CoverBoys & Curses

by Lala Corriere

  “I can’t afford to have them around The Centre anymore. Not now. It’s too risky.”

  “And I’m telling you it’s too risky to have them at all. You discard them like used popsicles sticks when you’re done with them, but let me tell you—those sticks are catching fire.”

  “Keep the troublemakers in the cells. Double them up, if you must. Just keep them healthy and hydrated. Keep them off the proteins. Doctor’s orders.”

  “You’re a fucking predator,” Armand yelled.

  “And you, my dear friend—you are my partner. You just have a need for a different form of bonus plan than me. You fuck your women, young and old, but the only way you really get off is by smacking the shit out of them. My savage pal, I’ve had to clean up after you, too. That’s why we make the most excellent of partners.”

  Armand’s voice throttled, “My messes bring in more hard money than yours.”

  “Child! You child! Quit counting and let’s call a truce for the evening.” Coal called for the fifty-year-old scotch and another glass for Armand.

  “So now what, partner? What’s next? I’m on board, whatever it is,” Armand acquiesced after only a few ounces of the fiery brew.

  “We have Carly Posh. She’s the offspring of a troglodyte but in a little pretty shell of a body. She’s an unenlightened dweeb longing for a home. Maybe that’s why she’s so good at interior design. She’s always trying to make a home out of four walls of bricks and mortar.”

  “Fantastic houses,” Armand murmured.

  “I’m working on Visconti. She’s a challenge.”

  “And god knows you love a challenge. But if she catches you with one of your boy toys it’s all over.”

  “That’s why I told you to keep them away from The Centre, damn it. And for the record, I need you away from there, too!”

  “What about Sterling Falls?”

  Coal brought out the coke. Time for some baseball. “She’s worth more than Visconti, but nothing until her old man is dead. Trust me. I’m working on that. I’m having dinner with her and Daddy.”

  “Who are you this time?”

  “I’m still good old Dr. Harlan Coal. Isn’t it grand?”

  “With this circle of girls, don’t you think they talk? They have cell phones. One mention of you and you’re screwed. It’s all grand until someone discovers who Nathan Judd really is.”

  “Nathan Judd, the evil one, was my father. He also has another reputation, if anyone does bother to do any digging. He was the king of gold. And that’s how I connect with Sterling Falls and Daddy. With the price of metals today no one will dig any deeper than the dirt that houses the veins of gold.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Quaking Threats

  THE PRIEST ARTICLE HIT the stands with a big splash. And as a very bad idea. I didn’t know L.A. housed so many Catholics and their high-powered Catholic attorneys.

  Core staff had gathered in our small conference room. They were indifferent to the pending lawsuits. I had a reliable team, although I admit I was not indifferent to the names of attorneys splayed across my desk and flooding my email.

  I read across my teams’ faces like a lawyer might try to read a jury: Averted eye contact. Pursed lips. Nervousness.

  No one would speak.

  “We were all on board with this issue and I’m not going to apologize for it. We weren’t the ones to break the story of the priestly child molestations back in Germany. We didn’t break the story on the two hundred children in Milwaukee at the St. John’s School for the Deaf. We just kept the story out there for public view because it shouldn’t be flushed away with the dirty dishwater.

  “Do you know what the church did to Father Murphy? They sent him in for therapy! No other punishment.”

  Geoff, an integral part of CoverBoy’s every foundation, was first to respond with a flat statement. “We broke the story about the therapist’s involvement. They’ll crucify us.”

  “He’s a big boy in a major county mental health center. He’s paid by our government. Our money,” I charged back on ground that seemed more firm then I’d ever stepped on before.

  “Yes, but Lauren, he has patient-client privilege. And you’re right. He’s a big boy in the big church. What were we thinking?” Geoff’s voice quaked.

  “The man came to me. He called it some sort of trumped-up psycho babble for having a guilty conscience. He’s getting up there in age and suddenly realizing he won’t get past the Pearly Gates if he doesn’t come clean with what he knows.”

  My junior editor responded, “Sounds like he’s screwed either way. Might as well go and buy a pitch fork.”

  “We didn’t use his name,” I added.

  “Doesn’t take a genius,” Geoff said. “We’ve identified that he’s a guru in the mental health system and a deacon in the Catholic church.”

  “Again. We didn’t use his name and he came to us with the story. It’s all on tape and emails and evidential correspondence. No lawsuits.”

  “Let’s hope he lives,” Geoff murmured.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Gabriella Criscione

  I HAPPENED TO BE IN the neighborhood. Dumb line, but I didn’t have anything better. I wanted to see Gabriella Criscione. It could have been a mission of good will, except I wanted to know more about what she knew of Carly renting her Bel Air home to The Centre more than I wanted to know about Gabri’s welfare.

  She must have thought it strange, my dropping in on her. I found it strange to find her at home on a Sunday, only because of her vocation.

  Her black and vacuous eyes led me through the foyer; her sentry of the suit of armor allowed me the crossing.

  “I’m not exactly booking any dinner parties these days, if that’s what you want,” Gabri said. She quickly added, “But I’m fine. Just fine.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. You have no reason to be—“

  “Embarrassed? Mortified?”

  “Gabri, you are an institution in L.A., and we’re all here for you.”

  “You don’t mean your boyfriend, Brock Townsend?” her eyes glared.

  He’s not my boyfriend, and no, Brock didn’t exactly convey his concern for Gabri.

  “I mean Sterling. Carly. Me”, I offered.

  Gabri snipped her scissors, attacking a bouquet of fresh basil. The kitchen already smelled of caramelizing onions and garlic. One-inch cubes of meat sat on a nearby butcher’s block.

  “Making calf liver,” Gabri said. “Damn shame. It used to be good for children to eat the damn stuff. Now it’s considered a bad organ meat. All you need is onion and garlic. And don’t tell anyone, but I add tongue. Its flavoring is divine.”

  I watched as she added cube after cube of something to the bottom of the copper skillet.

  “Come,” she said. “It’s time for the feeding.

  We walked outside—Gabri carrying a big bucket. She poured scoops of food into the murky waters of the moat that encircled her home.

  The mottled Shubunkin fish gathered to dine on the tasty recipe of frozen plankton, beef heart and bloodworms. They soon jumped out at the outstretched arm and gobbled every morsel within seconds.

  “We all care about you,” I said as we journeyed back inside.

  “Sterling is a good girl. That Carly is a whacko. Living in that wacky compound.”

  I didn’t even have to use my interviewing skills. Gabri did all the talking.

  “That girl must be on steroids, or meth, or something. She’s a nut case.”

  “She can always go back to her home in Bel Air,” I said. “If and when things may not work out for her she could resell her home at The Centre.”

  Gabri huffed and puffed. But she’d never blow her house down. Not the concrete cave she lived in. She shook her head at me.

  “What is it?” I said. Genuine concern. No interrogation.

  “She isn’t even pulling rent on that place. It appears she’s lending it out. But not now. That foolish woman went and gave it away. Not t
hat it’s any of my business.” She shook her head again, as if shaking off the water after a dunk in a city sewer.

  “You know this for a fact?”

  “I ran an O and E on it. Ownership and encumbrances. It shows mortgages, liens, and deeds.”

  “Ownership? Now?” I asked.

  “Dr. Harlan Coal.”

  I heaved in a deep breath, finding some grounding in the comforting aromas now coming from Gabri’s skillets. “I don’t think we should jump to any conclusions,” I said. “Maybe there’s some sort of explanation we don’t know about. Maybe a trade or something.”

  “You know, I manage to piss off a lot of folks,” she said, “just because I don’t kiss the feet of those I disfavor. In my business there’s this cardinal rule that I’m suppose to love everyone, and I say fuck that! I make my money the hard way and I do a damn good job. But, I’ve made my share of enemies along the way. I just haven’t fingered all of them yet.”

  “All of us have burned some bridges,” I said.

  She murmured, “Yes, so I’ve heard. You push the envelope, my dear. But so far you haven’t received a painted portrait of yourself. You’re ahead of the game, at least by L.A. standards.”

  “Animosity runs its course,” I said.

  “My course is encapsulated by one single wimp. He’s hiding,” she tapped her stubby fingers on the counter next to the trimmed fat and in rhythm to an unheard tune. “I’ll deal with the rat bastard.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Showtime

  I PULLED UP TO The Centre and noticed Harlan—Dr. Coal, in the back seat of a red Jeep Wrangler, with two kids in front. All of them hopped out and started bundling up wooden crates of groceries.

  “Need an extra hand?” I asked.

  Dr. Coal jolted around with a grimace, but recovered with a toothy grin and a bouquet of yellow daises. “Indeed, if you can handle this load.” He gave me the flowers.

  “Looks like you have your hands full,” I said, embarrassed that I had shown up without any regard to appointments. I’d already rehearsed my excuse that I was there only there to drop in on Carly. I seemed to need excuses to go anywhere.

  “Provisions for our weekly meeting,” Coal said.

  I didn’t know Coal or The Centre stuck to any schedule of meetings but one of the boys affirmed, yes, every Tuesday night.

  I helped them deliver the boxed vegetables into the compound cafeteria, probably best described as a community kitchen. To the best of my knowledge anyone was free to use it for impromptu gatherings.

  With a nod from Dr. Coal, I followed him toward the sizeable auditorium. I’d seen it before on my first tour of The Centre, but I would have never imagined the kind of energy now emanating from the eager participants.

  The man with the ponytail, Armand? He appeared and disappeared, and I remembered the man on the beach. Coal had said Armand had no temperament beyond being finicky over the final touches of a floral arrangement at an evening gathering feast. The man I saw at the beach, so close to my home, was vituperative. Angry. Physical. I dismissed any circumstantial evidence. There were plenty of long braids in Los Angeles.

  The audience dressed as if under a dress code of denim and white cotton only. With blue jeans, shirts and denim dresses, my emerald St. John suit flagged me as an outsider. I took a seat in the back row of the large hall.

  A small woman knelt on the raised platform, center stage. She led the group in an exercise of deep breathing, alternating between verbal affirmations.

  Four persons lined up behind the woman. In pep-rally fashion, one by one they revealed their intimate histories with The Centre. Their emotive testimonials whipped the air. As I’d believed all along, Dr. Coal was causing significant change in peoples’ lives.

  Dr. Coal jumped out on the stage from behind heavy white draping.

  “Time is running out!” He swirled on the platform and the white linen gauze he wore swayed in curling drifts of movement, his eyes shaded from the lights with the dark tinted glasses. “You have found a place of unconditional love. You are weak. I am weak. Yet here, together, we are whole and strong.”

  His audience numbered somewhere near sixty. They all fell into a whisper of chanting. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. No matter how I tried to piece words together, they were more like syllables. Normally I would have shunned the spectacle but for some odd reason I found it comforting.

  “Let go of the past! Don’t go back there! Never go back!”

  Coal continued to sweep the stage. Left, right, center, back. His speech was patterned, but irregular. As his sheathed body faded and all but disappeared in front of the white curtains, I found myself swirling into a warm fantasy.

  I imagined his tanned skin just beneath the surface of the gauze shirt. I imagined the texture of the skin and each muscular curve.

  Too much CoverBoy in my blood, I thought.

  The truth is I didn’t hear much else of what Coal spoke that night. Each mesmerizing phrase seemed to pass over my head, but not before entering my heart and soul.

  I felt warm. Loved. And part of me was realizing it was time to let go of Payton. Maybe it was true. Maybe I didn’t need to return to Tucson.

  Dr. Coal left the podium and the small woman who had led the chanting came back onto the stage, announcing the breakfast meeting would be at precisely 6:00 A.M. the following day. The strict schedule was something new to me. Carly never mentioned it.

  Where was Carly? Impossible to find her in the crowd of denim. Surely she would see me in my unmistakable glow of green attire.

  Three persons stood in front of me, as if I were but a green mist to be ignored. “He belongs to his people,” said one.

  “And we are lucky. We are his.”

  Now I felt creepy. I pulled the emerald jacket closer to my chest and was thankful that I had chosen a seat in the back. I dashed out to the courtyard. In the brisk air I found a welcome relief.

  What was it? Sweet and salty, sweet and sour, or sweet and bitter? Something didn’t set right with me.

  Carly sat on a park bench along the winding path. Two squatty Pug puppies jumped around at her side. I was happy to see a familiar face and even happier she wasn’t wearing denim.

  “I looked for you inside,” I said, scrunching next to her on the bench.

  “Meet the new loves of my life,” she said. “This is Elliot and this one is Antoinette.”

  “Wow. This is a surprise. I know you love dogs but I didn’t think—”

  “Why not?”

  “Miss Perfect. Interior designer. As in, no dog hair or dog poop. For sure, no doggie breath and dog kisses,” I said, letting the puppies lick my hands.

  “Consider them my Foo Dogs with real fur, but less ferocious,” she said. “Besides, I like to break the rules. You know that.”

  “Rules?”

  “We’re really not allowed to have pets here at The Centre.”

  “Allowed?”

  “You know. Rules. Not unlike any H.O.A.” She brought Antoinette up to the bench seat.

  “They’re adorable,” I said.

  “They’re my replacement for you stealing Dr. Coal’s attention away from me.”

  Carly knew how to drop bombs better than anyone I knew. Was she serious?

  “Tell me,” she continued, “does he like the work I did for you at your beach house?”

  “Carly, Dr. Coal has never been to my home. Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “Because I see the way he looks at you. It’s like no therapist relationship I’ve ever known.”

  Carly switched gears before I could get my fighting gloves on. She slid off the bench, scooping one puppy in her arms and grabbing the leash for the second one.

  “Don’t go,” I insisted.

  “Come with me if you like. Dr. Coal has a book for me to pick up at his house.”

  “But isn’t he still in the auditorium?”

  “It’s okay. He told me where to find it. Remember, we don’t h
ave locked doors around here.”

  Yeah. That privacy and respect thing they had going on.

  The ground burst with summer delights. A second round of roses had begun to bloom and the lotus flowers cast their rich foliage against the glassy sheets of fountain water. Elliot and Antoinette were still trying to get the hang of their leashes, which meant Carly was having a hard time keeping them both out of the gardens and fountains.

  Eventually Carly led the puppies, tangled leashes and all, up the short stairs of Coal’s residence. Without thought she threw open the unlocked door and nodded toward me to follow.

  “Kind of weird being in here alone,” I said.

  “You’re not alone. You’re with me and two illegal puppies. And I told you, Dr. Coal told me it was okay.”

  I leaned against the massive stone wall as Carly picked up the hardcover from atop a large floor pillow. “Carly, do you ever wonder what’s behind this wall? It seems like it has the only locked door on the entire compound.”

  “Sometimes, I guess,” she said, “But Dr. Coal says it’s mostly records. I think of it like the Akashic Records, but better.”

  “It’s a big space. There must be a helluva lot of records.”

  “You ask him if you’re so interested. He’ll probably give you a library pass.”

  “It’s not like that, Carly,” I said.

  She tightened her grip on the two leashes. “I know what rules to break, and when to put on the brakes,” she said.

  And she walked away.

  Chapter Fifty

  Ding Dong

  I HEARD IT ON THE morning news. Within the hour I would be inundated with phone calls and maybe even a few nosey reporters at my door. Maybe even a good old-fashioned barn burning.

  One thing had already been set afire. The song in my brain matter refused to end my torment. Worse, I changed the lyrics without much effort.

  Ding dong, the priest is dead.

  That nasty priest is really dead.

  Ding dong, that filthy priest is dead.