Truck Stop Jesus

by Storm, Buck

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LA Normal

  Three days after the news of her father’s death, Paradise found herself standing in his shabby Van Nuys apartment. A dingy-curtain-shrouded cave of a place. Gregory Jones had lived here? She’d never known. What kind of daughter doesn’t know where her father lives?

  One whose father never showed his face. Never told her he loved her. Never called. One whose father left her life a long time ago.

  He was nobody to her. She was nobody to him.

  Then why does it hurt so badly?

  It had been a couple of years since she’d seen him. She’d been singing then, or trying to, filling in between acting auditions and bit parts. But nobody wanted to hear big-band jazz—at least in the fickle LA club scene. The aging star, still handsome, had waltzed into The Mint nightclub during one of her sets like Sinatra stepping into the Vegas Sands. All heads turned.

  They’d chatted a bit. Just small talk. She’d felt uncomfortable and tongue-tied. People took pictures. He’d posed with the band. It had been nice enough but hardly a father-daughter moment. It hadn’t struck her until later that he’d somehow known where she would be singing. He must have kept some sort of tabs on her. Tears, familiar pests these last three days, welled and she brushed them away with a hard palm.

  Just get the thing over with.

  She glanced at Ashleigh, who was thankfully too busy rummaging through a desk drawer to notice Paradise’s tears. Paradise took a deep breath and went on looking around this place that had been her father’s home. The apartment presented like something from a ’70s sitcom. Or maybe one of the sets from After Sunset. Right down to the worn, orange shag carpet and avocado appliances. Pictures hung here and there with no particular theme or order, as if there had been very little or no planning involved. She should take them, she supposed. Gregory Jones with various stars and dignitaries. A shot of him receiving an Emmy—wide lapels and feathered hair. There was a picture of him and a younger Eve, as well as one of the three of them together. Too young to remember that one. And most surprising—a framed article from the LA Independent about Paradise’s acting and singing. The headline read PARADISE JONES, Eccentric Talent or Just Eccentric? She scanned the article though she’d seen it a hundred times. The familiar lines about halfway down drew her eyes. “What’s it like to wake up every morning to 1945? Ask Paradise Jones! Yes, retro’s in, but this wannabe starlet marches to the enchanted beat of her own drummer—or sousaphone player. Let’s just say hers is no act, brother. Say hello to the happy little voices in your head for us, Miss Jones.”

  She’d leave that one alone.

  Ashleigh pushed open a sliding glass door at the back of the living room and pulled back the heavy drape. “Ugh, it smells like a barroom on Sunday morning in here.”

  California light flooded the room, and Paradise shielded her eyes. “Except it’s Thursday.”

  “I know I’m not supposed to speak ill of the dead and all that, but this place is really depressing.”

  “I can’t argue with you. It’s strange I’ve never been here before.”

  The two of them moved through the apartment, emptying drawers and cabinets, sorting and boxing.

  Everything of value, pictures included, could just about fit into a couple large boxes. At least, the items Paradise cared to take. She’d agreed to leave the furniture and clothing for the landlord to help cover back rent. The closet held three decades of moth-balled clothes and shoes but little else. The dresser, in turn, offered up no surprises.

  The hall closet sported a vacuum and Paradise surprised herself by using it. She’d never been much of a housekeeper—must have taken after her father. After a quick once-over of the hallway and bedroom, she put it back and found Ash dragging a wet mop across the Saltillo tile kitchen floor.

  Ash’s bright pink rubber gloves with plastic daisies hot-glued to them brought a smile to Paradise’s lips. Webster’s Dictionary could have had a picture of Ashleigh next to its entry for color. A staple in LA’s vintage scene, today her friend wore capris, a madras blouse, and pink, cat-eye glasses with fake diamonds on the frames. Her black hair stood at sprayed attention in a mile-high beehive. A cartoon of a ’50s housewife, if it weren’t for the full-sleeve tattoos.

  While Ashleigh worked hard at retro, Paradise had tumbled in by default. The glamour of Hollywood’s Golden Age had drawn her for as long as she could remember. Ava Gardner, Irene Dunn, Esther Williams—they’d had it all. And could anyone ever have been happier than Doris Day? Paradise never forgot that fateful night in fourth grade—just a year after Eve had married Burt—when Audrey Hepburn stepped through the TV screen into her bedroom and dazzled with glamour and style. Saturday morning she’d skipped cartoons and insisted Eve take her shopping. No argument there. Eve raised spending to an art form. At first, her mother laughed off Paradise’s obsession with all things vintage Tinsel Town, dismissing it as a fad. Fifteen years later, nobody laughed anymore.

  The hardcore retro purists down on Melrose Avenue talked a big game about giving up all things modern. Paradise never thought like that. She never really thought about it at all. She just was. Besides, Audrey and Doris would have reveled in the convenience of smartphones and quick access to the Internet. Paradise was simply Paradise, able to transform to vintage starlet of her choice with the change of an outfit. Maybe born a few decades too late, but why let that stop her? Her closet was stuffed to overflowing with outfits, dresses, and shoes in profusion from that more glamorous time.

  Lights, fame, Rodeo Drive—she’d attempted acting. Her lineage and natural beauty gave her a leg up on the competition, but no one made great movies anymore. She dreamed of Lauren Bacall in Key Largo and wound up with some bit part in Scream One Hundred and Six. Singing seemed a good choice. She could hold a tune. Just the classics—quirky enough to work in a town like Los Angeles. She’d scrapped it out in the clubs for a while. Who was she kidding? Forever, in LA years. Jack’s Grotto, The Viper Room, The Mint, anywhere her band could land a gig; she’d played them all. Now, though, thanks to Arnie’s tenacity, the role of a lifetime—Scarlett in the remake of Gone with the Wind—looked like a very real possibility. She might actually be part of the highest budgeted and most talked-about film of the year, maybe of the decade.

  “So let me get this straight.” Ashleigh pushed her glasses up with a gloved index finger. “Your inheritance from your television-star dad is getting to clean his weird, depressing apartment?”

  Paradise held up a cardboard box of things worth taking. “That’s the size of it. Not a lot here besides dirt, I’m afraid.”

  “Didn’t he win an Emmy or something like that? Seems like one of those things would be worth a buck or six. Or at least, worth keeping.”

  “I didn’t see anything like that. If he had some awards, he must have pawned them or sold them.”

  Ashleigh set the mop down, then picked up a dishrag and started wiping off the orange Formica counters. “Do people do that? Sell Emmys?”

  “I guess they’ll do anything if they’re broke enough. And want a drink. From the look of this place, he was … and did. Want a drink, that is.”

  With a last swipe, Ashleigh threw the dishrag into the sink. “That’s about it, chickie. I say we bounce. Too many dark colors in here for me. It’s depressing. I don’t know what they were thinking in the ’70s. Avocado green makes my eye twitch.”

  Paradise set a big cardboard box by the front door. “Okay. One more quick check, then we’ll go.”

  But instead she sat down on the worn leather couch. Grief welled again.

  Ashleigh sat next to her and put her arm across her shoulders. “You okay?”

  Paradise blinked, tired of fighting the tears. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I hardly knew him, you know? Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am crazy.”

  Ash pulled a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed Paradise’s eyes. “Crazy’s relative. Be who you are, in all your starlet glory. Yeah, you’d stand o
ut in Omaha, but this is LA. Here you’re just pretty much normal. Depends on your neighborhood. Oh, and you’re a movie star.”

  “Not yet. I could use a Coke.”

  “Then again, this is LA, and you don’t drink or smoke. Maybe you are crazy.”

  “I watch him sometimes.”

  “And now you’ve lost me. As usual.”

  “My dad. I have the complete DVD set of After Sunset. I bought it on Amazon a long time ago, but I never told anyone. I know all his lines by heart.”

  Ash gave her a squeeze.

  “You think it’s going to work?” Paradise said.

  “Memorizing your dad’s lines? Work for what?”

  “No, the movie. Getting the part. I can’t imagine it really happening.”

  “Listen. Paradise Jones’ dreams are finally coming true. You’re gonna have a zillion fans. They’ll all love my quirky pal.”

  “And if I have a zillion fans who love me, will I feel normal?”

  “It’s worth a shot.”

  “I should be excited. I was excited. Why did he have to die right now?”

  “Should he have checked with you first? Maybe he did you a favor. One last fatherly hurrah got you some extra attention. People are talking about you. That’s a plus in this town any way you look at it.” Ash dug through her purse, fished out a small compact, and began to doctor her already perfect makeup. She pointed a long nail at a small end table next to the couch. “Did you check that drawer in the end table?”

  “No. I didn’t even see it.” Paradise pulled it open. “TV Guide.” She picked up the magazine. “August, 1975. Guess who’s on the cover?”

  “Ah, the legendary Gregory Jones, I presume. Same year he bought the rabbit ears on the TV, I’ll bet”

  “You can have them. Very retro. Right up your alley.”

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  Paradise dropped the magazine into her purse and then felt the back of the drawer just to be sure she wasn’t missing anything. Her hand bumped something hard. “Ash, look at this.”

  A small wooden box darkened with age and handling.

  Ashleigh’s eyebrows rose. “Jewelry?”

  Using her nails, Paradise worked the small clasp that held the lid. After a few seconds, it snapped back with a click. Inside, she found a worn gold coin about the size of a silver dollar.

  Ashleigh let out a long whistle. “Wow. Good thing you double-checked. What is it?”

  “Maybe a collector’s edition coin or something? I don’t know. It has writing on it.”

  “He sold an Emmy but not a coin? That doesn’t make sense. Let me see it. What does it say?”

  “I think it’s Spanish. Dos Escudos? What does that mean?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Gato Negro

  The coolness and silence of the mission paired like an old, married couple as Doc followed Jake into the vestibule. Doc took off his cleats so they wouldn’t scratch the polished stone floor. How many generations of feet would it take to make stone shine like that? Ahead of them, through a high, arched entryway, the narrow chapel stretched into the dim interior of the building, consistent with early Spanish Colonial architecture. To the right, the entrance to the mission’s museum welcomed visitors with a carved pine sign over a wooden door—Jake’s domain. Well, more a passion than a domain. How many times had his brother regaled him with stories and history of mission life? Then again, given Jake’s natural calm, maybe regaled was the wrong word.

  Opposite the door to the museum stood another archway and a thick, unmarked wooden door leading up to the staff offices. Doc shut it behind them as they passed through. Up a stone stair and down a series of hallways, the brothers found Pastor Paco Hollis behind his desk in an office that smelled like leather and old books. A well-worn Stetson Open Road hung on a hat rack behind him.

  Doc smiled at the sight. Not one to stand on formality, the pastor insisted the brothers call him by his first name and skip the title. A thin man, constructed of rawhide and aged wood, his strong hands presented like those of a rancher or a longshoreman. In actuality, they belonged to a guy looking in the rearview mirror at a long career as Paradise Chief of Police. Now, ten years into retirement from law enforcement, Paco filled his hours with pastoral work, something that had been relegated to a part-time profession in his younger days.

  His eyes warmed as Jake and Doc walked in. “Butch and Sundance. Game over already?”

  “Got something for you to see, Paco,” Jake said, handing the pastor the coin. “You’re not going to believe it. Doc found this escudos along with—get this—the remains of a conquistador, out past the ball field.”

  Paco’s eyes widened a bit. His slight Mexican accent flowed soft as warm molasses as he turned the coin over in his fingers. “A conquistador? As in an actual body?”

  “Yup. Well, sort of. At least the bones of one,” Jake said. “In the wash. Looked like storm runoff dug in under the bank and collapsed it. The bones and armor were half buried in the sand. That,” he pointed at the coin, “was under a breastplate in this.” He tossed the small leather sack onto the desk.

  “Next to a ball I hit,” Doc added. “Four-fifty if it was an inch.”

  Paco rasped a soft laugh. “Of course, it was. Couldn’t leave that important detail out, could we, Red Sox?”

  Jake leaned forward, resting his palms on Paco’s desk. “It’s an eight escudos; I’m fairly sure. But look at the markings—dos escudos.”

  Paco pulled a pair of bent wire reading glasses from his desk drawer and propped them on the end of his nose, though Doc had a strong suspicion they weren’t necessary. Deep into his seventies, age and gray somehow had a tough time getting a grip on the energetic pastor. In fact, people marveled at the old man’s youthfulness. Black eyebrows furrowed beneath thick, black hair combed back from his face.

  “You got a picture aging for you in an attic somewhere, Paco?” Doc said.

  “Hmm. Dorian Gray. Not bad for a jock. You read the book or see the movie? And by book, I don’t mean comic,” Paco said.

  “Both. I’m well-rounded.”

  “I’m sure you are. But about your coin … Says dos escudos, sure enough. Although it’s certainly an eight escudos coin. You’re right, Jake. This side,” he pointed to the stamped imprint, “is not original. At least not like any eight escudos I’ve ever seen. It was probably Spanish currency, but it’s been altered. Dos Escudos followed by Gato Negro—Black Cat. I’m betting it’s a key to the cipher.”

  Jake leaned forward. “So you think the story is real? This is one of the coins?”

  “Sure, it’s real. At least as far as the cipher goes. Who knows if it actually means anything? Everybody guesses, but nobody really knows.”

  Doc crossed one leg over the other. A toe showed through a hole in his sock, and he covered it with his hand. “A cipher? As in a code? What story are you talking about?”

  Jake turned toward Doc. “There’s this story in one of the old diaries here. We have it in the museum archives. It’s well known to collectors and historians. Something told to one of the priests by a local Apache. He talked about two coins. Called them the Dos Escudos. And two brothers, the Montejos. Each brother kept a coin. One had a cipher, or a code, on it and the other one had a keyword. One coin was supposed to decode the other.”

  Doc raised his eyebrows. “An Apache told him this? I thought they were hostile back then. Come to think of it, some still are. Jack Harjo over at the Texaco’s a real piece of work. Then again, I dated his sister. Can’t blame him.”

  Paco placed the coin carefully on the desk and removed the reading glasses, his face alive with amateur historian zeal—a passion that had long pulled Jake into its whirling vortex. “Not all were hostile. Some welcomed the missionaries. Even traded with them. And don’t forget, it was mostly Indian labor that built this place. Some even converted to Catholicism.”

  “So what was coded?” Doc said. “Military secrets? Map to Coronado’s gold?”

 
Paco shrugged. “No one knows. Historians have debated it for years. One theory is that the coins hold a clue to the location of the Fountain of Youth. Juan Ponce de León thought he’d found it in Florida at one time. León is rumored to have been a distant cousin of the brothers. There are other theories, of course. Religious artifacts. The tomb of some saint. El Dorado. There’s always gold. That’s the most popular. Lots of pilfered Incan gold floating around back then. The Spanish melted and minted constantly.”

  Jake leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. “I figured it was just a tall tale. Maybe had some basis in real people—like the brothers—but exaggerated. But I wonder, now that I’ve seen this coin.”

  “Not just a story,” Paco said. “It’s true. Both coins are real, code and key, although I have no idea what they might lead to, if anything.”

  Jake leaned forward again, hands on his knees. “You think the other coin’s out there? Buried somewhere? You think it exists?”

  “It exists, sure enough,” Paco said. “But it’s not buried. At least, I don’t think it is. It wasn’t last time I saw it.”

  “The last time you saw it?” Jake said. “You’re saying you’ve seen the other dos escudos?”

  Paco picked up the coin again. “I’m almost sure of it. It’s been a long time. Lots of years. Before you both were even born, in fact. A young man found it out there on your ball field. Kicked it right up out of the center field dirt. Eight escudos coin. Gold. But it had Dos Escudos stamped on one side exactly like this one. That one had a lot more writing on it, though. I’m thinking that coin held the cipher, and this one’s got the key—the key being Gato Negro.”

  “Wait,” Jake said. “So the coin was here? Where is it? I’ve never seen it in the museum or the archives. Not even a mention.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. It wasn’t here long. Since it was found on mission land, it was considered the property of the church. Father Montgomery was still alive then. He put it in a drawer behind one of the glass cases in the museum so he could archive it and make it public the next day. But when he went to get it, it was gone. I remember because I was the officer that responded to the theft complaint.”