While Genna waited alone, Doctor Harper put Joshua through a standard examination. To Joshua’s relief, Harper found nothing amiss. Only when he shone an ophthalmoscope into Joshua’s eyes did the doctor hesitate. He looked long and hard into the small instrument; slowly, his smile melted away. Joshua heard the doctor’s steady breathing change. “Though there’s no apparent damage,” Harper said. “The reaction to the light seems…my word.”
Joshua became agitated. “If you’re done, doctor?”
Reluctantly, the doctor switched off the instrument and backed off. “You pass the standard tests with colors. But I should like to run more – if only to be sure. And I ought to send you down to X-ray.” All the while he fiddled with the ophthalmoscope. “But your eyes…”
Joshua stood and backed away, smiling weakly. “I feel fine, doctor. I don’t want to keep you. I need to leave now.”
Doctor Harper paused before putting away the Ophthalmoscope. “Then I guess we’re through.”
Back in the waiting room Doctor Harper relayed Joshua’s examination results to Genna Delucio. Showing obvious relief, she smiled wanly and thanked him. Harper pecked her cheek, then turned and pumped Joshua’s hand. “You’ve been more than gracious, for which you have my personal regards.” Harper paused halfway through the swing doors. “One other question, Joshua,” he said. “How’s your night vision?”
Joshua looked askance at Genna. “Pretty good, I guess.”
“I thought so.” The doctor nodded.
Out in the parking lot Genna said. “Thank you again for being so generous about this. You could have made real trouble – and I’d have deserved it.” Whenever a car drove by, Genna broke off the conversation and craned her neck to look at the driver. “If there’s anything else I can do...”
“It was just an accident.”
Genna smiled, sending a peach-colored wave of gratitude across to him. The breeze caught it, mingled the scent with the perfume of the Oleander blossoms, and carried it away across the cars. She fished out her car-keys and eased herself behind the wheel of her car.
Joshua noticed her hands were still shaking, and he looked away. He had dragged this girl, who had no real bad in her, and if not for a hoodlum father would probably spend her life being happy and making people happy, into a clandestine operation to snare killers. Treating her as an innocent, expendable pawn to trap the corrupt king. Standing on the parking lot, the sun casting his shadow over Genna’s face, he found himself wishing he had met her in more ordinary circumstances.
You are not an ordinary being. He heard Barlow whisper, but the voice came from far, far away.
Genna Delucio sat in her car, both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. She gunned the engine enough to make it clear she wanted to be moving, though not enough to appear rude.
Joshua extended his hand: “It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
Genna released an exasperated laugh. “I’ll bet it was.” She accepted his hand.
For a moment, he thought he might not let go. For if he lost this connection now, it would put him right back at the start line. “You want to get a coffee, or a…a doughnut?” he said, wincing inwardly.
A sudden wave of dread came off her and filled the car; her pupils contracted and her mouth fell open, yet no words came out. She glanced over her shoulder. Although nobody was there, she spoke in a whisper. “I really can’t,” she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Some other time, perhaps.”
“Sure,” Joshua said quietly.
“Can I at least give you a ride?”
“That would be great,” he said, and quickly and climbed into the passenger seat before she could change her mind.
“Seat belt might be wise.” Genna suggested.
“Of course,” he snapped it shut across his waist.
She regarded him with comic incredulity. “Glad I wasn’t driving a bus.”
Nathan and others
Situated at the end of a ten-yard driveway the single story house lay hidden from the street by trees and shrubs gone wild. Dandelions and tufts of grass erupted through cracks in the paving, the lawns had long since degraded back to meadowland and weeds choked the flowerbeds. Wild bundles of Star Jasmine grew unchecked from a wrought iron trestle over the gate, where the leafless stems scratched against the paving.
On the roof a loose terracotta tile poked at an angle from the gutter. Chunks of stucco were missing from the walls, exposing the brickwork. Porch timbers were twisted and cracked, the paint flaking away, revealing the previous, more garish color. Grime and guano coated the windows.
Inside the house was cool and dim, illuminated only by meager daylight filtering through gaps in the drapes. A plush carpet stretched along the hall and into the spacious living quarters. The room’s centerpiece was a large black leather sofa flanked by two matching easy chairs. These sat on a Persian rug and faced a huge T.V screen tuned into a music channel. On either side of the screen were floor-standing, four-foot high loudspeakers.
Blayne Cortland sprawled across the sofa, wearing a pair of Levis and nothing else, his toes absently scratching at the leather. He felt for the remote control unit and flipped randomly through music channels. A Rolling Stones video appeared on the screen; after brief consideration, he tossed the remote and watched Mick Jagger scream How does it feel to be on your own? With no direction home? A complete unknown? Like a rolling stone?
Blayne’s lips moved with the lyric, but his mind drifted elsewhere. On the plasma screen a spaced-out Patricia Arquette journeyed through her drug-induced fantasy. Blayne did not see Miss Arquette. He saw ghastly faces, open wounds, men fleeing, muzzle-flashes from automatic fire. He saw mortal terror.
Starting to squirm, Blayne sucked in air, slid his hand down to his crotch and explored, squeezing and pushing, gyrating against the pressure of his hand. Almost growling, he recalled the thrill of the streets, the downtown bars, the LA heartbeat he knew so well, where he would find a woman with a passion equal to his own.
Like a Rolling Stone surrendered to Billy Idol singing LA Woman.
Blayne’s insular meanderings began to affect his body chemistry – as it always did. Muscles flexed almost of their own volition, his five senses effectively snapped alert. The want of quick sex became an overwhelming need. A maddening itch he could not scratch. He unzipped his jeans and grasped his erection, recalling memories of roughhouse sex. But after a minute he stopped, breathing hard and unsatisfied. His blood beat hard in his temples. Quick release was no longer sufficient. He had raised the bar too high. Imagination no longer exceeded the reality.
He secured his zipper and rolled off the sofa, craving physical movement, activity – anything to occupy his mind. The sun room at the back of the house offered panoramic views of Santa Monica. Through the haze he saw the outline of the college, the airport, and the vague movement of cross-town traffic.
The need for release burned in his loins. Straight forward fucking no longer satisfied him – it rarely ever did. But now his appetites were different. He needed a promiscuous, sleazy, no-holds-barred slut. A hopeless nymphet. As much a victim of her appetites as he was of his. Oh, he’d use her like she had never been used. Drag her beyond the outer limits of her experience, to depths her filthy mind never knew existed. Screw out of her every ounce of resistance. Pound her, pummel her, stick it in every orifice, slam her like a foaming stallion until she blacked out. He would invent a new superlative for the term ‘fucked’. After he was sated, had emptied his seed into her, he would show her something else.
From inside one of the bedrooms came the heated sounds of coupling. Blayne narrowed his eyes; a wave of irritation rippling through him. Between jobs, Nathan spent his days either planning the next move or screwing Melissa. During daylight hours - when Nathan insisted they stay indoors- he would lose himself in marathon sex sessions with the horny bitch.
Angry and frustrated, Blayne sauntered out of earshot. Melissa had been his girl before Nathan appeared like a ghost and s
pirited her away from him. Over losing his girl Blayne held no particularly bitterness, for Nathan gave both him and Melissa something in return. A dark gift that redefined him as a being, elevated him to the summit of the evolutionary scale, made him more than human. He could own any car, fuck any girl, and he could kill any man.
MTV’s LA Woman gave way to Queen’s Princes of the Universe, from the film Highlander. “There can be only one,” Christopher Lambert said in his husky accent. Blayne smiled; the French guy was cool. But just an actor.
“Nathan!” He bellowed, reaching for his shirt. “I gotta get out for a minute.” In the dimness of the hall, his eyes glowed faintly crimson. Nathan usually forbade any of them to leave the house alone. Though in Los Angeles Blayne feared nothing and no one. He was the Prince of this particular Universe
“Misdemeanors, muggings and murders,” said Joshua, lowering his coffee cup. “Los Angeles has a dark side – doesn’t that bother you?”
They faced each other across a narrow Formica table in a secluded booth at a coffee shop tucked away in a side street on the outskirts of Silver Lake. Genna had taken secondary roads and service alleys, sneaking through streets like a fugitive. Joshua had noted but neglected to question her furtive behavior.
Although his prime motive was to discover whether members of her father’s syndicate were infected, right now nothing was further from his mind. He was eating a pleasant meal in a Los Angeles coffee shop with a beautiful girl. The ordinary social situation he found himself in surpassed his most daring dreams of interaction. By comparison the significance of his quest faded to gray.
While Genna mused over his question, her eyes strayed to the windows. “I keep meaning to split this city,” she said. “But…a place gets hold of you. I don’t know why. Maybe in LA we’re all nuts.” She twirled a finger at her temple.
The truth behind her reluctance to quit LA, thought Joshua, lurked behind the troubled look in her eyes, in the steady stream of negative vibes. Inexorably her eyes strayed to the window. Why was she afraid? A jealous boyfriend? Every now and then she settled into comfortable conversation, opened up to him, held his gaze and became involved. Then abruptly she would withdraw, become aloof and introspective. As though she were afraid of friendship.
Silence stretched between them, and Joshua feared she was preparing to conclude their mini-date: “So, you’re an artist?” he said.
“Aspiring,” She said. “I’ve neither sold nor had any of my work exhibited. Guess I’m in the LA wannabes Club.”
“Sounds a grim place.”
“Oh it is,” she grinned. “A free membership to those who step off the bus. All you need is a bit of ambition, maybe some talent, and the customary dream. Reversing the trend is the tricky bit. I have stacks of dreams and a teeny bit of talent. I’m maybe a touch slack on the ambition front. But I enjoy what I do.”
“Ambition might come later,” he said. “But whether it does, I don’t think time spent doing something you love is ever wasted.”
Genna smiled at him. “No – no it isn’t.” She planted her elbows on the table, laced her fingers together and rested her chin on her knuckles. “Have you any creative leanings?”
“Not me.” Joshua said. “I can’t do anything.”
“Everybody can do something.” She narrowed her eyes. “I told you mine, now you tell me yours. What do you do for fun?”
“I guess I’m more of an observer than a doer. I like to…look at things,” he said carefully. “New people and places. I like the different trees, and the coastline. I find the ocean fascinating – but I can’t say why. When I first saw the Pacific it took my breath. It was so…”
“Big?” Genna offered.
“Yes, big – but not just big. It was…there, like it or not, big and bold. No one and nothing could ever change it. Wave after wave crashed onto the beach and said, ‘Howdy!’ It reminded me of a cornfield I saw; sort of alive and aware… like a crowd of people all whispering together...” Joshua broke from his reverie and noticed Genna Delucio watching him closely, a tiny smile touching the corner of her mouth.
“I think maybe you found your niche.” She narrowed one eye. “Joshua the reluctant poet.”
He shrugged self-consciously.
Genna sipped her coffee. “So how do you fill your days – besides jaywalking yourself into bother.” Her eyes went briefly skyward.
Joshua blinked. The art of conversation had lapsed on him. So wrapped up was he in this new world of human domesticity he had let down his guard. “College,” he finally said.
“College,” she said, settling in her seat. “What are you studying?”
“Oh,” he said. “Anth- anthropology.”
“Why Anthropology.”
Joshua reached for the amulet, feeling the texture. “Guess I want to know where I come from.”
Genna’s gaze found the gold trinket. “So you’re not religious, then?”
“I believe in God,” he said thoughtfully. “But I’m not sure He’s the God people think He is.” He thought of Max Barlow praying behind closed doors.
She absorbed his words, shrugged noncommittally, and again resumed her frequent glances out of the window. Joshua’s feel-good factor curled up and died. He cursed his lack of social skills.
“Where does your love of art come from,” he heard himself say. “Your father?”
Genna’s lip curled. “My father’s artistic aspirations are financial. Like too many of us he subscribes only to the dollar philosophy.” She drank the last of her coffee, grimacing as though tasting bad medicine.
“We all need money.”
“True,” Genna conceded. “But all too often money becomes its own reason – not what it can give you in terms of...” She checked herself, smiling a disarming smile. “Like the Fab four said. “Can’t buy me love.”’
Genna pushed away her cup and fired a quick glimpse at her watch.
It’s her father, Joshua thought. She’s worried about being seen. Her evasive, back-alley route through town made sense to him now. She was hiding from him.
“Do you live at….home?” he ventured.
“God, no,” she answered. “My mother’s dead, and…look, if it’s all the same, I’d rather not discuss my family – my father and I don’t see eye to eye.”
“You don’t?” Joshua said, immediately regretting it. “I’m sorry,” he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Scratch that last question. It’s none of my business.”
But Genna was already rising from her chair “Look,” she said. “I’m truly sorry about this morning. And I know buying you lunch isn’t much compensation for knocking you down, but I gotta be going.”
“But…. But…” Joshua started to rise. “.. I haven’t seen your paintings.”
Genna raised one eyebrow. “I don’t recollect making the offer. I’m still learning, remember. My feelings are bone china.”
“I promise an honest opinion.”
She cocked her head. “It certainly isn't your opinion that scares me, Mr. Anthropologist.”
“Scares you?” he said, genuinely puzzled. “Something scares you…. Me?” he planted his palm on his chest. “I scare you?”
“Come on now, Joshua.” She said. “This is a Los Angeles. Crime capital of the West Coast. For all I know you could be anything from an encyclopedia salesman to a serial killer.”
“Would a serial killer step in front of a speeding car?”
“A salesman might…”
“Well, in the absence of a suitcase…..”
“Not so fast,” she said. “Maybe you’re a kamikaze serial killer.” She nodded gravely. “Yes, but you’re still a novice. Not quite the divine wind yet.”
“Maybe I should hurl myself under a baby carriage.”
“Well,” Genna said. “This is Los Angeles.”
“I sort of noticed.”
Genna checked her watch again. “I like you, Joshua, but I have to go.”
Joshua was all used up
; he found no more witty repartee. Instead, he rounded the table and stepped toward her. “Can I… call you?”
“Hardly an original line, Joshua,” she said. “No poetry to help your case?”
“I thought that was poetic.”
Genna observed him at length. Then she found a pencil in her bag and scribbled something on a napkin. “Give me a call – maybe we’ll take a stroll on that beach of yours.” And then she turned and left.
In the dimness at the back of the coffee shop Joshua stepped into the phone booth and closed the folding door. The tiny cubicle was moderately soundproofed and amplified his breathing. Blood thumped in his temples and his hands trembled as he dialed Barlow’s number.
The old man answered on the fifth ring. “Hello…” Barlow’s voice disintegrated into a coughing fit.
“It’s me,” Joshua said, and fell silent. A small mirror scrawled with graffiti was riveted to the wall by the phone. He watched his reflection. His eyes had taken on a faint reddish tinge.
“What’s happened?” asked Barlow when his cough was under control.
What could he say? Hi, I’ve found nothing to connect Durant with the renegades yet, but I just met this real neat girl: 5’8’, a hundred and twenty pounds, olive complexion-
Staring out his reflection, Joshua said. “I’ve struck an acquaintance with one of Durant’s people. I left her a minute ago-”
“Her?” Barlow cut in. “What her? Who’s your contact?” A steely skim of fear edged his words.
“Durant’s daughter,” Joshua said levelly. “I was staking out Stromboli Mansion I followed a car to the hospital. She was the one driving. If anyone can get me near to the syndicate, she can.”
“…one of them,” Barlow was saying.
“What was that?”
“I said you’re not one of them, Joshua.” Barlow wheezed. “Don’t forget.”
“Forget.” Joshua said. “You’ve been telling me since I was six years old, how could I forget?”
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