“I understand that, Austin. And, basically, I agree with you. But I’m saying that—”
“I know what you’re saying, Herbert. But you must listen to what I’m saying.” He paused, compelling the other man’s fretful attention. “I’m saying that, for better or worse, your fortunes—and mine, too—are tied to whatever it is inside me that produces the words and the gestures and the smiles and the frowns that constitute our entire stock-in-trade. That’s always been the case. It’s still the case, in good times and bad. And these, certainly, are the bad times. But I’m convinced—I feel deeply—that those inner thoughts will see us through.”
“Austin—” Tentatively Flournoy stepped closer, to touch the other man’s sleeve. “Austin, I’m not disputing that. I’m simply saying that you’ve had a shock. We’ve all had a shock. And I’m suggesting that you should—” He broke off, searching for the phrase. “You should give yourself time, that’s all.”
“The reporters have been here all night, sniffing around. They’ve been talking to the police, too. They’re going to print something, that’s a certainty. I want to make sure they get it right.”
Resigned, Flournoy first shook his head, then shrugged, then reluctantly nodded. “If that’s what you want …”
“That’s what I want, Herbert. I’ve never been more sure of anything, never seen things more clearly.”
“What about Sunday? Have you thought about Sunday?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“And it will be a memorial service, of course. For Elton.”
“Before I take your questions,” he said, “I’d like to make a statement, if you’ll allow me.” Solemnly, standing erect behind the lectern, he paused, waited for their murmur of sympathetic assent to subside.
“As you all know,” he began, “my wife and I—along with all our friends—have suffered a grievous loss. Our only son, Elton, died. And Lloyd Mitchell, too, died, at the same time, in the same horrible accident.
“Most of you know in general what happened. But many of you might not know the details. So, if you’ll bear with me—” He paused, allowed his voice to thicken, his eyes to mist. He cleared his throat, wiped judiciously at the corner of each eye.
“It was perhaps inevitable,” he said, “that Elton would die as he did last night. For months—years—myself and my wife had feared the knock that finally fell on our door last night.
“Because, you see, each of us must serve God in our own way, in our own time. I was only fifteen when God called me to his service. I was called to finish the work my father began. My call was to the pulpit. But Elton’s call was different. Like Sister Teresa—like Christ himself—Elton realized that he must go out among the people. He realized that he must seek out the sinners, talk to them, lay hands on them, help them find their way to God’s salvation.
“It was dark, dangerous work. My wife worried about Elton, and so did I. But we respected Elton’s calling, respected his convictions. So, as all parents do, we worried in silence, knowing that we couldn’t, and shouldn’t, try to dissuade Elton from the way he’d chosen to serve God.
“Instead, whenever Elton went forth into the mean streets, I sent a protector along behind him—a guardian angel. That man was Lloyd Mitchell, to whom I’ve entrusted my life for more than thirty years. Wherever I went, whatever risks I might have taken in God’s service, Lloyd was always beside me, protecting me from God’s countless enemies.
“And so it was, my friends, that, last night, about ten o’clock, Elton left the safety of his hotel room and went out into the city streets, looking for souls to save. And, as always, Lloyd followed, the silent, secret protector. According to his custom, Elton went deep into the heart of the city’s secret center of corruption, where women sell their bodies, and vicious men prey on the virtuous.
“And so it happened that last night, from out of the shadows, Elton was attacked. He was struck on the head, and was pulled into a darkened alleyway, where he was robbed and left to die. It happened suddenly. One second he was alive, the next second his skull was crushed, and—” Holloway broke off, fighting to control a surge of strong, real emotion. Drawing on deep reserves, he said, “—and he was dying.” Another pause, to regain control. Then, with the worst behind him, concluding: “Lloyd Mitchell was following Elton, only a half block behind. But, by the time Lloyd reached Elton, it was already too late. And then, tragically, a terrible accident happened. Lloyd had drawn the pistol he always carries, and as Lloyd bent over Elton, with his pistol in his hand, two detectives—Lieutenant Frank Hastings and Inspector Joseph Canelli—arrived on the scene with their own guns drawn. To the policemen, in the darkness, it probably seemed that Lloyd was the murderer, bending over his victim to rob him. Or perhaps Lloyd thought the policemen were the murderers, returning to the scene of their crime. In any case, shots were fired—and Lloyd was killed.” He broke off, drank water from a glass placed on the lectern, sadly shook his handsome head. “Of course, we do not blame the police for this terrible tragedy. We realize that they, like us, are victims.” As he spoke on a falling note, concluding, he bowed his head, let the moment lengthen into a long silence, an impromptu benediction. Still with his head bowed, he listened for cues: an embarrassed clearing of throats, a shifting of chairs, a few self-conscious whispers. Having been manipulated into joining him in something like silent prayer, the irreverent members of the press were restive. Therefore, it was time to raise his head, square his shoulder, manfully say, “If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to answer them.”
“Will you be canceling your service tomorrow?” a woman asked.
“After much thought—much prayer—we’ve decided that we must go on with the service,” he answered. “For one thing, it’s what Elton would have wanted. Both my wife and I feel very sure about that. And, secondly, we have a duty to go on—a higher duty, to God. We are, literally, soldiers serving in the ranks, God’s crusaders. Two of our members have fallen, one struck down by a sinner. But we cannot lay down our arms. When the battle—the war—is done, finally won, then we can pause to grieve. But not now.”
“You’re known for your opposition to gun control,” a man said. “In fact, you told us at your last news conference that you always carry a gun with you. Is that true?”
“Yes, sir, that’s true.”
“However,” the man said, “unfortunately it seems pretty clear that, as you describe one of last night’s killings, it would never have happened if Lloyd Mitchell hadn’t had a gun. So my question is, will your loss cause you to rethink your opposition to gun control?”
“No, sir, it will not. Just the opposite, in fact. The lesson of this tragedy is that the streets of our cities are dangerous. And until the police are better able to defend our citizens, I devoutly believe that our citizens must defend themselves.”
“Would Christ have given that answer, Mr. Holloway?”
Gravely, he nodded. “Yes, sir, I believe he would have. Christ taught us to turn the other cheek. But he was speaking of turning away insults and petty abuse. With one’s life at stake, facing a murderer, I believe Christ would counsel resistance in kind. But please—” He lifted an imploring hand. “Please, I don’t feel that I have the strength, now, for debate.”
A black woman raised her hand. “You seem to be saying that the police are at fault. Will you prosecute them?”
Gently, he shook his head. “No, madam. I’m not saying that. Not at all. I accuse no one. The police were simply doing their duty. No more. No less.”
“Speaking of the police,” a young man dressed in a windbreaker said, “there have been persistent rumors that the police department—the Homicide Bureau, in fact—has had the St. Francis under surveillance since Wednesday. There’ve also been rumors that Homicide investigators have interviewed members of your staff. Does all that have any connection to last night’s murders?”
Holloway shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m not aware that anything of that
kind happened.” Projecting a sudden deep exhaustion, he looked away from the questioner, at the same time signaling surreptitiously to Flournoy, who immediately rose to his feet.
“I think I’m going to intervene,” Flournoy said. “Mr. Holloway needs rest. And Mrs. Holloway is waiting for him, in seclusion. I’d like to thank you all for coming here today. I hope we’ve been able to help you with background to this tragedy. I’d only like to add one thing, if I may—” For emphasis, he paused before he said, “The service we’ll be presenting tomorrow will, of course, be in the nature of a memorial service for Elton Holloway.” He smiled sadly. “That goes without saying, of course. But I thought someone should say it, nevertheless. Meanwhile—” He raised his hands, in farewell. “Meanwhile, good-bye. We hope to see you tomorrow, at the Cow Palace. And remember, the first two rows are always reserved for the press.”
31
“ACCORDING TO WHAT YOU say about Lloyd Mitchell,” Friedman said, “according to how you describe him, there’s only one way this could’ve come down. Someone told him to take Elton out. And that’s what he did.”
“It could’ve been Holloway himself that gave the order,” Canelli mused. “I mean—” He shook his head. “I mean, as far as I can see, the way they’re set up, and everything, it’s pretty much what Holloway says that goes. Like he’s—you know—a god.” As he spoke, he turned to Hastings, questioning the lieutenant with his eyes.
“There’s no way we can know, though,” Hastings said. “Holloway could be a figurehead, a cardboard man. Flournoy could be pulling the strings. Or Gloria. We just don’t know.”
“The question is,” Friedman said, “what do we do now? What’re our options?”
“By five o’clock tomorrow,” Hastings said, “they’ll all be back in Los Angeles. And there’s not a goddamn thing we can do about it, not without warrants. We’ve got two bodies, and that’s it.”
“It could be worse,” Canelli offered. “After all, there won’t be any more hookers killed. At least not by Elton. Mitchell took care of that for us.”
Friedman slapped a pudgy hand on his desktop, hard. “I know Holloway put that pipe in Mitchell’s hand. I know it. And I just plain can’t stand the idea of that unctuous, blasphemous bastard getting on an airplane and leaving town. I mean, I hate it.”
“Jeez, Lieutenant,” Canelli said, turning his attention to Friedman. “Jeez, I can’t ever remember seeing you so riled up, I don’t think.”
Friedman studied the other man for a moment before he said, “That’s very interesting, Canelli. Because, come to think about it, you’re probably right. In this job, you get used to almost anything if you last long enough—everything but the smells, anyhow. But, personally, I always have trouble adjusting to the fact that people can get away with murder. And the fact is, a couple of times the past year or two, we’ve had fat cats get away with murder in this city. Literally, get away with murder—just because they’re rich and famous. Or, anyhow, rich. And it bothers me. It bothers me a lot.”
“Maybe you should’ve been a social worker,” Hastings said. “A do-gooder.”
“Very funny.” Moodily, Friedman began unwrapping a cigar, searching his pockets for matches.
“So what’s the plan?” Hastings said.
Friedman lit the cigar, threw the smoking match into his wastebasket, then pointed to the afternoon paper, open on his desk. “According to the Sentinel, Holloway is going ahead with the show tomorrow. I don’t know about the two of you, but I intend to be there. And afterward, I intend to talk to Austin Holloway. With or without a warrant, I intend to talk to him, let him know I’ll be thinking about him—a lot. I want him to start worrying, looking behind him.”
“But—” Hesitantly, Canelli cleared his throat. “But they’re having their service at the Cow Palace, Lieutenant. And the Cow Palace isn’t in San Francisco. It’s in Daly City.”
“That’ll be our little secret, Canelli. However, since you raise the point, and since a low profile is called for here, you’re excused.” As he spoke, Friedman turned to Hastings. “Well? What do you say? Tomorrow?”
Smiling, Hastings rose to his feet. “It’s a date.”
32
FIVE YEARS AGO, WHEN they’d taken The Hour to Cincinnati for a week, there’d been a fire in the Bel Air house. Ever since, wherever she went, she carried the small leather photograph album with her. The album was worn, the leather cracked, the pages dog-eared. It had been her daddy’s album; he’d kept it in a dresser drawer, beneath his shirts. When she’d been a little girl, she’d sometimes ventured into her daddy’s room and taken the album from beneath the shirts. She took the album to her daddy’s bed, where the light from the room’s single window was good. Very carefully, she would turn the pages—heavy, awkward pages, weighed with the magic of photographs, some of them dimmed with age, pictures of relatives in period clothing, some of them people she’d never seen. But she’d learned their names from her father; she’d memorized their stories. With the album open in her lap, the faces and the stories called to her from across the years: Uncle Fletcher, who’d gone to Alaska to pan for gold; Aunt Ludie, who had never married, and who never seemed to smile; a cousin named Ned, wearing a cowboy hat and chaps, mounted on a horse, looking sternly at the camera.
Of all her daddy’s possessions, she’d only kept his watch, and his Bible, and the photograph album. The album had been half filled with pictures when her father had died. Even now, more than thirty years later, the album wasn’t full.
Had Austin ever seen the album?
Did he ever go through her things, like she’d gone through her daddy’s things, so long ago?
If he’d done it, gone through her things, would he have told her? Would he have wondered why she’d only included pictures of the children, never pictures of him?
Would he have asked her? Would he have cared enough to ask her?
If he had asked her, what would she have answered? How could she have explained that, since the album was really her daddy’s, and since her daddy had hated Austin, it would have been wrong for her to—
At the door, a knock sounded. It was five o’clock, then. Five o’clock exactly, time for her bottle.
As she’d taken Elton his bottle of milk, always on time, so Susan, too, was on time. Always. The milk sustained life, the vodka destroyed life. Babies were born, grew into children, who grew into adults—who finally died.
Some died, some were killed. Murdered.
At first, for the first few months of life, the bones of the skull were fragile, unknit. Even the slightest blow could—
Again, Susan’s knock. Still softly, still discreetly. But now subtly more insistent. Because, certainly, Susan was concerned for her, worried about her. They were all worried about her. Their voices had softened. Their eyes had changed, dark with sadness, with sympathy.
“Come in, Susan.”
Carrying the embroidered satchel with the bottle inside, Susan Gaines opened the door, came gravely into the room, quietly closed the door. Today, for their ritual ceremony, Susan was dressed in black. Her face was somber.
“How are you feeling, Mrs. Holloway?”
“I feel lost,” she answered. “I feel very lost, very alone.”
“Yes—” Susan was nodding. “Is there anything I can do, anything I can get you, besides—” She raised the satchel.
“Where’s Austin, do you know?”
“He’s with Mr. Flournoy. At least he was, a few minutes ago.”
“What about Gloria? Where’s Gloria?”
“She’s in her suite, with her children. She’s left word that she doesn’t want to be disturbed. I mean—” She frowned. “I mean, she doesn’t want just anyone to disturb them. I’m sure she’d like to see you, though.”
“Do you know where—?” In confusion, she broke off. Do you know where Elton is? she wanted to say. But she couldn’t say it, not like that, not as if she were asking which hotel room he was in. Because she wanted to know wh
ere his body was, where they’d taken him. But she couldn’t say it, couldn’t say “body” out loud, not to Susan.
Expectantly, Susan stood waiting. Then, as the silence between them lengthened, Susan moved a half step toward the bar. “Shall I—? Would you—?”
“First,” Marvella said, “I wish you’d see Gloria. Tell her I’d like to talk to her. Now. Here. Ask her please.”
“Then you don’t—” Tentatively, Susan raised the satchel again. “You don’t want—?”
“Just put it on the bar, there, for now. Don’t open it, though. Not now.”
“Yes—” To conceal her obvious surprise, Susan Gaines turned away, walked to the bar.
Another knocking, three short, decisive raps of knuckles on wood, unmistakably Gloria. Even now, saddened though she certainly was, Gloria would be assertive, firm, assured.
Gloria had gotten it all, inherited the best, from both of them. Five years later, when Elton was born, the unwanted child of a love long lost, the blood had gone sour, the genes had been corrupted. The baby had grown into a silent, tortured stranger.
“Come in, Gloria.”
Gloria, too, was dressed in mourning: a dark blue dress with a small, formal white collar, a dress that a nun could have worn. Were there reporters watching—savages, lurking in the shadows?
“How are you, Mother?” As she asked the question, Gloria’s eyes slid involuntarily to the bar. The unopened bottle of vodka stood where Susan had placed it fifteen minutes before. Between Gloria’s eyes, a small crease of puzzlement showed.
A line of colorless liquid inside a bottle …
For years, for more than half a lifetime, they’d looked at it, looked silently away—looked at her, looked silently away.
But now Gloria’s eyes lingered on the bottle, lingered on her. Still silently. Always silently.
“Are you okay?” Gloria came to her, sat beside her on a small love seat, touched her hand. As she looked down at their hands, still touching, she realized that she, too, was dressed in mourning. It was a change, a significant break in her normal routine. Always, at five o’clock, dressed in a flowing hostess gown, hair coiffed, makeup meticulously drawn, she had awaited Susan’s discreet knock. The costume had always been part of the ritual. Just as, on Sundays, in front of the cameras, her dress was—
The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 19