Parishioner

by Walter Mosley

  Instantly, miraculously Toy understood that he’d become a mad bomber, an anarchist bent only on destruction—or maybe a smart bomb that had drifted off course while his distracted masters profited and laughed.

  Meacham knew about Father Frank. He’d come across the name while following Lester Stein, a professor who, as he researched Russian literature, had begun to pass along data that could have been seen as a danger to national security.

  Lester had been a member of a nameless congregation on the coast a hundred miles north of LA.

  Unexpectedly, to everyone but Toy, the professor died of a heart attack. The clandestine agent hadn’t reported the existence of Frank or his church mainly because there was no system set up for him to report anything. He was a tool, not intelligence. He existed to serve—or rather, mete out.

  Toy showed up at the nameless white stone church at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon. He was met at the door by Sister Hope, who greeted him by name. She ushered the assassin into Frank’s rectory.

  “How did she know my name?” Theodore Meacham asked Father Frank.

  “We’ve known about you for a long time, Toy,” Frank said. “There have been three members of the congregation who were complicit in your crimes.”

  “I was following orders given by elected and appointed officials.” Meacham said the words even if he no longer believed in them.

  “We recognize no government above common law,” Frank replied.

  Theodore never knew whether it was the equation of the notion of common law placed next to the idea of government that swayed him or if it was just the tone of Frank’s voice. But after a three-hour conference with Frank, Toy knew that he had to retire. He quit the mercenary corporation, collected his back pay from diplomatic services, and bought the Nut Hut from Myra Salud, a widow who wanted to go live with her daughter in Minneapolis.

  Theodore was taller than he seemed and stronger than his slight frame might have indicated. His skin was sallow—allowing him to pretend to be from any continent, racial group, or religion. His brow was heavy with the number of souls he’d terminated without the slightest heat or satisfaction.

  He was the butcher and they the various cuts of meat.

  “Hello,” Xavier Rule said to Ted Meacham.

  The taupe eyes registered the gangster. The pallid bald head barely nodded.

  “Hey.” Toy looked around to see what else had drifted into his environment.

  Ecks knew how clear and yet vacant that vision was.

  “I’m gonna drop by here at around three thirty,” Ecks said. “Somebody, maybe more than one, will be looking after me. They might even come up and talk to you to ask about me.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “You still run the safe house in Coldwater Canyon?”

  “You got clearance from Frank?”

  “Call him.”

  “I will.”

  “Send whoever it is asking about me up there. Tell ’em that I’m an old friend and that you play poker up there sometimes.”

  “If I get the high sign do you need backup?”

  “Probably not. Let ’em know that you already told a young man to meet me up there tomorrow at four, that I was asking if you passed on the message. Maybe you could mistake them for the guy I left the message for.”

  “Should I turn a profit?”

  “That would be best.”

  “Want some nuts?”

  “Got some,” Ecks said, and Toy smiled.

  “Goddamn, that was some strong shit,” Lenny O said at a few minutes past three.

  They were in the Farmers’ Market parking lot.

  “You must’a been tired,” Ecks said. “That shit never knock me out like that.”

  Lenny sat up and pressed his palms against his eyes.

  “Damn,” he said. “Where are we?”

  “Parking lot.”

  “Why?”

  “You fell asleep. I couldn’t carry you, so I thought we’d wait awhile … until you got up.”

  “How long?”

  “Three, four hours. You thirsty?”

  Ecks handed over a sealed bottle of water. He had dipped the top into the same drug that had already rendered the film crewman unconscious. The liquid narcotic would have seeped in.

  Lenny studied the cap, broke the serrated seal, and took a swig.

  “You ready to go?” Ecks asked.

  “Where to?”

  “That house I promised … with the bed.”

  Lenny nodded and Ecks turned over the engine. He drove off the lot onto Third. By the time he’d made it around the block Lenny was out again.

  “Hello?”

  “You still feel all excited?” Ecks asked Winter.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to get a car not registered to you and pull it up to Beverly and Fairfax, southwest corner at ten minutes to four exactly.”

  “You got it.”

  “Wear a hat that hides your face a little. Put on some sunglasses too.”

  “Why?”

  “Come on, Win, don’t start askin’ questions when you already know the answers.”

  Ecks walked up to Toy Meacham at the Nut Hut at three thirty.

  “African groundnuts, please,” he requested from the state-certified anarchist.

  “Frank said that I should help you if you need it.”

  “If I needed it I shouldn’t be doin’ what I’m doin’.”

  “A guy came up at three-oh-six and asked for some sugared cashews. He scoped out the place and now he’s sitting at the Mexican food court with another guy looking right at you.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  Toy offered over a quarter-pound bag of toasted macadamias and Ecks gave him a twenty-dollar bill.

  “My cell phone number is written across the top,” Ecks told Toy. “Call me if I need to know anything.”

  The elder killer nodded, handing Ecks his change.

  Twelve minutes later, on Fairfax walking north, Ecks felt the cell phone throb in his pocket. He touched his ear as if scratching, turning on the micro-Bluetooth as he did so.

  “Yeah?” he muttered.

  “Soon as you left,” Toy said, “one of the guys got up and followed. You won’t be able to miss him. He’s wearing this green suit. The other one came up and got all tough. I acted like I was scared and he felt real good about himself. For three hundred dollars I told him what you said. I acted like I thought he wanted into a poker game. You want me to send you the cash?”

  “Put it on my tab. That way I can have nuts all year.”

  Toy disconnected the call and Ecks stopped to look in a real estate office window, pretending to check out apartments. The broad-shouldered man following him was garbed in a hideous green suit with Brazil nut–brown shoes and a black T-shirt. He wasn’t afraid of being noticed, even seemed a bit bothered at having to wait while Ecks studied the little three-by-five cards taped to an easel in the showcase.

  Ecks looked down at his watch, saw that Win was supposed to be at the rendezvous in two minutes, and started making his way north once more.

  He reached the southwest corner of Fairfax and Beverly at ten to four exactly. A black Lincoln sedan swooped down at the corner, the door swung open, and Ecks stepped in. As he closed the door Winter pulled away and the man in the green suit started to run. But it was too late. Ecks studied his frustrated pursuer in the side mirror and smiled to himself.

  “You’d make a good wheelman,” Ecks said to Winter Johnson.

  “Ain’t they the first ones to get iced in all the heist movies?”

  “I guess so. You know I don’t own a TV and I haven’t been to a movie in years.”

  “What do you do when you up in the crib alone?” Win asked.

  “Read my books,” Ecks said. “Think.”

  “That sounds kinda boring.”

  “I guess. My ride’s down at the parking garage across Third from the Farmers’ Market.”

  It was a shor
t drive to the loading dock behind George Ben’s hardware store in West Hollywood. Ecks called ahead and was met by the reformed killer at the big double doors.

  “Anybody around?” Ecks asked Ben.

  “Just us brothers,” Ben said. He was wearing a pink apron over a violet jumpsuit.

  “I got a kid in the backseat,” the Parishioner said, “all sedated. I’d like you to look after him for a few days or so.”

  “And if he wants to leave?”

  “Try to talk him out of it. Tell him that I brought him here, that I’ll be back soon as I can.”

  “Okay,” George said. “I’ll do what I can. What if he asks me what’s going on?”

  “Tell him that I’m talking to the woman who hired me and I’m trying to get him some cash.”

  “Uh-huh. Is this one like Charlotte?”

  “Sorry about that, George. And yeah … this one’s just as bad.”

  Ecks reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pistol—the one he took from Doris Milne.

  “This yours?” the Parishioner asked.

  “That little bitch.”

  “Thanks for the help, man.”

  Ben smiled and, after taking the handgun, said, “I love you too, Ecks.”

  Yellow River was a simple restaurant: no silk hangings or fancy woodwork, just a big blue linoleum floor with seven beat-up black lacquered tables, each set with four chairs that had skinny legs. The waiter wore broad-legged black trousers and a short white jacket that buttoned up to the throat.

  When Ecks walked in at seven thirty, three of the seven tables had people sitting at them. Two had been pushed together to accommodate a party of six.

  Everyone else in the room was Chinese, all of them speaking at once—shouting without anger.

  “Mister Ecks,” the ageless olive-skinned waiter said. He guided Xavier to a table toward the back of the room.

  “Thank you, Wu,” Ecks said.

  “Whiskey?”

  “No.”

  “You eat now?”

  “I have a guest coming.”

  Surprise showed only in the man’s brows. He nodded and backed away.

  Putting his elbows on the rickety, dented table, Ecks laced his fingers and pressed his lips against his right thumb. He wondered, while the room resonated with loud conversations of the displaced Asian population. He was thinking about the room not as a stopping place but more like a passageway. And he was not a human being but a chameleon changing his spots to fit the world around him.

  He’d been changing with the days since Benol had walked into the nameless house of worship. He shouldn’t have been meeting the Brazilian student/waitress. He shouldn’t have been doing Frank’s bidding without more information and explanation.

  Thinking these things, Ecks smiled. He’d never done one thing in his life that he should have done. Why start now? he thought with a smile.

  It was seven forty-three on the round numbered clock hanging from the wall when Ecks grinned and Benicia Torres walked into the blue room.

  She took the smile for her and returned it.

  Ecks’s expression intensified. He liked her white dress and the leopard skin–patterned scarf that mostly covered her blond-and-blue hair. The cream hem came down to the middle of her copper knees.

  He stood up and pulled out a chair.

  Two Chinese men in business suits turned their heads to get a better look.

  Ecks couldn’t remember the last time he stood up for a woman or pulled out her chair.

  “You’re early,” he said.

  “You’re earlier.” She took the seat, giving him a slight nod of approval.

  Ecks felt like laughing. He was almost giddy.

  “It’s not a fancy place, but the food is really good,” he said. “Anything you don’t eat?”

  “I don’t really like squash,” she said.

  “Okay, they don’t have menus except for tourists. Wu—that’s the waiter—he just asks if you’re ready to eat and if you want something to drink.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “It’s family-style. I see a lot of the same people coming in and out of here.”

  The Brazilian’s Mardi Gras eyes glittered. When she smiled Ecks could see that her teeth were a little crooked. This flaw made his heart skip, and once again he wondered about the man he had been and was no longer.

  “You want a drink?” Wu asked, appearing at Benicia’s elbow.

  “Red wine?”

  He smiled and nodded. “Whiskey?” he said to Ecks.

  “Not tonight.”

  The waiter went away. A family of five came in and he waved them toward the two empty tables.

  “I like this place,” Benicia said.

  “Me too.”

  “So?” she asked.

  If you find yourself laughin’ a lot an’ thinkin’ that you havin’ a good time, Panther Rule had told his preadolescent son more than once, then there’s prob’ly somebody sneakin’ up behind you with a baseball bat.

  “What?” Benicia said.

  “Huh?”

  “You just frowned like something hurt you.”

  “Red wine for the lady,” Wu said, placing a juice glass three-quarters filled with dark burgundy. “You eat now?”

  “What’s for dinner?” Ecks asked.

  “Some soup,” the waiter recited, “duck, pork, green bean, and shrimp bun.”

  “Squash in any of that?”

  “Not season.”

  Ecks looked to his date. She shrugged.

  “Bring it on, Wu.”

  Benicia waited for the nearly expressionless waiter to walk away before asking, “And are you having a good time again, Mr. Noland?”

  The baseball bat his father had warned of made Ecks think about Doris.

  “I like this place because it doesn’t judge me,” he said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “A lot of places, when you walk in, they size you up. Got money, got a knife, big tipper, or just a cheapskate. No matter what, they know you before you got the chance to be whatever you are—or to change.”

  “My father always says that people never change,” Benicia said in a tone implying that she hadn’t made up her mind yet.

  “My whole life people been sizin’ me up. On the street, in the schoolyard—anywhere I go. But the first night I came here Wu just asked me how many. I told him that it was just me and he asked what I wanted to drink. I told him whiskey and he never forgot it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Benicia said.

  “When I came into your restaurant I said some words that you liked and you wrote down your number. When we got together you talked to me like I was just somebody sitting across from you. If I said something you found hard to believe you said so.”

  “All that sounds pretty normal,” she said, smiling.

  “I have never been normal—hardly ever saw it before. Where I come from normal packed its bags and moved without leaving a forwarding address.”

  “Are you maybe romanticizing your life?”

  “No,” Ecks said in a tone that caught the young woman up short.

  She frowned long enough for Wu to bring a platter of some delicacies from the yellow kitchen on the other side of two blue swinging doors.

  “Not so fast,” she said, and then, “Oh … oh, yes, yes. That’s right. Just … just like that.”

  “Oh, shit,” Ecks said, and then he came. “Damn.”

  He was hovering over her, his stomach muscles contracted so as to make his abdomen concave and taut.

  “You haven’t been with a woman for a while,” she said, smiling up at him, her ankles caressing his neck.

  “The man I am might not have ever been with one.” Ecks slumped down on his side, trying to stifle his hard breathing.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, turning on her side to face him.

  When he didn’t respond she put her palm against his cheek.

  “This is kinda … kinda new for me,” he a
dmitted.

  “Being with a woman?” Surprise showed on her face.

  “No. No, not that. I been with women, hundreds of ’em. But all that was different. There was this one girl once, but …” Ecks was remembering Dorothy and his son. He had loved her, but there was cocaine in the mix, at least at the beginning. By the time his son was born he felt like his father at the police station: a panther in chains.

  “What?” she asked, pulling away.

  With shocking speed Ecks grabbed her wrist, keeping her hand in place.

  “I never been gentle,” he said. “Never. It makes me feel too much, you know?”

  Benicia was stunned by the quick movement but then she smiled.

  “So you’re telling me that you’re the man version of a virgin?” she said.

  For a moment Xavier’s vision blurred and his neck muscles went taut. Then that breath, that inhalation like the first cigarette after a few days in lockdown.

  “Yeah,” he said, feeling an unaccustomed grin spread across his mouth.

  “Then let’s practice sleeping next to each other,” she said.

  “Wake up,” Ecks said.

  “Huh?”

  “You said you wanted to go on my paper route, right?”

  “Really?” Benicia sat straight up. “You weren’t kidding?”

  “I already called the guy been covering for me. I can go and you sleep if you want.” He wasn’t worried about anything incriminating. All that stuff was in a flat, watertight safe that he kept under the bed.

  “No,” Benicia said, standing up naked and unashamed.

  Her breasts were slightly lighter than the rest of her skin, as was her pubis. The pubic hair had been trimmed to a razor line to accommodate the bikinis she obviously wore often.

  “I wouldn’t miss this.”

  She threw on the white dress that she’d folded earlier and laid across the back of a kitchen chair.

  They trundled down to the alley and climbed through the driver’s side into the cab of the ancient, wood-paneled truck.

  “Aren’t you scared coming down this alley by yourself in the dark?” Benicia asked when he turned the key in the ignition.