the congregation began singing the Alleluia. It distracted him. He tilted his head again, listened. He lowered his fist.

  “Our Lord loves sinners. He takes sinners and makes them winners. He wants me to tell you.” He lowered his head, then raised his eyes up to us again. “An angel watches over the Prof—watches over him all the time. Seen it with my own eyes at the Great Wall of China.” He smiled and started singing in a loud voice—to the tune of “Chattanooga Choo-choo”—“Nothing could be finer, sittin’ in the diner, than eat your ham and eggs in good ol’ China.” He stopped singing and frowned. “Wall of China. An angel led me to him. Got to say it three times, when the bells ring. The ring, the ring, the ring.”

  “What?” Rachel asked, though I doubt she had high hopes for an explanation.

  “Amen, amen, I say to you.” He turned back to the statue and dropped back down to his knees. He began humming “Chattanooga Choo-choo” again.

  “What angel?” I asked.

  “Many angels,” he replied. “I follow the angels. Go in peace. Go while you can.”

  We stood there for a while, but he only hummed. We gave up trying to get his attention. As we walked back to the car, I could hear the parishioners of St. Anthony’s singing again. The Lord’s Prayer.

  Give us this day …

  But in an association of ideas perhaps only slightly less random than those of Two Toes, the singing of that prayer gave me an idea about where we might find Lucas.

  13

  STOP THE CAR,” I said.

  Rachel complied, pulling over. “Do you see it? Over there. Look at the building across the street.”

  “The one they’re working on?” she asked, indicating a scaffolded tower, where on a weekday, workers with jackhammers and cement mixers and other equipment would create the cacophony of construction work. Today, it was silent.

  “No, the one to the right of it,” I said.

  On the next lot, a tall, gray building stood, its dignity sagging like the chain-link fence which surrounded it. Like a lonely old woman whose dress and makeup are passé, it was both ornate and abandoned. At the top of the building, at each corner, a pair of angels stood, wings long and tucked close, hands folded in prayer, long robes draped heavily to their feet. Faces solemn and watchful.

  If they were guardian angels, there was little left to guard, but perhaps it was through their protection that one or two of the large street-level windows miraculously remained unbroken. The owners and patrons of what I would guess were once opulent shops and elegant restaurants were long gone, no wares displayed in the windows dull with dirt and brick dust from the project next door. Still, the bright red Chinese characters painted on one of them were plainly visible, as were the words which had caught my attention: Great Wall of China Restaurant.

  My gaze moved to the building’s front entry. At the top of a set of stairs, a banner held by two smaller stone angels spelled out a name: The Angelus Hotel.

  An angel watches over the Prof—watches over him all the time. Seen it with my own eyes at the Great Wall of China… Got to say it three times, when the bells ring.

  “Looks like you were right,” she said. “Two Toes was talking about the Angelus.”

  “It was the only hotel on Corky’s list that fit with anything Two Toes was saying. I’m not sure they ever served ham and eggs in there, but maybe he was just saying that it was a restaurant, not the actual Wall of China.”

  “Saying?” she chided. “I think it was as much a sec
ret code to him as to us.”

  We got out of the car and started walking toward the old hotel. It looked like it had been built in the 1920s, one of Las Piernas’s boom periods.

  “Domini angelus …” Rachel intoned, reciting the Latin opening which gave the prayer its name. “Should have known. Used to say the Angelus three times a day. You, too?”

  “Sure. I went to Catholic school, remember? Should I sing a few bars of O Salutarus Hostia for you?”

  “Some other time. Wonder if a Catholic built the hotel?”

  “That or someone who was trying to connect this town up with Los Angeles. But L.A. might not have been such a big place itself when this was built, and given all those angels on the corners, I’m betting this was put together by one of our more devout brethren.”

  “One of our more affluent brethren,” Rachel said.

  The fence along the front of the hotel was intact, if not exactly forbidding. We walked outside it to our right, away from the construction site and toward an alley on the other side of the Angelus. The alley was deserted, cut off from a one-way street by three large metal posts with bent reflector signs on them. I burrowed my hands into my coat pockets and followed Rachel as she walked down the alley, studying the building.

  Ahead of us, in a section that would have been out of sight from the construction workers, the fence had been cut. Rachel pulled back on the mesh of chain link and made an “after you” bow.

  Squatting low, I made my way through, then waited for Rachel. We now stood on a long strip of ground that might have once been a lawn or garden. A pair of tall palm trees and a few clumps of weeds were all that remained of it.

  A long paved drive ran between the strip and the hotel. Beyond the drive was what must have been a parking lot—what I could see of it was cracked asphalt studded with weeds.

  Rachel stood still, looking at the hotel, and then at the ground. “Good thing it rained the other night,” she said. “That will help us find the preferred entrance.”

  “Footprints.”

  “Right. The ground is dry now, but some folks definitely took shelter here when it rained. These ought to point the way.”

  The trail of bent grass and depressions in the dried mud angled to and from the back of the building. We followed them.