“Pasadena won’t stay like this forever,” Mary Mabel said.
Doyle shrugged. “Nothing ever does. But it’s here for now and that’s what counts.”
Mary Mabel never offered Ma a laying-on of hands, nor did Ma ever ask for one. Still, when it was time to leave, Ma would hold her hands longer than necessary. Doyle would get annoyed. “Ma, she has to get back for the supper show.”
One evening as he drove Mary Mabel to work he said, “She listens to your programs.”
“That’s nice.”
Doyle didn’t smile. “Yesterday I caught her touching the radio during your healing hour.”
“She says she’s feeling better.”
“She’s gotten out of Buffalo.”
Mary Mabel paused. “K.O., lots of other people are touching their radios and claiming miracles. You write about them.”
“My mother’s not ‘other people.’ She’s sick, not senile. Tell her to knock it off.”
“You tell her.”
“Why me? I’m not the one who claims to have magic fingers.”
The following day they were friends again. Doyle skipped into the station waving an embossed card. “Guess what? I’ll be seeing you at San Simeon this weekend. Mr. Hearst’s invited me and Ma to his costume ball! She’ll be so proud.” He picked Mary Mabel up and twirled her around. She had an itch to tousle his cowlick.
Westward Ho!
While Mary Mabel was preaching on WKRN, Brother Percy Brubacher was engaged in a national tour of sacrilege. Satan had told him to get out of New York fast; it was only a matter of time before the loony bin realized it had the wrong guy. Percy wondered if he could pick up his stuff at the Belvedere. Satan said, “What, are you nuts?” The money coat enabled him to buy a cheap suitcase, toiletries, nondescript travelling clothes, a new little black book, and a book of bus schedules. A shave and a haircut made him unrecognizable.
Satan had warned him that when the cops wised up they’d be looking for a pattern to his movements, so Percy avoided one. He’d go to the bus station, close his eyes, and randomly point to a destination on the schedule board. The buses were rarely full. Percy would sit alone at the back making graven images of the Fly with toothpicks and chewing gum.
On arrival at each new town, he’d eat a plate of mash, then set off to desecrate the church closest to the terminal. His abominations were non-denominational: he peed in Catholic confessionals, put toads in Episcopal holy water, stole from Presbyterian offering plates, and wrote dirty jokes in Baptist hymnals. Mormons he left alone; they were already a desecration, so what was the point?
In addition to run-of-the-mill sacrilege, Percy determined to violate each of the Ten Commandments. Graven images aside, he’d already worshipped Satan, blasphemed God, stolen church collections, dishonoured his father’s memory, coveted Mary Mabel’s success, borne false witness against her in various rants, and forgotten the Sabbath — indeed, he no longer remembered the days of the week. He was on a roll: eight commandments down, two to go: adultery and murder.
Adultery was hard. The idea of sex was terrifying, much less sex with someone other than himself. Percy decided to start small and work up. He fantasized Floyd with a hooker. It was a revelation. Percy took to self-abuse like a duck to water. Soon his pockets were stuffed with wads of toilet paper and a hip flask of bleach to burn away the germs.
After a month of practice and a severe skin rash, Percy was ready to go for the Scarlet Letter. He asked Satan to take him to a house of ill repute. Satan, who’d appeared as a cab driver, dropped him off at Lucille Stout’s. She was a part-timer who turned tricks whenever her husband Rudy was in the slammer, which was mostly. The minute she unhooked her brassiere, Percy ran screaming into the night.
The next night he returned with a plan. He closed his eyes and pretended he was Floyd. After ten minutes of awkward groping, Percy’s member remained as limp as an overcooked bean. Then Lucille took him in her mouth and Percy had a flash. He wasn’t Floyd; Lucille was. Out of the blue he saw stars. Fireworks. His little legume erupted into a prize-winning cucumber.
Percy was confused, troubled by the memories that surfaced of his early days rooming with Floyd. Sleeping in a twin bed in the same room as his partner had been heaven. If Floyd had asked him for a neck rub his world would’ve been complete. Instead, his pal had slipped out to be with landladies and harlots. The waves of hurt, anger, and jealousy had been unbearable — though not as unbearable as Floyd’s suggestion to fold the tent and part company forever, or, more recently, of being jilted for Miss McTavish.
Percy wobbled off Lucille’s verandah consumed with the remaining item on his agenda. Murder. The thought of killing Floyd overwhelmed him with despair. No matter how cruel, Floyd was the closest thing to a friend that Percy’d ever had. Mary Mabel, however, was another kettle of fish. The idea of driving a stake through her heart gave Percy goosebumps.
It wasn’t the first time he’d imagined her dead. Page after page in his little black books had been filled with prayers that she be trampled to death by well-wishers.
Fat chance. Those prayers had gone to God, who’d played him for a sucker. Now he sent his prayers to Satan. Satan encouraged him to take a more active role in the death of his enemy. Her murder would conclude his initiation into the world of darkness. And it would make him famous beyond his wildest dreams.
Percy was delighted by the suggestion. He hopped off Lucille’s verandah and tap-danced down the street.
Next stop, Los Angeles.
Fitz Feeney was the lawyer engaged by Floyd to represent Brother Percy in the wake of the Radio City disturbance. Floyd had hired him because he was cheap and incompetent. With any luck, his former partner would spend the rest of his days confined to a penitentiary or asylum.
Feeney was a good Catholic who spent an hour a day in confession. As a lawyer, he more or less had to. His priest, Father O’Hara, thought Feeney’s biggest sin was continuing to practise law; his stupidity had sent innocent men to Death Row and widows to the poorhouse. O’Hara gave him a plaster statue of St. Jude and insisted he pray to it daily. (The priest made statues of the saints as a hobby. St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes, was his favourite. He gave it to shut-ins and the sick. He also presented it at baptisms, since babies invariably turn into sinners.)
Fitz Feeney had prayed diligently to St. Jude re: the Brubacher file. If ever there was a lost cause, the preacher was it. He’d committed his crimes in front of six thousand witnesses, been arrested by the director of the F.B.I., and shipped to Bellevue after disabling five of New York’s finest. According to the shrinks, despite a month of drug and deprivation therapy, his schizophrenia had deepened. Brubacher’s alter ego, “Slick Skinner,” now claimed to own a hunting lodge in Cedar Bend — significantly, the home town of his estranged colleague Miss McTavish. “Skinner” also believed that he shared his cell with a horse. Refusing to answer questions, he bounced off the padded walls hollering, “Ask the mare, ask the mare.”
“I can’t imagine he’s appealing to Mayor LaGuardia,” confided the chief psychiatrist. “It’s no doubt a reference to his mother. ‘Mare’, as in a mama horse, or ‘mere’ as in the French.” He tapped his nose. “The mother. It’s always the mother.”
Something troubled Feeney. If his client weren’t crazy, he’d swear he was sane. “What about the mayor of Cedar Bend?” he asked. “Has he been contacted?”
The doctors were horrified. “Never encourage a patient’s delusions. Given half a chance, psychotics will have you believing black is white.”
Much like lawyers and psychiatrists, thought Feeney. That night, egged on by St. Jude, he placed a Hail Mary phone call to Cedar Bend.
The mayor hesitated when asked about Skinner; since he’d gone hunting, the town’s disappearances had stopped. Nonetheless, he described Slick perfectly and confirmed each of his claims. “Is Slick in trouble?” he asked hopefully.
“No,” Feeney replied. “As a matter of fact, he’s about t
o come into a fortune.”
The next day, Fitz Feeney’s letter on behalf of his client sent shockwaves through the Bellevue Psychiatric Institute, the N.Y.P.D., and city and state bureaucracies. Especially after a new set of fingerprints established that the “Percy Brubacher” incarcerated at Bellevue was not the same Percy Brubacher who’d originally been fingerprinted at the Midtown North Precinct house. Feeney’s letter read as follows:
Dear Sirs:
Respecting the Case of Mr. Slick Skinner:
Whereas Mr. Slick Skinner, a respected Canadian businessman and tourist, was mugged and left for dead in a New York alleyway;
And whereas officers of the New York Police Department did find his body, and did deny him assistance, and did unlawfully confine him, during which confinement he duly was robbed a second time, and beaten beyond recognition by officers of said New York Police Department;
And whereas Mr. Skinner was thereafter illegally committed to the Bellevue Psychiatric Institute, during which detention he was subjected to deprivation, drug, and other psychiatric treatments and therapies against his wishes and in violation of his rights under the constitution of these United States of America and of international jurisprudence;
And inasmuch as I have been retained by said Mr. Skinner to seek punitive damages on his behalf against the aforementioned New York City Police Department and the Bellevue Psychiatric Institute, as well as the City and State governments of New York;
I ask that you or your representatives contact me at your earliest possible convenience, but no later than the close of tomorrow’s business day, failing which I shall be compelled to initiate civil and criminal proceedings against you, and to so advise the press.
Sincerely yours,
Mr. Fitzroy Feeney,
Attorney-at-law
In an out-of-court settlement, Feeney negotiated Slick’s immediate release. Subject to Slick’s silence on all matters relating to the case, charges of assaulting police officers were dropped, and he was awarded $10,000 in cash, less Feeney’s contingency fee. Doctors suggested he might like to spend a day or two under observation till the drugs wore off; he looked a bit jumpy.
Slick wouldn’t hear of it. “Gotta get a move-on. Time’s wastin’ an’ I got things to do.”
Later that afternoon, police made a terse announcement that due to a clerical error Brother Percival Homer Brubacher had been accidentally released from custody. Brubacher was described as armed and dangerous. A nationwide manhunt was underway. Citizens were urged to be vigilant. Citing security concerns, authorities refused to provide further details.
The Baroness Bentwhistle always remembered a face. Especially a face that had aimed a shotgun at her head. One week after Slick’s release, her limousine was pulling away from the WKRN radio station when she noticed the hunter peeking out from behind some bushes. She ordered her driver to stop. “Yoo-hoo. Mr. Woodsman,” she called from the window. “Over here.”
Slick stepped awkwardly from his hiding place. He was somewhat confused. Did he know this woman?
“Still looking for Mr. McTavish?” the Baroness inquired sweetly.
Slick had a flash of the laundry basket. “What’re you doing here?”
“Oh, this and that. About your friend, McTavish, he hasn’t shown up yet, but I suspect he will. I’m guessing we have similar dreams for his future. Give me a number where you can be reached. The moment I see him, I’ll let you know.”
Slick obliged. Since his payday he’d been staying in hotels. Nothing fancy, but they came with a front desk, and packs of matches with the phone number on them.
“Ta ta.” The Baroness drove off. She’d worried about what to do when McTavish arrived to see his daughter. Her connection to Mary Mabel ensured he’d show up on her doorstep with blackmail on his mind. Now, thanks to her woodsman, she could rest easy.
X
ARMAGEDDON
The Costume Ball
Of all Hearst’s parties, his costume balls were the best. He wanted his company to look spectacular, so he let them borrow outfits from Cosmopolitan Pictures’ wardrobe department. On this particular weekend, Doyle and his mother were going as d’Artagnan and the Queen of France. Mary Mabel was to be the Match Girl, and Floyd, Rumpelstiltskin. The Baroness had selected Little Bo Peep, and ordered Dr. Silver and Miss Pigeon to play her sheep. She planned to lead them around on jewelled leashes.
As usual, Hearst had arranged for a private train from Los Angeles to San Luis Obispo County; his fleet of cars would taxi his guests the final leg to his castle. The train was a terrific icebreaker, particularly for first-timers like Doyle and his mother. By the time it pulled into the station, everyone was in a festive mood and on a first-name basis.
Still, Mary Mabel wanted to drive. Her life was so full of people she wanted a few hours of privacy. So did Brother Floyd and the Baroness. They kept company in the back seat of her limo behind a panel of tinted glass; Mary Mabel sat up front with the chauffeur, reading a book, peering through her binoculars, or waving out the window to Dr. Silver and Miss Pigeon; they followed in the Olds in case the Baroness had car trouble. “Heavens,” she’d said, fanning herself, “what if we got stuck in the middle of nowhere, fending off turkey vultures with a road map?”
For Mary Mabel, the best part of the trip was the ride by the Santa Lucia Mountains. The Pacific crashing against the cliffs created mists and wisps of cloud. It was like travelling through dreamscapes. And then to see the Hearst castle in the distance, glistening atop La Cuesta Encantada. It seemed every name came from fairy tale and myth.
She had a second reason for wanting to travel by car. Something had been bothering her, but every time she’d broached the subject, her partners had been too busy to listen. A two-hundred-mile car ride denied them any excuse. She waited till they were an hour out of town before knocking on the glass panel.
“Just a minute.” There were sounds of a scramble, then Floyd slid open the glass. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Mary Mabel said, “but there’s something I have to get off my chest. I love performing on the radio, but I wish you weren’t forever handing me scripts about the Heavenly Dwellings. I’m either praising their spiritual benefits, chatting up buyers, or praying for donations. I feel like a real-estate agent.”
Miss Bentwhistle and her partner stared blankly and rolled down their side windows. They pretended they couldn’t hear her over the breeze.
“We have to talk,” Mary Mabel shouted.
Floyd ordered the driver to pull over and take a walk. He did. The Olds stopped ahead of them. Dr. Silver came running to see what was wrong.
“We’re fine,” said Miss Bentwhistle. “Go entertain Dolly. Nibble her ears. Tell her tales of your youth.” The dentist brightened and hurried off to shock his Baptist.
“Okay,” Floyd said coldly to the troublemaker. “Economics 101. We want to spread hope, right? So we bought more radio stations, remember? They don’t come cheap. Pushing Dwellings is the fastest way to raise the boodle.”
“But how does money raised to build apartments end up buying radio stations?”
Miss Bentwhistle sighed. “You clearly have no head for business.”
“Perhaps not,” Mary Mabel said. “But I know how to spell fraud.”
Floyd bristled. “It’s not fraud. It’s borrowing. Each new station enlarges our pool of donors and buyers. Their contributions repay the Dwellings accounts.”
“Mr. Cruickshank, we’re soliciting money under false pretenses.”
Miss Bentwhistle tapped Floyd’s knee. “She was always a difficult child.”
“I’m not a child. I’m not a grifter, either. From now on, I won’t solicit for the Dwellings, I demand to see the books, and I insist they be above board.”
“Mind your place,” Miss Bentwhistle snapped. “You may be a star, but to us you’re the help.”
“I’m a partner,” Mary Mabel snapped back. “I’m also the one with the story. Back off or I’ll ta
ke it elsewhere.”
Floyd smiled. “Actually you won’t. According to our agreement, I hold the rights to your career. You perform when and where I say.”
“Is that so?” Mary Mabel coughed. “I seem to be coming down with permanent laryngitis.”
“Don’t play cute. If you don’t push apartments, sales will dry up. Without those sales we’ll lose the new stations, their income, and all we’ve invested. Shazam, the Dwellings will fold before they’re built, with no cash to repay buyers. Enter the F.B.I.”
“If the operation is crooked, I ought to turn it in myself.”
“But, as you say, you’re a partner,” Miss Bentwhistle observed. “Moreover, the partner soliciting the cash. If there’s a problem, you’ll be the first to be nicked.”
“You and your poor Mr. Doyle,” said Floyd. “Rat us out and I’ll destroy him.”
How? Mary Mabel wondered, but was afraid to ask. “There’s a smell in this car.” Mary Mabel jumped out and drove the rest of the way with Dr. Silver and Miss Pigeon.
By the time they arrived at San Simeon, the other guests had eaten at the refectory and dressed for the party. Hearst’s secretary, Willicombe, got them settled and asked the kitchen to send up dinner trays. He said the night would be grand. There’d be jugglers, fire-eaters, magicians — oh, and the McConaghie Family Circus was going to shoot a clown out of a cannon. Tomorrow, Hearst would like to talk to them about their movie.
“Terrific,” Mary Mabel said, but she had more important things on her mind than her biopic. As soon as Willicombe left, she whipped into her Match Girl outfit and tore off in search of d’Artagnan.
The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish Page 25