City of Angels

by Kristi Belcamino

  A license plate number. Like I had given Ernie.

  After he’d run off the gang members, Ernie kept drinking until closing time and then had stumbled off his bar stool and into the parking lot, but couldn’t find his car. It was gone. Stolen.

  When they eventually found his car, a week later, it was in a riverbed, burned to a crisp.

  “Now,” Amir said, rubbing his manicured hands together and smiling at me. “You might wonder how a group of teenage boys got one over on a veteran cop.”

  Although this conversation was riveting with its glimpse into Amir’s life, I was anxious to get back to my tables before they decided not to tip me. But Amir continued.

  “It’s because Ernie made the mistake of thinking he was invincible. He never thought a group of teenage boys could ever threaten him, a big, tough cop. That feeling of power was his Achilles heel. He felt untouchable and that was the chink in his armor. He never thought for a second that a punk kid, a child, would have the audacity to steal his car. And yet, that is what the boy did, isn’t it? Ernie’s mistake was overestimating his power and importance and underestimating the little guy. Don’t ever underestimate the strength and willpower of the oppressed.”

  When Ernie and his bushy moustache walked into Little Juan’s one night, my heart jumped into my throat. I’d worried he was never coming back. I could barely keep myself from accosting him, bringing him chips way too often, but trying not to seem obvious. He placed his food order over his shoulder before turning back to his friends. I spent the night staring at the thinning hair on the back of his head, willing him to turn and look at me. He asked for the check and the disappointment settled like a stone inside me. He wasn’t going to help me find who owned that car.

  I ran his credit card and handed the bill back to him in the black leather folder. I sat at one corner of the bar, sipping a soda, taking drags off the cigarette I had resting in the ashtray, and staring at him as he got ready to leave.

  He and his friends were nearly to the door when he said something to them and returned, reaching for the black leather folder. He opened it, scribbled something, gave me a meaningful look, and left without a backward glance.

  As soon as the outside door shut, I sprinted over, scooped up the folder into my apron, and sprinted for the bathroom. My heart racing, I locked myself in a stall and opened the black leather folder. I breathed in deeply, preparing to discover the name of Rain’s mystery man, at last.

  Inside, Ernie’s scrawl at the bottom of the check said, Car registered to The Enlightened Star Center on Sunset Blvd.

  The Church of the Evermore Enlightened Star Center.

  Proof that Rain’s mystery man was a member of that church. That was why Chris had left me that book. Was he telling me Rain was at the center? And what exactly was the Star Center?

  A stack of books about The Church of the Evermore Enlightened was on the floor in my room. So far, I’d only read two of them. The Time magazine article described The Church of the Evermore Enlightened as “a highly successful racket that stays afloat by using mob tactics to bully, not only those who criticize it, but also its own followers.”

  Frank told me that the murderers had cut out Chris’s tongue in a Mafia-like message. Also, my attempted mugging seemed to fit into scare tactics of a group run like the mob.

  One of those three celebrities on my wall had to be a member of that church. All I needed to do was find out which one. I was relieved I didn’t have to work the next day and could spend time figuring out how to do that.

  I stayed up until four in the morning reading about The Church of the Evermore Enlightened. Again, like so many things in my life, there was a drug connection. The church was against using even prescription drugs—with psychiatric drugs being especially taboo. But at the same time, many of the followers had past stories of heavy drug use.

  Followers also believed that they could obtain “superhuman” abilities that would allow them to do magical things, such as change the color of traffic lights, have flawless memories, and travel outside their bodies.

  It was also supposed to allow them to do other, scarier things, such as cut someone in half with their mind, shock them or poke out their eyes with mind control alone. Freaks.

  The next morning, I scrounged up as many quarters as I could find in my room and headed to the gas station pay phone. I dialed 411 for information and scribbled the number of the Star Center on a page I ripped out of the yellow phone book. I plugged in a dollar’s worth of quarters and dialed.

  “Do you have a list of members?”

  “We’re not allowed to give out that information over the phone,” a woman’s clipped voice told me.

  “What if I come in person?”

  A car left the gas station revving its engine, making it hard to hear.

  “That is private information.”

  “Okay…can you maybe answer yes or no if I give you some names?” I didn’t wait for her response. “Is Matt Macklin a member?”

  Silence.

  “Or how about Andy Martin, you know, the comedian?”

  Dead air.

  “Maybe Rex Walker? You have to know who he is. You know, from that movie, Dead or Deader?”

  “Hold, please.”

  Abba music started piping through the phone line. Was she checking the names for me? A male voice got on the phone.

  “May I help you?”

  Right then the phone beeped and I plugged in four more quarters. “Yeah, I’m trying to find out if some celebrities are members of your organization.”

  “May I ask your name?”

  Images of Scooby Doo trying to solve a mystery flashed into my mind. “Velma.”

  “Okay, uh, Velma. What names are you interested in finding out about?”

  I reeled off the three names. The man remained silent.

  “May I ask why you are interested in this information?”

  “Well, I’m sort of looking for a man I think might know my friend,” I said. “I think she might be with him and I need to get a message to her.”

  Two angry drivers in a road rage honked at each other and squealed as they roared by the gas station right when the man said something.

  “Sorry about that. I couldn’t hear you,” I said.

  “I asked, what is your friend’s name?”

  Little alarm bells were ringing in my head. I worried I had said too much, but had to tell the man something for him to help me.

  “Her name’s Rain. She’s twelve.” The phone beeped again. Boy, was this an expensive call. What was it, a buck a minute?

  “Rain. Twelve.” The man repeated as if he were taking notes. “And is there a number where I can reach you?”

  “But you haven’t even told me if any of those men are members. That’s why I called.”

  An older woman with a scarf over her head started knocking on the glass door of the phone booth glaring at me. I glared back and held up my finger. “One minute,” I mouthed to her.

  “So, are they members?” I said.

  “I will see what I can find out. Where can I reach you?”

  I paused for a minute. “I guess you can leave a message at Al’s Bar. I don’t have the number. I’m sure it’s in the book.”

  Long pause. The woman in the scarf was glaring at me. I smiled back.

  “Okay, then. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  And before I could say anything, the man hung up.

  When I brushed past the woman outside waiting to use the phone, she rolled her eyes at me and I was pretty sure whatever she said in Japanese was not thank you.

  By the end of the week, it got to the point where I would walk into Al’s Bar and Stuart would shake his dreadlocked head from across the room. No messages for a Velma. Maybe I was foolish for even thinking that guy at The Church of the Evermore Enlightened Star Center would want to help me.

  After two weeks, I took a bag of quarters back to the payphone. This time I told the receptionist to take a message. />
  “Tell the guy who helped me last time that I’m still looking for my friend, Rain. She’s twelve. I think she’s with one of your members. My name’s Velma.” I reeled off the number I had copied down from the phone at Al’s Bar.

  That night, Sadie came to my room to tell me she was staying home sick from work. Even feeling ill, she had perfect posture, and, if anything, looking wan brought out her haughty cheekbones. Standing in my doorway in a baby doll nightgown clutching a tissue box and sniffling, she told me her boyfriend, Tony, would stop by the restaurant at closing to give me a ride home. Although I usually only saw her at work, she had been very sweet to me lately. And overprotective ever since the night the guy tried to mug me—letting me ride home with her and her married boyfriend whenever we worked together.

  I waited inside the restaurant after work for Tony to come. Usually when Sadie worked, he sat at the bar having a drink until her shift ended. There was no sign of him tonight. Maybe he was late.

  I re-stocked the sugar containers, folded the big red napkins, and paced, smoking and drinking a Roy Rogers until finally I gave up. Tony had flaked. That guy was a tool anyway. I didn’t understand what Sadie saw in him. Shrugging on my leather jacket, I grabbed my bag and yelled goodbye to Amir, who was still working in his office.

  The heavy oak door swung shut behind me. I yawned, looking up for stars, which rarely appeared in downtown L.A. Instead, the normal orange haze filled the sky. A big van that had been parked across the street started up and did a screeching U-turn, heading my way. I froze, wanting to step back into the restaurant, but unable to do so, paralyzed by fear. The van pulled right beside me. The only thing I could focus on was a big gun inches away from my face. My entire body turned cold and time seemed to slow. My vision narrowed until all I saw was the barrel, not the person holding it, not the driver, not the van. In the back of my mind I knew I should run, or duck, or scream, but I couldn’t move. Then, the metallic click of a trigger echoed in the silence.

  “Bang. Bang.” The words were slow and drawn out and monotone.

  My vision started closing in more until only a tiny circle of light stood out from the blackness. Through the roaring sound of blood pulsing in my ears I distantly heard a raspy voice growl, “Back off, bitch. Or the next time the gun’s loaded.”

  As the van screeched away, I started shaking uncontrollably and my legs grew weak. I collapsed onto the bench out front until the headlights of an approaching car spurred me back into the empty restaurant.

  I slumped into a booth near the door, dizzy and panting. Tinny ringing filled my ears. Then I noticed Amir standing across the room staring at me. He sprang into action, hurrying over to me so fast that his usually perfectly coiffed silver hair jostled slightly out of place.

  “What happened?” he asked with his thick accent.

  “A van…a gun…in my face.”

  “Good God.” He raced to the door and yanked it open. A few minutes later he returned. “They are gone now.”

  His eyes behind the silver frames scanned my face and he said, “Sit. I’ll be right back.”

  He went behind the bar and grabbed the tequila bottle off the top shelf. He poured the liquid amber into two tumblers.

  Handing me one, he sat across from me.

  “Drink. You are in shock.”

  I raised the tumbler and somehow slopped some into my mouth. I gulped and felt the warmth slide down my throat into my belly. My shoulders slumped back into the seat and with shaking fingers I dug into my jacket pocket and pulled out my cigarettes. I felt a drop of sweat dribble down my hairline. It took me three tries to light a match.

  I spent the next fifteen minutes telling Amir everything—my theory that someone involved in The Church of the Evermore Enlightened had taken Rain.

  A glimmer of something I couldn’t name flickered across his face. I asked him if he’d heard about The Church of the Evermore Enlightened. He nodded, his jaw set tightly. “They are very powerful. More powerful than you realize. They will not take kindly to you…looking around. I think that is what the gun was about.”

  “But I don’t have a choice,” I said, stubbing out my cigarette and downing the dregs of my drink. I felt better, more alert, and instead of feeling frightened, I was beginning to get angry about what had happened.

  “Even so. I think maybe you should let it go.”

  “What?” I was surprised. “This coming from the man who lectured me about throwing off oppression?”

  “Part of the quest for freedom involves knowing how to choose your battles,” he said, standing. “You are only one girl. One person. You will not be able to fight them. This is not a battle you can win.”

  I felt anger spread through me, replacing my fear. He didn’t know if I could win or not. He’d talked about people throwing off the mantle of dictatorship and here he was equating a religious group’s power with something like a government?

  “What about your whole lecture on not underestimating the little guy?” His passiveness disappointed me. He wasn’t so tough after all. “That story you told me about Ernie. Remember?”

  “I remember,” he said, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “It is not the same.”

  Yes, it is. But I kept quiet.

  Amir drove me home, waiting in his car until I waved at him from inside the glass front door. Arguing with Amir was a waste of time. I would have to prove him wrong.

  “That motherfucker,” Sadie mumbled, throwing clothes around her room and not meeting my eyes when she heard about Tony flaking and the gun. I’d gone to Sadie for advice. At this point, she was my only friend, if you could call her that. She was usually so busy working and hanging out with her boyfriend I hardly ever saw her. But she was loyal as hell. And fierce.

  “I’m taking the day off work,” she said. “We’ll go to that Star Center together. Someone is trying to send you a message and I got my own message for them.” She reached into a drawer of her dresser and took out a gun.

  I gave her a look.

  “I got more than one.” She turned her back and threw around some more clothes.

  She didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and I felt too stupid to ask where the guns had come from. Sadie lived in a different world than me in so many ways.

  It took a few minutes, but I talked her out of coming to the Star Center with me, saying I would be safe alone since it was the middle of the day.

  “Thank you. But go on to work. I’ll see you later.”

  She gave me a skeptical look, but finally agreed and put the gun back in the drawer. I tried not to show how relieved I was.

  Sitting on the city bus, I couldn’t tell if it was the smell of sweat and gasoline or the old man smell of the guy beside me that was making me sick, so I got up and moved. I ended up sitting across from a young guy with scrawling tattoos up his neck and a teardrop tattoo near his eye. He kept staring at me, so I glared at him. He made a face back, but it was such a goofy one I couldn’t help but burst into laughter. He did, too, and yanked the cord for the next stop. As he got off the bus, he stuck out his tongue as he passed me, but I just rolled my eyes in a friendly way.

  Now bored, I almost wished Sadie had come along, just to keep me company on the long ride. Finally, it was my stop. It had taken two transfers to get to the Sunset Boulevard stop. The bus pulled away with a burst of nasty exhaust, and when it cleared, the Star Center was a block away, soaring above the palm trees like a giant French castle. It seemed as impenetrable as a heavily fortified stronghold, too. A stone wall bordered the sidewalk, then a larger wooden fence, and behind that, eight-foot high hedges in front of a line of palm trees. It was if they were trying to soften the impression of a fortress. Maybe Amir was right. Maybe I was in over my head.

  As soon as I stepped foot onto the sidewalk in front of the center, a security guard wearing dark sunglasses and riding a bike appeared out of nowhere and stopped a few feet away. He got off his bike and muttered into a walkie-talkie. I slanted my eyes at
him sideways, glad my sunglasses hid my gaze. He was heading my way. I lifted my camera from where it hung around my neck and put my finger on the shutter release.

  “You need help finding the Hollywood sign?” he asked.

  Even I knew we were nowhere near the sign.

  I shook my head, my long hair wildly swinging. I wasn’t going to dignify his stupid question with an answer. Ignoring him, I snapped off a few pictures of the hedge in front of the center, trying not to show I was intimidated. But he wasn’t leaving. I tucked my camera back in my bag and crossed the street to a coffee shop, hoping he would think I was leaving and go away himself. He stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting until I was inside the coffee shop before he turned and walked around the corner. I’d wait a few minutes and go back.

  Inside, I plopped on a purple velvet couch near the front window, smoked a few cigarettes, and downed two Americanos without taking my eyes off the hedges fronting the fortress across the street.

  Thirty minutes later, shaking a little from the caffeine and nicotine, I crossed the street. I was sure that big bozo with the walkie-talkie would come shoo me away again, but I had to try. This time no one came out so I headed toward the driveway. Despite the imposing walls, it was easy to walk down the driveway and right up to front door. The reception desk was smack dab in the center of a gold-wallpapered lobby. A woman with a bun and secretary glasses had her head dipped over a stack of papers.

  “Excuse me?” I said. She barely looked up. I raised my voice a notch, clearing my throat and spitting it out in a nervous rush. “Can you help me? My name is Velma. I called asking about my friend, Rain. She’s twelve. Do you remember talking to me? Are you the only receptionist who works here?”

  She gave me a blank look, so I continued. “You transferred me to a guy who said he was going to help me. Who was that?”

  “I’m sorry, we get dozens of calls here every day.” She turned to the side of the desk and began shuffling through some papers. She was right. How stupid of me to assume she would remember my call and me.