Truck Stop Jesus

by Storm, Buck

  Doc’s toe popped through the hole in his sock. He let it be. “Theft? Gone, as in stolen? Didn’t he lock it up in a safe or something?”

  “Why would he?” Paco said. “Nobody felt the need for any real security back then. Father Montgomery was here all the time. Calvary Christian shared the building like we do now, and one of our people was usually around. Church, small town, who would steal from the mission building? There was a lock on the door to the museum like now, but nobody could remember if anyone locked it. Probably not.”

  “So you think someone just walked in and took it?” Doc said. “Did anyone look? You didn’t find out who it was?”

  “I asked around, but I had a pretty good idea who took it. Greg Jones, the kid who kicked it up in the first place—he wasn’t very happy about having to hand it over to the church. And I didn’t want to press too hard. The poor kid had a rough home life. His father was abusive. His mom hid in a bottle. I felt like he needed something to help him along. Father Montgomery agreed with me, and we let the whole thing go. We didn’t pursue it.”

  Doc flipped his ball cap around backward. “So the question of the hour is what happened to Greg? Is he still around? It seems like he’d be curious to find out what happens when you put the coins together. It’s been a long time now. He might be willing to talk to us.”

  Paco shook his head. “No, Greg eventually headed to California to become an actor. He did well, too. Local boy makes good. Like you, Doc.”

  “Wait a minute,” Jake said. “Greg? As in Gregory Jones? He’s the only actor from Paradise I know of. He’s the guy that found the other coin?”

  “One and only,” Paco said. “He found it, and I’m almost sure he took it.”

  “No kidding,” Doc said. “How do you go about contacting a famous actor about a coin he may or may not have stolen fifty years ago? Do they have people for that?”

  “Interesting you ask.” Paco held the coin up to the light. “You don’t talk to him. Greg Jones was killed in a car accident a few days ago. Not front-page news, but it seems like you would have seen something about it.”

  “You know Doc doesn’t read the paper past the sports page,” Jake said. “Not much for the Internet either. Just his old movies and books.”

  “Like Dorian Gray.” Doc walked across the office and looked out the small window. He could see the ball field through the dusty glass. “Man, that’s a crazy coincidence. The one guy who may have the other coin dies within days of someone finding the second one. Unbelievable.”

  Paco stood up from his desk and tossed Doc the coin, then joined him at the window. “Can I tell you something, Doc? As a friend and a pastor? I have a feeling … You know, you and Jake have been sons to me. Especially after your parents died. I’ve watched you play on that baseball field about as long as you’ve been able to walk. Even as a kid, you were a standout. Destined for big things, and we all knew it. I was proud. Followed you through high school, Legion ball, college, and right into the Minors. When you got your shot at the Major Leagues, I thought you’d finally found a home. I was watching, like everyone else around here, the night you got your first at bat. Man, we held our breath. I can still see it. Fenway Park. Second pitch. Fastball down the middle and you lined it to left. I couldn’t have been prouder if you’d been my own flesh and blood. None of us could. Then after that first baseman smacked into you, I watched them carry you off. Our hearts were broken. For you and for ourselves. Now listen to what I’m saying here, okay? You might have thought that was the end of your story, but I knew better. Even when they were carrying you off. Destined for big things doesn’t mean one at bat with the Red Sox. Or even a Hall of Fame career in baseball. And it definitely doesn’t mean hiding out in a trailer behind the mission, watching old black-and-white movies and feeling sorry for yourself. There are a lot of innings left.”

  Doc looked at the coin in his hand. “Jake says the same thing. It’s like seeing the same horse keep coming back around on a merry-go-round. So what do I do? Become a priest? I don’t think black’s my color.”

  “Wasn’t too long ago that I tried to talk your brother out of that very thing.”

  “You were banging your head against generations of good Catholics,” Jake said.

  Paco laughed. “You ever heard of Martin Luther, Jake?” He took the coin back and held it up. “Doc, what you do with your life, that’s your call. And nobody can hear that call but you. But Gregory Jones meeting his Maker and you finding this coin within a few days of each other is no coincidence. I can feel it. It’s part of your story. You need to start reading.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Esther Dash Williams Dot Com

  The Santa Ana winds picked up heat over the Mohave Desert and furnace-blasted it across the Los Angeles basin before continuing out to sea. The city wilted and sagged under the late afternoon sun. Paradise considered putting the top up as she drove through Santa Monica but decided against it as she turned right onto Highway 1 toward Malibu. Her brand-new-used Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight came complete with after-market air conditioning, but she ignored it. Something about the scorching afternoon fit her mood. She pulled the scarf off her head and let the wind demolish her hair.

  Very Marilyn.

  The road to Eve and Burt’s Malibu home curved and climbed through the typical brown and yellow scrub of Southern California. Oak trees dotted the landscape. The closer Paradise got to the faux-Mediterranean mansion, the slower she drove. It always happened that way.

  Eve and Burt—cocktails at five. Wake me when it’s safe again.

  Her stomach knotted as she pulled the car into the huge circular drive. A fountain bubbled and splashed in its center. The house itself rose up against the ocean blue of the Southern California sky. A cozy glass and stucco castle built for two. The place didn’t say new money; it shouted it from its earth-tone turrets. Beyond the house and the steep downward slope that backed it, the diamond-studded Pacific winked and sparkled.

  Eve appeared in the doorway, martini glass in hand. Tall, thin and one part Cabo San Lucas, two parts tanning-bed tan. Her short, white shag lay stark and stylish against her dark skin. Casual, cocktail Eve. She wore slacks and a tank, both white—clearly an effort to accentuate her chemically enhanced, sun-kissed skin.

  Paradise slammed the car door and started for the house. “Meeting me at the door, Mom? Very un-Malibu, you know. Don’t you have somebody for that?”

  The skin around Eve’s eyes tightened. Not that it could get much tighter. The last round of plastic surgery stretched it like a drum. “Don’t be peevish, Paradise. I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  “Right. I could tell by the frequency of your phone calls. How was Cabo?” she asked, referring to her mother’s recent trip to Baja California.

  Eve shooed both the statement and question away with a wave of her hand. “Cabo is Cabo. You know how it is. At least the weather was nice. What happened to your hair and what are you wearing?”

  Paradise pointed to the car. “It’s California, Mom. I bought a convertible. And it’s a sarong dress. Vintage Hawaiian, 1945.”

  “It looks like you bought it at a thrift store.” Eve’s nose wrinkled. “Where and why did you get that car? Please explain.”

  Paradise glanced behind her. “Where? I bought it from a man in Venice Beach. Why? Because I like it. It’s a 1949 Olds Eighty-Eight. Convertible, very hard to find.”

  “What color is it supposed to be?” Eve’s eyes flicked to the road and back.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. The neighbors can’t see from where they are.” Paradise turned to the car. “Blue. Well, mostly blue, at least, I think blue. Blue-ish… I suppose it needs paint. Can we please go inside? It’s hot out here.”

  Eve crossed her arms as if considering.

  “How do you do that?” Paradise asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Cross you arms like that without spilling your drink.”

  “I don’t remember offering to buy you a car. Not that
we wouldn’t have. But we could have gotten you something new. Reliable. Where did you get the money?”

  “I don’t want a new car. I want an Olds Eighty-Eight. It wasn’t expensive. Not like a new one. I save, you know.”

  “I thought maybe Gregory left you something. Although I’d be stunned.”

  “Not much. Some pictures. I found an old coin in his apartment. That’s about it.”

  “That Spanish thing? You mean he still had it after all these years? I’m surprised he didn’t blow that on booze and women long ago.”

  “He’s dead, Mom. Don’t you think it’s time to drop the bitterness?”

  “I’m just saying I’m surprised he still had the thing, that’s all.”

  “And I’m surprised you remember it. It must have meant something to him.”

  “I suppose. He found it when he was a boy. Back in that town in Arizona. He always had a soft spot for that place. I’ve no idea why. Godforsaken hole, if you ask me. One visit was enough.”

  “Thank you. I was named after that hole,” Paradise said.

  Eve waved a hand. “That’s not what I meant. Now, let us buy you a car. A real car. Something sporty, like a BMW.”

  “You mean something you won’t be embarrassed to have parked in your driveway?”

  “I mean something worthy of a Simmons.”

  “I’m not a Simmons. I’m a Jones. Can we please go inside?”

  With a resigned sigh, Eve turned on a heel and led the way through the massive teak double doors.

  The coolness of the foyer washed over Paradise like water. Another fountain bubbled. Her heels clacked on the flagstone floor as Eve, graceful and silent as a ghost, led the way through the interior of the house to the football field-sized great room. Floor to ceiling glass made up the entire back wall, offering a view of the infinity pool and the ocean far below.

  “So, Mom, I’m up for the part of Scarlett in the new Gone with the Wind. Arnie says I have a great shot,” Paradise said.

  Eve ghost-floated left and curved around the bar. A massive mahogany piece, rescued from a hotel in Santa Barbara. One of the few actual antiques in the place. She refreshed her martini. Gin and a new olive, no vermouth. “Arnie … ” The name came out like a curse word. “Well, fabulous. Little Paradise, the movie star. I hope they do better with this version than the first. I never could stand that movie. So melodramatic. Ashley this, Rhett that. Blah blah blah. What are you drinking these days? We’re fully stocked.”

  “You know I don’t drink, Mom. But I’ll take some iced tea, if you have it. And I don’t have the part yet. I’m trying not to get my hopes up.”

  “Ugh … Why can’t you call me Eve? You were so much easier when you were little.”

  No iced tea appeared.

  “Because you’re my mother, like it or not. I hated calling you Eve, by the way.”

  “Of course, I’m your mother. But Mom sounds so … I don’t know … old. Why don’t you drink? I always forget. I don’t know any movie stars that don’t drink.”

  “Do I need a reason for not drinking? And Mom’s better than Grandma, not that you are one. Or likely to be soon. Where’s Burt?”

  Eve shuddered and downed half her gin in one long gulp. Whether a reaction to the word Grandma or Burt, who could tell? “This is Malibu. Of course you need a reason for not drinking. And Burt Simmons, international man of mystery, is running late as usual. He should be here any minute.”

  Paradise dropped onto a leather sofa—much harder than its plush appearance led one to believe. “Do you have tea or not, Mom?”

  Eve shuffled under the bar and came up with a jar of olives and a half-full bottle of gin. “I ordered Geoffrey’s for dinner. It won’t be here for a while. Why don’t you take a swim? Then maybe you could do something about that hair. You know how Burt hates you to look messy.”

  Swimming. The one thing Paradise liked about coming to the house. Eve seemed preoccupied with the olive jar, so Paradise didn’t bother answering. Tea was an obvious lost cause, so she grabbed her bag and headed for the pool. Infinity, they called it. A chlorinated oasis giving the illusion of a shared border with the Pacific Ocean. In the pool house—four times the size of her apartment—she changed into her suit. Two-piece classic sheath recently purchased from the official Esther Williams Swimwear website. Who says the Internet’s not handy?

  Black and white stripes. Eve would hate it.

  Perfect.

  Paradise paused in front of the mirror. Okay, yes, the hair was out of control. Loose, blonde curls exploded everywhere. But the suit and the body it covered would have made Esther Williams proud. She tried to envision Scarlett O’Hara in the reflected image, but couldn’t. Oh well, that’s what the makeup trailer was for. Besides, Colin Prince was no Gable. What would that have been like? To play opposite Gable? Then again she’d heard his breath wasn’t so hot either.

  What was wrong with her? Half the women in the world would give an eyetooth to even be in the same room as Colin Prince. She could hear Ash now.

  The sun on her back in contrast to the cool water rushing over her body eased her tension. She swam hard for half an hour. How long could she go like this? An hour? A week? A year? Esther Williams crossing the English Channel.

  Dangerous When Wet.

  No time. Her hair would take awhile, and she had no desire to hear Eve harp about it all night. At the edge of the pool, she rested her arms on the side and stared out at the endless Pacific.

  Paradise Jones. Malibu. California. Pacific Ocean. Planet Earth. Universe.

  She felt small again. An atom in the endlessness of physical space. And atoms never felt pressure to be known or important. Sweet oblivion. If only for this moment, free from the thing down inside that drove her with unsympathetic resolution. Why was that thing still there, here on the cusp of dreams come true? Or maybe it intensified as dreams approached? When everything important hovered within grasp?

  Far below, the ocean swelled and breathed. “What do you want, Paradise?” it said.

  Good question. What did she want? Gone with the Wind? Money? Fame? Definitely fame. She needed it like air. Like a farmer’s field needs rain. Someone had to notice. To take her seriously.

  To love her.

  And there it was. The place she always returned to, no matter how far she ran.

  Love.

  She wanted love. As badly as Scarlett wanted Rhett back as he walked off into the mist.

  “I want to be famous,” she spoke out to the infinite horizon.

  The ocean swelled, shimmering. “Be famous to me.”

  Was she losing it? Allowing her arms to slide off the slick tile, she sank under the surface. Weightless. Nothing. An atom lost in infinity.

  She floated like that till she couldn’t hold her breath any longer.

  “Be famous to me …”

  In the pool house, she showered and changed. With a blow dryer and several bobby pins, she managed a very passable up-do. It wouldn’t work for publicity photos or a night on the town with Colin Prince, but fine for dinner at home with Eve and Burt. Anyway, looking a little off couldn’t hurt. Maybe it would help keep Burt’s eyes from wandering where they shouldn’t.

  Fat chance.

  A tap sounded at the door, and it swung open almost simultaneously.

  Speak of the devil.

  Burt Simmons was still a handsome man at sixty. Broad shoulders filled out his white dress shirt.

  Two buttons unbuttoned. Must have been casual Friday in the Beverly Hills psychiatry world.

  He pushed his steel-gray hair back from his face and flashed white, capped teeth at her. His smile shone brightly against his tan. “There you are! My favorite girl! It’s been way too long.”

  A coldness touched her inside. “Hello, Burt.”

  “Where’ve you been keeping yourself, Pare? We’ve missed you. You should have come down to Cabo. We would’ve had a blast.”

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  The sar
ong clung to her damp body, and she crossed her arms in front of her, feeling the blood come to her face. True to form, he made no attempt at subtlety. His eyes wandered down, then up again.

  “Be friendly, Paradise. We always got along when you were younger. No reason we can’t now.”

  “Where’s Eve? Is dinner here yet? We should go in.”

  “Asleep on the couch. We have some time.”

  Paradise glanced at the door. “Time for what? I’m hungry.”

  He stepped closer and Paradise smelled alcohol on his breath. “You’ve been avoiding me, Pare. It hurts my feelings.”

  “You’re drunk. And I’m not avoiding you. I don’t think about you at all. You’re crossing a line, and you need to stop.”

  “So, Paradise Jones … The next big thing, I hear. Had a guy on the couch talking about it just today. Studio exec. You’d know his name if I told you. Man, that guy’s a freak behind closed doors. Congratulations. I always knew my Paradise was something special.”

  “They haven’t given me the part yet. And I’m not yours. I’m not anybody’s. Please leave me alone so I can get ready for dinner.”

  “So get ready. Don’t let me stop you.” He reached out and toyed with her dress strap. “Paradise Jones … I always said you lived up to your name, remember?”

  She moved his hand away. “Please, Burt. Don’t.”

  A flush made his tanned cheeks even darker. His words slurred, and a drop of spit formed at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s lay our cards out, Pare. You live on my dime. The apartment, the clothes, all of it—I pay for it.”

  “I don’t want your help anymore, Burt. And besides, I never asked you for anything. I can stand on my own.”

  “That’s true. You’re not a kid anymore, are you, movie star? Hard not to notice. In fact, you’re an attractive woman. I like attractive women. I like you. Always have.”

  “And Eve? My mom? The person you’re married to? Do you like her?”