Joshua remembered the baseball bats. “Sometimes a beating is worth it.”
“Coming from anyone else but you, Joshua, that would sound goofy.” She grinned and hooked her arm with his, squeezed his wrist. “Let’s buy ice-cream cones and walk to the end of the pier. We can slurp pistachio and watch the surfers trying to drown themselves.”
They weaved through the crowd away from the surf. Joshua kept glancing furtively at Genna. The intimacy of her bare arm against his skin, the normality of it, the everydayness – the humanness, made his heart thump.
Pleasant though all of this was, a stubborn side of him refused to surrender to his unrealistic fancies, insisting that, regardless of this charade, he was still a wolf in sheep’s clothing. That same implacable voice told him he should be elsewhere; that his meddling would cost him dear; but right now, with the sun shining, it was a small voice.
At the end of the pier they leaned against the railings. Here the wind blew harder. Waves crashed hard into the barnacle-stippled pilings below. A broken surf-board caught on one of the struts slammed against the steel with each successive wave. On the horizon just off to the right an island stood out against the sky. “What’s that?” Joshua asked.
Genna followed his gaze. “The oil rigs?”
“Farther out. There’s land, see?”
“Catalina,” Genna said. “Part of the Santa Barbara Islands. I used to go there horseback riding with my sister. It’s beautiful; and the air is clean.” She tore her gaze away and watched the people in the water. A mighty swell raced past the pier toward the beach. Two surfers rode the same crest, collided in a mass of arms and legs and briefly disappeared beneath the foam.
Joshua gazed out over the ocean. Breakers rolled in relentlessly. Surfers paddled out in tight groups, shouting to each other above the roar, working to catch the big ones together. In and out. In and out. He felt on the verge of an important revelation about human ritual. Whatever it was it lingered maddeningly on the edge of his understanding, then inevitably drifted away.
“You all right?” Genna asked.
“The surfers move in packs.”
Genna nodded. “Surfers are territorial. It’s a cliquish sport. And if you don’t belong…well. You get the idea.”
Joshua squinted at the island of Catalina, at the stretch of ocean separating the resort from the mainland. A vast distance. As he gazed seaward, he became aware Genna was staring at him, and he turned to look at her. “Come on,” she said, linking arms again and pulling at him. “Before you get bitten by the surf bug.”
They returned along the cycle-way to the car. Genna keyed the ignition and switched on the air conditioning and while they waited for the interior to cool, she showed him the BMW’s crimped front end. “I can’t believe my car came off worse.”
Joshua shrugged noncommittally. So far he had far survived the crisis of his pricked conscience, so instead of wrestling with himself, he simply went along with the wind. What he was doing certainly felt good, if not right. Though their beach stroll was over, the experience remained large in his mind, like an afterimage of the sun. But growing ever stronger in the back of his mind was the thought that later tonight he must abandon this whimsical, selfish streak and become the cold vigilante, infiltrating a probable den of murderers; but until then, he would just be.
When the car had sufficiently cooled, and they had shaken all the sand from their shoes, they climbed in and sat for a moment. He felt Genna’s eyes on him and he looked at her. Prolonged exposure to the sun had given her complexion a healthy glow. A lock of hair blew across her face and she tucked the strands behind her ear with her thumb. “Beach bumming gives me an appetite – if you have nothing planned, you want to grab something to eat?” She said. “Maybe up in Silver Lake?”
Joshua did have something planned. An appointment with the Jamaicans at sundown. An appointment he had to keep. “I’d like that,” he said. “But Silver Lake….I thought we came down here to get away…”
Genna’s smile faltered. “We’ll steer clear of my block.”
Joshua belted up.
“You like Italian food?”
“I love it,” he said, though had never in his life been in a restaurant. The imposter tag came back. He pushed it away.
“That’s settled, then,” Genna said. “I know just the place.”
An hour later they drew up at the Italian Rose in Silver Lake. The setting sun hung low on the horizon, bathing Los Angeles in a soft orange glow. Genna switched off the ignition and looked across at Joshua. “You ready for some gourmet nosebag?”
“More than ready.” He unclipped his seat belt.
They were greeted at the door by the owner; an almost handsome middle-aged Mediterranean called Carlo Del Piero who Genna appeared to know well. He fussed over her with the gusto of a favorite uncle, hugging her and kissing her cheeks.
“Is so good to see you,” Carlo said in a thick Italian accent.
“This shady-looking character’s Joshua,” Genna said.
The favorite uncle pumped his hand vigorously, but Joshua sensed displeasure beneath the cordial facade. Once they were seated, Joshua leaned over to Genna. “I don’t think your friend approves of me.”
“Carlo approves of nobody I hang with except girlfriends. Acts like he’s my big brother.” She sipped her water, crunching delicately on crushed ice.
Joshua twisted in his seat and observed the room’s candlelit ambience. The pure Italian decor and murals that lined the walls depicted various landmarks of both new and old Italy. Mediterranean music played softly from concealed speakers, just loud enough to be enjoyed.
When the moment came for him to select a dish, he blinked owlishly at the menu, and looked imploringly at Genna.
“Shall I order for you?” Genna asked.
“Please,” Joshua said gratefully. “I’ll have whatever you are having.”
“You trust me?”
“More than I trust myself.”
Fear that his lack of social grace might expose him won a reprieve when he happened on a strategy: act like the natives. He figured all he needed to do was keep a studious eye on Genna; copy her technique. This appeared to work well; he blended in seamlessly with the other diners, sipping the tepid lemon water, when Genna broke into fits of laughter.
He froze, wondering crazily what he had done to provoke the outburst. She raised a similar silver bowl containing a floating lemon slice and said. “Cheers.”
Joshua, who had already taken a sip of the lemon water, mirrored her actions. “Cheers.” Her laughter coaxed a smile from him. “I did something wrong, didn’t I?”
When she regained control of herself, wiping her streaming eyes with a red napkin, she reached over and touched his hand. “I’m sorry, Joshua. I couldn’t resist.”
“Resist what?”
She took the bowl out of his hands. “You’re new at this, aren’t you?”
He fidgeted with his wine glass. “I don’t mean to embarrass you.”
“Hey, you’re not embarrassing me, Joshua; the truth is I find your innocence quite refreshing.”
Joshua thought of the lie he was living, of the secret he so cleverly concealed; a secret so mind-blowing that if Genna Delucio knew, she would probably scream, jump up and flee the restaurant, leaving a Genna shaped cartoon outline in the door.
“What’s wrong, Joshua,” she lowered her glass.
“Huh?”
“Every now and again you get this odd little frown, as if you’re doing something you shouldn’t.” She narrowed her eyes, though not in a sinister fashion. “Like a schoolboy playing truant.”
Salvatore Durant indicated the phone on the table. “Call Johnson. Warn him.”
Serefini, his wounds suppurating through the bandages, gawped at Durant as though his boss had finally lost his mind. “Warn Delbert Johnson?”
“Let him know the assassin has got his number. If he wants to see another sunrise he’d better break out the artillery. Do it n
ow. Johnson will take the warning seriously.” Durant remained pokerfaced.
“Warn those Jungle bunnies?” Serefini’s face contorted. A fine line of fresh blood trickled from under his dressing. “I just got pistol-whipped delivering the contract on those Jamaican ass-holes. Look at my face.”
“I am looking at your face.” Durant said, swiveling the chair. “If the Jamaicans are prepared they might take one or two of the assassins with them. We’re the only major syndicate left. Before long they’ll covet what we have. You think I want World War three on my front lawn with the Invisible Assassin?”
Serefini gingerly probed his wounds and reluctantly nodded.
“Call them.”
“Okay.”
“Then call Oliveira. Have him and Rolands bring in my daughter. She’s at the Italian Rose in Silver Lake. Don’t mess this up.”
“Oops!” Genna Delucio said, stumbling off the curb outside the restaurant. “Too much Chardonnay, I think.” She held onto Joshua’s arm. Although the sun had set, its legacy of daytime heat still rose from the baked concrete.
“You want me to drive?” Joshua asked.
“Can you handle a stick-shift?”
“Stick shift?” He shrugged. “How tough can it be?”
She tossed him the keys. “Far out.”
Joshua got in behind the wheel and keyed the ignition. After checking the road for traffic, he threw the transmission into first and pulled away from the curb at speed, leaving trails of burning rubber in his wake.
G-force pinned Genna to her seat. “Whoa!” She placed her hand over his on the gearshift. “Dip the clutch – there, now you’re in third; slowly release the clutch and…. You got it.” The BMW surged forwards more smoothly.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Give yourself five minutes behind the wheel and you’ll find this baby wants to drive itself.” She grew distant for a moment, caressing the seat back with the tips of her fingers.
They drove northwest through light traffic along Ventura freeway.
Genna snapped her head up. “Take the next right.” She said. “First turning after the gas station.”
Joshua took the turning. “Where are we going?”
“Someone I’d like you to meet.”
When Joshua frowned she patted his arm. “Don’t worry, it isn’t my father.”
To his surprise, Genna’s directions led to the parking lot at the Medical Center, and as he pulled onto the lot he was struck by déjà vu. Only a few days had passed since their first encounter, but to Joshua it felt so much longer. But this is LA, remember? And this gave rise to the realization something inside him had indeed started to change. The person of two days ago seemed like a stranger to him now. A stranger that should be staking out the Jamaicans, not out on a date with a young woman.
Is this a date?
They parked the BMW and entered the hospital. Expecting a defining revelation any moment, Joshua remained silent as a paid bodyguard and dutifully followed her through reception and along corridors, into elevators, finally to the door of a private room on the west wing.
Pausing briefly, Genna dipped her head and took several deep breaths, as though exhaling all outward traces of her somber mood. Joshua felt something leave her like warmth from a fire. Her face bright, her mood brighter still, she turned the handle and preceded Joshua through the door.
“Hi, Suzy.” Genna held open the door. “I brought a friend.”
It was large room, warm, but not uncomfortably so. A faint smell of strawberries hung in the air. Classical music, low and ambient, played from hidden speakers. Lying in the bed, resting on her side, was a girl whose face Joshua recognized from the watercolor hanging in Genna’s apartment. Unlike in the painting, the girl’s eyes were closed and very still; no dream induced activity moved beyond those pale lids.
Genna carefully shut the door and stepped up to the bedside. Only now did her expression truly soften. For the first time since meeting her, Joshua saw who he believed was the true Genna Delucio. The hard mask she wore outside slipped, exposing the raw persona of a sentient human being. A little girl lost. A frightened, despairing young woman, whose reserves of strength and resilience were frail and threadbare.
“Suzanne…this is Joshua.” She pulled up a chair for him.
Feeling small and insignificant, maybe even a touch intimidated, he remained by the door. During the last few days he had witnessed human destruction and human ill will. Now he witnessed the depth of human compassion. He stood back, equally amazed and alarmed at the contradiction.
“Joshua,” She motioned him over. “This is Suzanne; my sister.”
After a brief pause, Joshua edged forward a couple of steps, rested his hands on the back of the chair, and leaned over the bed. “Hello, Suzanne. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Though he did not expect an answer, he looked to Genna for direction. She nodded and winked at him, patting the chair again. Finally he sat down.
“What,” he said. “Can she...hear us?”
Genna cocked one eyebrow and shrugged. Still holding her sister’s pallid hand, she outlined Suzanne’s condition, the conflicting medical opinions.
On an Impulse Joshua placed his hand on Genna’s shoulder. The gesture felt strange but nonetheless right. After a moment, he started to withdraw but Genna reached up and grabbed his fingers, accepting the comfort hungrily, almost desperately. “If only I knew she could hear me,” she said quietly. “Just a small sign to let me know she’s okay.”
The sheet covering Suzanne slipped down her shoulders, and Genna leaned over to neaten things.
“Let me help you.” Joshua reached over to the far side of the bed. As he straightened the linen, something subtle yet distinct rose and hit him, like warmth from a hotplate you thought was switched off. He froze, looking down at her, throwing out his extra-sensory feelers.
Genna touched his arm. “Joshua?”
He did not answer. But gazed intently at the deep-sleeping girl, picking up tenuous waves of her awareness through the confines of her coma.
“Joshua?” Genna repeated. “What’s wrong?”
Eyes narrowed and head tilted to one side as though striving to hear a faint voice, he closed his eyes and held his breath, spread his hands over the bed as though warming them above an open fire.
“Joshua, you’re scaring me.” She started to rise.
Joshua finally turned to face her, moving slowly, until her breath was on his face. “Genna,” he whispered. “…she can hear you.”
Genna straightened. “What did you say?”
“Your sister’s awake in there,” he said. “She’s real low but she knows you’re here, Genna. She knows.”
Genna blinked. “You think so?” a tear spilled down her cheek, leaving a silvery trail. “You really think so?” Joshua could not tell whether this news elated or dismayed her. “But how…”
“Can’t you feel it?” he asked quietly, pulling her hands over to him and placing them atop of the sheets.
She looked from Joshua to her sister. Though Suzanne lay still as ever, her eyes were now open. The random opening and closing of the eyes in coma patients was relatively commonplace, though again came at a moment that suggested awareness on a level yet unplumbed by medical science.
Though Genna was largely unaware of this, waves of both affection and misery emanated from her comatose sister. Although very clear to Joshua, to Genna the emanations were invisible…but not entirely; she sensed something, but where Joshua was attuned to this sub-level of communication, she was unable to define what she felt.
Her brow knit and her face squinched in concentration. She received the message her sister released but was unable to decipher it. However, she appeared to accept that something had occurred. She bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, Suzanne. I’m so sorry.”
Joshua said nothing else. He quietly rose and eased away from the bedside, watched Genna closely, hypnotized by the show of tears. Such raw emotion; such power. He w
ondered whether he should have kept the knowledge of Suzanne’s awareness to himself.
What had he done?
Fifteen minutes later in the corridor outside Suzanne’s room, Genna turned to Joshua and stared into his eyes. So intense was her gaze he almost flinched, but he remained solemn as she tiptoed and kissed him gently on the corner of his mouth, lingering there a moment. He tasted the salt of her tears, the sweet juices of her mouth. “Thank you,” she said. “I can’t pretend to understand how you know this about Suzanne – but I believe it. I felt it.”
In the elevator on their way out, after several minutes of silence, Genna said: “What if it were you?” She observed her distorted reflection in the steel plates of the elevator doors.
“I don’t follow you.”
A distant look came into her eyes. “If you were locked inside your head; trapped in a vacuum; helpless - unable to express even the simplest wish. Like the last person on Earth. Would you want to continue?”
The doors parted. They left the elevator and started toward the exit. Two doctors passed them, catching the doors. One of the doctors smiled at Genna. She did not notice him.
Her expression became haunted. “Do you think that sometimes death is kinder?”
Joshua looked away, his own demons stirring. Death is kinder.
Outside the hospital in the cooling night air, Genna said. “If that was me in there, I would not want to exist like that. And neither would she…neither would she. But who should make the decision for her?”
“I really don’t know,” he said.
They were moving in the general of the direction of the car, but Genna tugged on Joshua’s arm. “Would you mind if we…walked a while?”
“Whatever you want,” he said. Genna’s candor disturbed him. Listening to her problems dragged his into the spotlight.
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