Try Darkness

by James Scott Bell

  “And Sam DeCosse,” I said. “Junior and Senior.”

  “I need something to question them about,” Brosia said. “There’s nothing that connects them to the killing except the location.”

  “What if I get you something?”

  “Does it involve breaking the law?”

  “Me?”

  “What I said.”

  “I love you, too,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Wait—”

  I clicked off.

  158

  SISTER HILDEGARDE HAD her arms folded. That is the universal sign of trouble. She was standing at the edge of the parking lot.

  Sister Mary was next to her, holding Kylie, who was holding Sister Mary tightly around the neck.

  “What’s up?” I said. The moment I did Kylie turned and wiggled out of Sister Mary’s arms and ran into mine. She put her face in my shoulder, like she wanted to hide.

  “I’ve called the Department of Children and Family Services,” Sister Hildegarde said.

  “Oh you have?” I said. “And you were going to tell me when?”

  “I’m telling you now. It had to be done. I’m sorry.”

  “I thought I explained that I was her guardian,” I said.

  “That’s something that the department will have to sort out, Mr. Buchanan. I felt it my responsibility—”

  “I appreciate it,” I said. “But Kylie is not going anywhere.”

  “She cannot stay here.”

  “Of course she can,” Sister Mary said. She faced Sister Hildegarde like a lion eyeing a water buffalo.

  “Excuse me?” Sister Hildegarde said.

  “May I speak, or am I too rigid?”

  “Be very careful about what you say next.”

  “You want me to weigh every word? Okay, here they come. You are not looking out for the best interest of this child.”

  “Sister Mary—”

  “I’m not finished.”

  “I think you are.”

  “Then let me go down in flames! We have too long put aside our true religious duties in the community. We are not taking care of our elders as we ought. Now we are not taking care of the least of these, the children. You are content to hand her off to a bureaucracy. We have lost our vision.”

  “Sister—”

  “Maybe that’s why Mr. Buchanan came here, for this very purpose, to turn us back to what we should be. Maybe God is using this as our moment, to reclaim what it means to be a real community. That includes those who have come to us for help.”

  Sister Hildegarde made a face that a mother might, sort of You wait until your father gets home. “The decision has been made.” She turned and stormed to the office.

  I looked at Sister Mary, who was breathing hard, and said, “You go, Sister.”

  “I will probably have to now,” she said.

  “Let’s all three of us go,” I said. “Let me make a call.”

  159

  “KYLIE, THIS IS Fran.”

  Kylie was not ready to let go of me, even after we got into Fran’s little living room.

  “Hello, Kylie,” Fran said.

  Kylie said nothing.

  “And this is Sister Mary Veritas,” I said.

  “Welcome,” Fran said.

  We stood there for a moment, silent.

  Then Fran said, “I wish someone would help me feed the cats.”

  I felt Kylie move.

  “You have cats, Fran?” I said.

  “Oh yes I do. But I just need help feeding them.”

  “I wish there was someone who could help you,” I said.

  Kylie’s head lifted from my shoulder. Then she whispered in my ear, “Can I help?”

  “Do you want to?” I said.

  Kylie nodded. I set her down. “Kylie said she’d like to help.”

  Fran held her hand out. “Then let’s go.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Kylie took Fran’s hand and went with her toward the back door.

  When they got outside, Sister Mary said, “Well, now I can think about more stupid things to say to Sister Hildegarde.”

  “It needed to be said.”

  “You don’t know anything about us. You don’t know anything about authority or order or things that last.”

  “Whoa—”

  “I let my mouth and heart lead when it should have been my head.”

  I said, “Sometimes you have to lead mouth and heart, okay? You’re not a head of state. You’re not leading us into war. You’re not Groucho Marx.”

  She said, “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You ever see Duck Soup?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then soon we will watch Duck Soup. Groucho plays the leader of a country. An enemy country sends over a diplomat. Groucho says to him, ‘Maybe you can suggest something. As a matter of fact, you do suggest something. To me you suggest a baboon.’”

  Sister Mary smiled a little.

  I said, “And after the diplomat looks outraged, Groucho says, ‘I’m sorry I said that. It isn’t fair to the rest of the baboons.’”

  A faint, almost imperceptible laugh issued from Sister Mary Veritas. I put my hand under her chin and lifted it a little. “Now, that is a comment that led to war. You didn’t call Sister Hildegarde a baboon, although . . .”

  “Watch it.”

  “So I think you’re in the clear. There’s still a First Amendment in this country.”

  160

  OUTSIDE, I ASKED Kylie if she’d be fine staying here awhile while I went on a little trip.

  “I’m feeding the cats,” Kylie said. Three of them were purring around a bowl. “You can feed them when you come back.”

  Fran smiled at me, nodded. She looked like she was having the best time of all.

  “Sounds good,” I said. “You stay with Fran till I get back.”

  “Okay,” Kylie said.

  Fran said, “Maybe we’ll have some oyster crackers and grapes.”

  “Oh, boy,” Kylie said. “I like grapes.”

  “So where are we going?” Sister Mary said.

  “We?”

  161

  SISTER MARY DROVE.

  “We’re going to follow the little red dot on the B-2 bird dog,” I told her. “Do a little surveillance.”

  “Cool.”

  “You know, I just can’t seem to get used to the idea of a nun saying ‘cool.’”

  “It’s all in how you look at it. In some ways, we’re the ultimate cool.”

  “Let’s not go into that right now.” I took out my phone and brought up the tracking data Blumberg had programmed into it. A map showed up with a blinking red dot in the middle. I hit the info.

  “Our boy’s in Long Beach,” I said.

  162

  EVERY FEW MILES I checked again. It was steady. I thought I knew why. That’s where DeCosse Senior had his floating golf course moored. But we’d checked on Senior earlier, and according to one news item he was in New York for meetings.

  Which could mean that Junior was taking the family yacht out for a spin. Gee, Dad, I didn’t mean to beach her. I was just trying it out . . .

  I knew a spot up high where we could park and watch the boats come in. I used binoculars to find the DeCosse space. It was empty.

  So we waited. With windows rolled down and a nice sea breeze coming through.

  “Ask you a question?” I said.

  “Sure.”

  “Theological.”

  “Really?” she looked extremely pleased. “Shoot.”

  “About nuns. You take vows and all, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But sometimes nuns stop being nuns.”

  She said nothing.

  “You know,” I said. “I’ve seen it in the movies. What was it, The Nun’s Story?”

  “Audrey Hepburn. I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. Jacqueline liked old movies. Her favorite thing wasn’t going out to dinner. It was pizza
and TCM with me.”

  “I think that’s very cool.”

  “There you go again. So about The Nun’s Story. Didn’t she walk out at the end?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? I can’t remember.”

  Pause. Sister Mary looked out the windshield, toward the ocean, as if the answer might be there. Finally she said, “She was torn between what she felt was her calling to serve God as a nun, or in the world as a nurse.”

  “So let’s say you wanted to go out in the world, what would you do?”

  “We Benedictines take a vow of stability, to remain in community and obedience to our abbess. And—”

  She stopped and looked down.

  “I get that,” I said. “I don’t like authority, either.”

  “I didn’t say that,” she snapped. Fire in the voice.

  “What did you mean, then?” Heat in mine, and it surprised me. I was more interested in her answers than I thought.

  “It’s a lot deeper than that,” she said. “We’re talking about God here.”

  “I thought we were talking about Sister Hildegarde.”

  “Who serves at the behest of God, I would remind you.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “And maybe not. I mean, who knows the mind of God, right?”

  “That’s what you have a church for.”

  “But the church gets it wrong sometimes.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Agnostics know a few things, too.”

  “Just don’t die an agnostic,” she said. “Otherwise they’ll have to give you one of those special gravestones.”

  “What special gravestone?”

  “The one that says, ‘All dressed up and nowhere to go.’”

  163

  WE TALKED SOME more and then I saw it. Heading in. No question—it was DeCosse’s yacht.

  Through the binoculars I had a clear view and didn’t see any deckhands. One guy on the bridge.

  Junior.

  Then I saw someone else on the bridge. A woman in a large-brimmed hat and shades. She put her arm around Junior and kissed his cheek.

  “Well,” I said, “it looks like our boy has a tootsie.”

  “Tell me you didn’t just say tootsie.”

  “Tootsie.”

  “Your world is very strange,” she said.

  “Just get ready to drive.”

  “Where?”

  “Wherever the dot leads us. I want to see where Junior and Tootsie go next.”

  164

  THE DOT LED us north, through downtown L.A., and exited in Hollywood.

  We were about five minutes behind them. The dot stopped on Cherokee. Behind Musso & Frank Grill, a Hollywood institution since 1919.

  I had Sister Mary park at the curb. “Looks like a little early dinner at Musso’s,” I said. “Ever been there?”

  “No.”

  “Want to go in? Have a martini?”

  “Mr. Buchanan—”

  “Ty, please.”

  “. . . don’t mess with me.”

  “Not messing. They’re famous for their martis. One of those and you’ll be so theological you’ll—”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “A milk shake?”

  “Some other time.”

  I looked at my watch. Called Fran. She and Kylie were having spaghetti and meatballs. I asked if Kylie might spend the night. That was aces with Fran. She put Kylie on.

  “Hi, Ty.”

  “You having fun?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Fran’s cool, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “If it gets late, would you like to spend the night? We can come get you in the morning?”

  “I like Fran,” she said.

  “So it’s okay?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Remind me to buy you some ice cream next time I see you.”

  “Okay.”

  I clicked off and turned to Sister Mary. “Let’s talk about your case,” I said. “We have some time.”

  “My case?”

  “With Sister Hildegarde.”

  “Oh. There’s no case. She is the judge.”

  “Jury and executioner?”

  “We don’t have those,” she said.

  “Not since the Inquisition, I guess.”

  “This talent you have for insults, is it a gift?”

  “No,” I said. “I have to work on it.”

  165

  ABOUT AN HOUR later Junior and the woman came out the back door of Musso’s making like octopi. Arms all over each other. Sucking face. I saw Junior a little more clearly. He wore a black shirt and black coat with a white handkerchief in the pocket. He fished out a wad of bills and peeled one for the valet.

  The valet brought the red Ferrari around and the happy couple got in. Junior pulled out onto Cherokee, then took a right on Hollywood Boulevard.

  We followed the dot. Past the El Capitan and Kodak Theater, to La Brea, where it took a left.

  And came to a stop at a corner a half mile later.

  When we got there I saw the Ferrari in front of a theater, one of the many small venues in the city where actors can show their stuff in the hopes an agent or producer will wander in some night and see them. And then sign them up, get them on a soap or hit series or the new Spielberg. That happens about as often as the Cubs win the World Series.

  The theater marquee announced As You Like It.

  They were going to see Shakespeare? Junior had culture?

  I had Sister Mary pull to a stop on the opposite side of LaBrea. We waited and watched. The red Ferrari was empty, parked illegally at the red curb in front of the theater. A few people milled around the entrance.

  A couple of minutes later Junior came out the front doors, alone. He jumped in the car and drove off.

  “Follow?” Sister Mary said.

  “No,” I said. “We can pick up his location later. I’d rather see if we can talk to Tootsie.”

  We found a metered parking place on the street then walked to the theater. At the box office I asked a guy with glasses and tufts of gray hair sprouting around a bald head if the production was worth seeing.

  “Yeah, it is,” he said. “L.A. Weekly loved it.”

  “Sam DeCosse said I should see it.”

  “Then you came to see Elinor.”

  I smiled as if I knew who he was talking about.

  “She is absolutely radiant,” the ticket guy said.

  “Radiant?”

  “The theater is all about the suspension of disbelief,” he said, getting excited. “When an actor is on, it makes that suspension of disbelief easy. You forget you’re watching a play. That’s what she does every night.”

  “Pretty good review,” I said.

  “How do you know Mr. DeCosse?”

  “I’m one of his lawyers,” I said. “One of many.”

  Ticket guy laughed. “I hear you.”

  “So just between us,” I said. “Does she have what it takes to go all the way? You know, to the movies?”

  Ticket leaned forward. “Movies, nothing. This is where it’s at. Shakespeare. She’s great. And it’s a great part, of course. Maybe the best for a woman ever. Right? Am I right about that?”

  “Better than Juliet?”

  “Please! Rosalind is a woman in control of her fate. She would have stepped in and solved the feud.”

  “Right on,” I said, having forgotten most of what I knew about the play. “I’m surprised Sam didn’t stick around.”

  “He’s seen it four times,” Ticket said. “That counts for something.”

  “Okay, give me two tickets,” I said. “You sold me.”

  Thirty bucks for Sister Mary and me to sit at the back of the small theater and watch Shakespeare. The program said it was Elinor Hanlon in the part of Rosalind. Her bio was brief, only that she was studying with a noted acting teacher and was thrilled to be making her Shakespeare debut with this production.

  As we waited I asked Sister Mar
y if she knew the play, and she not only knew it, she went on to give me the rundown on its historical significance.

  “Rosalind is both witty and wise at a time when this was not thought feminine,” Sister Mary said.

  “I think it’s feminine,” I said. “You could play Rosalind if you didn’t cheat at basketball.”

  “Be quiet. I’m lecturing. You want to learn something? Rosalind is one of the great characters in theater. She points us to the joys of true freedom even in the midst of absurdities.”

  “Such as?”

  “Rosalind teaches us that the way of love is irrational and yet . . .”

  “And yet what?”

  She was silent, looking at the stage. Then she said, “Necessary.”

  She looked down and didn’t say anything else.

  The theater got about three-quarters full by the time the lights went down. Recorded music started, a sort of bucolic theme.

  Lights up and the play began. I followed along and was even getting into it when Rosalind made her entrance.

  “Dear Celia,” she said, “I show more mirth than I am mistress of . . .”

  In the dark my jaw dropped. But Sister Mary must have seen it.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Rosalind,” I whispered back. “I know her.”

  “An old flame?”

  “Hardly. And her name’s not Elinor Hanlon. It’s Ariel DeCosse.”

  166

  AFTER THE SHOW we went backstage. Made our way past young actors with towels rubbing their faces and chattering. Nobody stopped us. We found the door to the women’s dressing room. A female techie was about to go in and I asked if I could speak to Elinor.

  The techie went inside. A moment later Ariel stepped into the corridor. She was all smiles, fielding some compliments from other actors. Still wearing her boy clothes from the play.

  When she saw me she frowned. Then slapped on a grin. “Mr. Buchanan, isn’t it?”

  “Nice to see you again,” I said.

  “Did you enjoy the show?”

  “A really interesting interpretation,” I said. “What’s with the stage name?”

  “I just want to act. I don’t want to be known as Mrs. DeCosse who got her break because . . .” She looked over my shoulder at Sister Mary.