Truck Stop Jesus

by Storm, Buck

  “It’s your dad. You always say you’re not close, right?”

  “I hardly know the guy. Why?”

  “I’m not sure how to say this, but at least, that makes it easier.”

  “Say what?”

  “I’m really not good at this sort of thing, you know?”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “He’s dead, Paradise. He’s … been killed.”

  The world went silent. Silverlake. Los Angeles. California. United States. Planet Earth. Universe … All quiet.

  Killed? Her father? Paradise searched deep inside for emotion, for some feeling, but came up blank. Only numbness. “Does my mom know?” A stupid thing to ask.

  “I don’t know,” Ashleigh said. “I just heard myself. On the TV at work. I knew you’d still be in bed. I didn’t want you to hear it on the news or from some stranger or something.”

  “Okay. Thanks. I appreciate it. How’s life in the exciting world of movie-biz catering?” Paradise dropped her feet to the floor.

  “Getting ready for a hardware store commercial shoot tomorrow. And don’t change the subject. Why do you sound chipper? What are you doing?”

  “Thanks for calling. It’s sad, I suppose, but people die, right?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “Paradise … ”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Ash. What am I supposed to say? I hardly knew him. Am I a bad person if I’m not broken up?”

  “Yeah, I know. But he was still your dad.”

  Her dad. Was that true? She supposed it was. “How? How did he get killed?”

  “T-boned. Driving that old Fiat Spider of his. They said he went through a light, and a truck hit him right in the driver-side door. There were pictures on the news. It’s all over the Internet.”

  “Was he drinking?” Paradise set the phone on the nightstand and pressed the speaker button.

  “I don’t know. Probably. Wasn’t he always? Does it matter?”

  “Where did it happen?”

  “It’s crazy. You’re not gonna believe it. Hollywood and Vine.”

  Hollywood and Vine? So the great Gregory Jones cashed in his chips not a hundred yards from the Walk of Fame star he’d always dreamed of. Like something out of one of his screenplays.

  “Hey, Ash. Thanks for calling. I’m going to ring off, okay? I have a busy day.” Paradise picked up the phone and carried it with her as she headed for the bathroom.

  “Ring off? Why do I always feel like I’m talking to Audrey Hepburn with you? What movie did you get ‘ring off’ from? And no, you don’t—you never have a busy day. You’re not okay. I’m coming over. I can get the afternoon off.”

  “You think I sound like Audrey Hepburn?”

  “That’s all you got from that? Yeah, if Doris Day and Audrey Hepburn had a weird, raspy kid, it’d be you.”

  “What do you mean raspy?”

  “Here we go. Everybody hang on while the world spins around Paradise Jones. You get raspy sometimes. Relax. It’s adorable. And you’re only talking about it because your dad just died. Stop deflecting. I’m coming over.”

  “No, please … Seriously, I’m fine. I’ll see you later. Don’t worry about me. Like I said, I hardly knew him.”

  Ashleigh sighed. “Okay, call me if you need me. Anytime. Seriously, I can come.”

  “Thanks, Ash. Bye.” She hung up before her friend could reply.

  In the bathroom, Paradise leaned her hands on the sink and studied herself in the mirror. Bright, blonde hair a mess. Last night’s makeup didn’t work this morning. She’d been too tired to deal with it when she got home. Red lipstick slightly smeared like some twisted Andy Warhol painting. At least her gray eyes were wide and clear. No bloodshot remnants of last night’s Jack’s Grotto adventure. Thank goodness she wasn’t a drinker.

  Drinker … Her father came into focus, a wraith tugging on her sleeve. Could it be true? He was really dead? Larger-than-life Gregory Jones? Again, she ran through a quick emotional inventory. I should feel something, right? He’d been her father, after all. At least as much of a father as she’d ever known. But, nothing. Nothing at all.

  She was a blank. An empty pocket.

  The face in the mirror stared at her, hollow as a ghost. The smattering of freckles across her nose stood out stark against her pale skin. How could a person not feel?

  She dropped her head to the sink and vomited.

  Okay, maybe she did feel something.

  Pulling up the story on the Internet was a mistake. The mangled Fiat, the sheet-covered body being wheeled into the back of the ambulance. The reporter relaying the event in that ridiculous lilted reporter-eeze. “Gregory Jones, actor and ’70s heartthrob, was killed today in an automobile accident in Hollywood. Jones starred in a handful of big-budget thrillers but was best known for his role as Detective Matt Gunn in NBC’s hit crime drama After Sunset. The award-winning show ran an impressive nine years, first airing in 1973 and continuing until 1982.”

  Paradise counted 1973 to 1982, ticking the years off on her fingers. What are you doing? Get a grip…

  Big smile on the bubbly reporter’s perfect face … In other news …

  Paradise closed her laptop. So that’s it. Gregory Jones’ last hurrah. A giant, invisible fist squeezed her insides, and nausea threatened again.

  Billie Holiday began singing “East of the Sun.” New ringtone. Paradise didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Paradise Jones?” A man’s voice, warm but unfamiliar.

  She hesitated. “Yes?”

  “Hi, Miss Jones. Richard Ferguson from the Los Angeles Times. Listen, sorry for your loss. I was hoping you’d have a moment to answer just a few questions about your father?”

  The nausea pushed harder. Her head spun. “I’m sorry. Who is this? How did you get this number?”

  “Richard Ferguson. LA Times. Just a few questions, Miss Jones. I won’t impose on your time.”

  “I’m sorry. You are imposing on my time. Listen, I didn’t know my dad, okay? I met him a few times, and that’s it. He’s dead. End of story. Please don’t call back.”

  She terminated the call with a tap of her thumb.

  The apartment walls closed in. She should go somewhere, do something. In the kitchen, she used a bottle opener to pop the top off a Coke bottle. She looked at it, then set it on the counter without taking a sip.

  Billie started to sing again. Anger surged. Something else, too. Grief? She grabbed for the phone. Her hand shook so badly she almost dropped it. “I asked you not to call back.”

  A woman’s voice this time. Cultured and every bit as cool as the reporter’s had been warm. “Paradise. It’s Eve.”

  Eve. Her mother. That hadn’t taken long.

  “Where are you calling from, Mom?”

  Her mother hated being called Mom.

  “New York. I’m shopping. You’ve heard, I suppose.”

  “Yes, Mom. I’ve heard.”

  “Well, it’s no surprise to me.”

  “Uh huh. You don’t sound very upset.”

  “Don’t judge me, Paradise. The man was a trial.”

  Paradise picked up the Coke and took a sip, then poured the rest into the sink. “He was your husband once. And your meal ticket. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “We were married for five minutes. He was about as much a husband as he was a father, don’t you think? And if I were you, I wouldn’t be making any cracks about meal tickets.”

  Her mother had a point. Say what you might about the psychological trauma of Eve’s erratic, on again-off again parenting, she never failed to send money in Paradise’s direction. Even now, and Paradise was twenty-four, the checks came. Larger on birthdays and at Christmas in lieu of presents.

  The urge to crawl back under the pink sheet overwhelmed. “Yes, Mom. I’m not complaining. I appreciate all your help. But maybe I’ll be able to stand on my own two feet soon. I’m up for a part. It looks
pretty good.”

  “Paradise, you’re always up for a part.”

  “I’m tired, Mom. Why are you calling? When will you be back in LA?”

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you. I won’t make it to any funeral. Burt and I have plans to go to Cabo, and I can’t break them. I’m shopping for the trip now.”

  Burt—therapist to the stars. Benevolent stepfather with wandering hands. Eve’s meal ticket number-two.

  Her mother went on. “I talked to your father’s attorney ten minutes ago. Gregory left everything to you. Not that I’d expect much.”

  “Well, Mom. Don’t trouble yourself. I’m sure things will work out on this end.”

  “Paradise … Are you going to be all right?”

  Motherly Eve? That stranger didn’t rear her head very often.

  “Yes, Mom, I think so.”

  “Come to the house when we get back, all right?”

  “Sure.”

  “You can tell me all about the new part then. I have to run. Burt’s waiting. You know how he gets.”

  “Uh huh. I know how he gets.” Understatement of the year.

  “I’ll be in touch soon. You’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

  The line went dead before Paradise could respond.

  She’d be fine … Eve was sure. Okay.

  Her father had left everything to her? Why? What everything? Gregory Jones hadn’t worked in years, and he certainly wasn’t one to save. Maybe she should call the man from the Times back. At least she could get some publicity out of it.

  Billie Holiday sang again and Arnie, her agent, offered a television-preacher smile from the glowing cell phone screen.

  She let Billie sing half a verse before she picked it up. “Hey, Arnie.”

  “So, I know you weren’t close to your old man, but you need anything? You know, I mean I’m sorry for your loss and all.”

  Arnie had grown up in Orange County but never failed to bring his best Brooklyn wiseguy accent to any conversation. He said it gave him an edge.

  “No. I’m okay. Just tired after last night.”

  “Yeah, well, get used to it. We’re just getting started. Now you’ve got six weeks or so before the reading and rehearsals. Man, you should see the sets they’re building down on the lot. What do you have going this afternoon? I’ll run you over there. Kinda get your mind off this other deal, ya know?”

  Other deal? Was that what you called it when your dad got crushed in an Italian tin can?

  “I don’t think so, Arnie. I don’t even have the part. I’m tired. I think I’ll just stay here today. Maybe watch a movie or something.”

  “Yet. You don’t have the part yet. I’m telling you, your name is the one that keeps coming up. Let me ask you something—you’re a razor’s edge away from scoring the role of a lifetime. You know how hard I worked to get you this shot? You know how many big-name stars wanted it? Not to mention the legion of no-names—you included. Know what I’m saying? I’m a miracle worker; that’s what I am. I’m turning water into wine here. Why aren’t you excited?”

  “Are you kidding? Excited? Of course, I’m excited. If I don’t get this part, I’m going to bang my head against the wall until I bleed out of my ears. And I’m not exactly a no-name. I’ve been in things.”

  “B horror flicks and pet shampoo commercials don’t count. Every Midwest wannabe and their grandma’s done that. Look, kid, you been dreaming about this your whole life. You were made for this movie. You are a classic actress. Don’t let this Gregory Jones thing pull your eyes off the prize. We need this.”

  Paradise rubbed her temple with her free hand. “Arnie, he just died. Please. I appreciate all you’ve done for me. And I am happy. Really I am. I’m dying for the part. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Maybe I just don’t want to get my hopes up.”

  “Paradise, cut it out. I can tell when you’re feeling sorry for yourself. First, you hardly knew the guy. Second, you’re right there—on the cusp. Keep focused on what’s important here. You’re special. You’re a rare breed. One in a million and all that. You belong on the red carpet. And you’ll be there, I promise.”

  What the world needed—another Arnie pep talk.

  Am I happy? How could a person be surrounded by people all the time and still feel lonely? Like watching herself in a movie—an outside spectator to her own life. Maybe she was going crazy.

  Focus … “You really think I’m going to get the part?”

  “I know it. I’m an old dog. I get how this town works, and I feel this one in my bones. So how about it? Let’s go see the set.”

  “Thanks, Arnie. I really need to be alone for a while. I’ll get out there, I promise.”

  “Okay, kid, whatever. Tomorrow, though, Beverly Hills Hotel. I want you to meet some people. Real players. Colin Prince will be there, too. I gather you made quite an impression on him last night. He wants to see you again. I’ll pick you up about eleven, sound good?”

  “Tell him to brush his teeth.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Okay. I’ll be ready. Thanks for watching out for me.”

  “Hey, sorry again about your old man. That’s a hard deal. But remember, focus on what’s important. Focus on right now.”

  “See you tomorrow, Arnie.”

  Makeup gone, back under the sheet, the world turned pink again. Billie sang Ashleigh’s face onto the phone screen, but Paradise didn’t answer. Gregory Jones was dead. Eve was somewhere between LA and Cabo via New York or Paris or wherever the wind blew her.

  Paradise Jones, hidden safely away in some ’40s movie. Feet sore from dancing with one of the biggest leading men on the planet. Everything she’d ever dreamed of very possibly within her reach.

  Pink cocoon. Silverlake. Los Angeles. USA. Planet Earth. Universe.

  Paradise Jones … Alone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Green Monster

  PARADISE, ARIZONA

  AUGUST 6, 2015

  Small towns tend to rest beneath the biggest skies. Vast expanses of blue that stretch away on every side, horizon to horizon. The sky holds clouds, suns, planets, and stars. Galaxies nestle in its depths. But no sky is big enough to hold dreams. Especially small-town dreams.

  At thirty-eight hundred feet above sea level, Paradise, Arizona, didn’t suffer the regular triple-digit temperatures of Phoenix or Tucson, but ninety-six came close enough. The cloudless sky hung above. A deep blue inverted ocean stuffed full of dreams.

  A perfect day for baseball.

  Doc Morales stretched, then swung the bat in a lazy arc. Bending at the waist, he let his knuckles brush the dust. Hey, twenty-six years old, three years out of the game, and he could still find the ground. Not bad, considering. Upright again, he studied the red-dirt field. A sad sight by any standard. No fence marked the perimeter. Deep ruts grooved the unmarked base lines leading out from the rusty chain link—a sorry excuse for a backstop. The players on the field weren’t much better. A rag-tag bunch ranging in age from about thirteen to thirty. A couple of them wore mismatched uniforms. Others, just shorts and T-shirts.

  “Let’s go, little brother.” Doc’s brother played third base and stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. His black cassock covered his cleats, at odds with the sweat-stained cowboy hat—a holdout from his rodeo days—that shaded his eyes from the bright Arizona sun. Father Jake, as everyone except Doc called him, smacked a hand into his glove and spat into the dust.

  Micky Granger’s scratchy taunt pulled Doc back to the plate. “You gonna hit today, superstar? No rush or anything.”

  Micky’s catcher’s gear bore the green and white colors of Yavapai College.

  “Yavapai know you stole their stuff, Mickey?” Doc stepped into the batter’s box. No white chalk marked it, just a rectangle scraped into the dust with somebody’s cleat.

  “They’ll survive. I’ll take it back in the fall. Besides, they can’t live without me. I own that place.”

  “Uh huh. Sure you do. What’
d you hit last year, one twenty-seven?” Doc stepped back out of the box. He leaned and grabbed a handful of dust and rubbed it on his hands.

  “I was in a slump. Happens to everybody,” Mickey said. “C’mon, man. What’re you doing? Waiting for the groundskeeper to mow the dirt?”

  “Doc, it’s hot out here,” Jake called from third.

  “Relax. You’re a priest. Isn’t patience supposed to be one of your virtues? Maybe they ought to think about making those dresses in something besides black.” Doc stepped back into the box and kicked his cleats into the soft earth, tapping the plate with the end of the bat.

  Jake spat again. “Just hit the ball, little brother!”

  “I hate it when he calls me that,” Doc grumbled.

  “Yeah, well, that’s why he does it.” Mickey lifted his catcher’s mask, spat, then shouted to the pitcher, a giant kid with acne-pocked cheeks. “Let’s go, Trevor. Sit this clown down.”

  Doc air-swung over the plate. “So this guy drove all the way up here from Phoenix just to pitch against me?”

  “What can I say?” Mickey said. “You’re a legend. Get over yourself.”

  All business, Trevor kicked at the dirt in front of the rubber. A cloud of dust rose up to his knees. He bent forward, ball behind his back, and stared Doc down from under his hat brim.

  “Looks like he’s got your number, Morales. What’d you do, insult his mom?” Mickey asked.

  Doc eyed the pitcher. “Who is this guy? Satan? I think his eyes are glowing red. Nope, never met him. How tall is he? Six-five? Six-six? Looks like he could hand the ball to you without leaving the mound.”

  “He’s starting for ASU this year. As a freshman, if you can believe it.”

  Trevor shook off a sign with a quick jerk of his head.

  “Didn’t like that one, huh?” Doc said. “What’d you call? Fastball?”

  Mickey leaned forward and brushed dirt from the plate. “Don’t laugh, superstar. Kid’s got a filthy splitter. You won’t touch him.”

  Trevor shook off another sign.

  “You calling pitches or just suggesting ’em today, Mickey?” Doc let the bat fall onto his shoulder and straightened. “This is getting boring.”