Try Darkness

by James Scott Bell

  “Oh, this is Sister Mary Veritas,” I said. “Big Shakespeare fan. Played Puck in an all-girl production of Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “He jests,” Sister Mary said.

  I had a copy of the program and held it out to Ariel with a pen. “Would you mind?”

  “Flattered,” she said. She gave me the autograph and handed the program and pen back to me. I put them in the outside pocket of my coat.

  Ariel said, “How did you happen to know I was performing?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” I said.

  “Well, I do have to get ready to go.”

  “It won’t take too long. I’m sure Junior won’t mind waiting.”

  Her look made me want to put on a jacket. Ice face. “What makes you think—”

  “Why don’t we find a little place,” I said. “Why talk out here in the middle of everybody?”

  167

  IN A SMALL backstage office, the three of us had some privacy.

  “Now, what is it you want?” Ariel said. She was no longer the queen of mellow, the lady of laid back. She faced me like a wrestler.

  “I want to talk about you and Sam Junior,” I said. “You went out on the yacht today. I don’t think it was for fishing.”

  Her nostrils actually flared. Ricky Ricardo could not have done it any better. “I don’t have anything to say to you,” she said.

  “You should be more careful. What if your husband were to find out?”

  “There’s nothing to find out.” She turned casually and looked at the wall. “Sam’s in New York and I asked Sammie to take me out on the boat. We’ve done that before.”

  “Like you’ve tongue-tangoed before?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You were more convincing as Rosalind,” I said.

  “Get out.”

  “Sure,” I said. “But what’s to stop me from getting hold of your husband with this sordid little—what’s the word I’m looking for?”

  “Farce?” Sister Mary said.

  “Farce,” I said.

  And then Ariel jumped at me like Bruce Lee on speed. She punched with her right hand, caught me on the jaw. Her left got the other side of my face.

  I took a step back, bumped a stool and went down. As I flopped on my back I saw Ariel’s foot of fury heading for my face. I rolled and her foot gave me a glancing blow off my forehead. I put my hands up to fend off the next one. But what I saw was Sister Mary Veritas, Benedictine nun, servant of God, executing a beautiful spin move and jamming an elbow into the nose of one crazy actress.

  Ariel screamed. Blood spurted from her nose. She put her hands to her face.

  Somebody pounded on the door.

  Ariel screamed, “Get in here!”

  The ticket guy from the box office came in. What looked like most of the cast was assembling behind him.

  “What is all this?” he said.

  “They broke my nose!” Ariel shouted.

  The guy looked at me. Quivered a little. A couple of women rushed in to attend to their Rosalind.

  “I’m calling the cops,” Ticket said.

  168

  SISTER MARY AND I waited for the police in the lobby, along with the angry cast. They whispered Elizabethan threats at us. Ariel was still somewhere in the back.

  A black-and-white pulled up outside the same time Sam Junior did.

  It was quite an entrance. Very theatrical.

  Junior’s face was as red as the lights over the cop car. He homed in on me. “That guy! He’s been harassing me! Coming after me!”

  The two uniforms, a woman and her older partner, a man, stayed calm. Good old LAPD training.

  “Who made the call?” the woman asked. Her nameplate said “Estevez.”

  “I did,” Ticket guy said.

  “So arrest them,” Junior said.

  “Sir, please,” Estevez said. “One at a time.”

  “They assaulted one of our actors,” Ticket said. “Broke her nose!”

  “Who assaulted?”

  “They.” Ticket wagged his finger at us. “Them.”

  Estevez looked at Sister Mary. “You an actress?”

  “No, sir,” Sister Mary said. “A Benedictine.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Mr. Buchanan is a lawyer,” she said. “We went into an office to speak with the actress who calls herself Elinor Hanlon.”

  “Calls herself?”

  “It’s a stage name.”

  “Arrest them!” Junior shouted. “What are you waiting for? Where’s Ariel?”

  “Who’s Ariel?” Estevez said.

  Junior followed one of the actors out of the lobby.

  “They broke her nose!” Ticket said.

  “Sister,” Estevez said, “what happened?”

  “I broke her nose.”

  “Whose nose?”

  “Ariel.”

  “And she is who, now?”

  “She’s in the show,” Sister Mary said. “Quite good, actually.”

  “And you say you broke her nose?”

  “With an elbow.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Hard as I could.”

  “But why?”

  “She was about to kick his face in,” Sister Mary said. “I don’t think paying customers should be treated that way.”

  Estevez smiled. “You really broke somebody’s nose?”

  “What is this?” Ticket said. “What are you doing?”

  “Sir,” the officer said, “I’m trying to get the story. Did you witness the assault?”

  “Well, no—”

  “Then please be quiet. Who saw it?”

  “Only the three of us,” Sister Mary said. “Mr. Buchanan, the woman, and myself.”

  “And you’re telling me that this woman, this Ariel, is the one who attacked first?”

  “That’s right. I just happened to be there.”

  “And where,” Estevez asked with a glint, “is elbowing in the catechism?”

  “Defense of the innocent,” Sister Mary said. “Equal force may be used to stop an attack. I was the equal force.”

  “This is unbelievable!” Ticket cried.

  “I want to talk to the woman,” Estevez said.

  “Before you do . . .” I indicated I wanted a private word.

  Estevez took a few steps away. Ticket shouted, “Hey!” But the other cop finally got involved and said, “Please be quiet, sir.”

  169

  OUT OF RANGE of the others I said, “The woman is the wife of Sam DeCosse.”

  “No way,” Estevez said.

  I heard Junior’s voice coming closer, like a freight train. He burst into the lobby with a weeping Ariel holding a towel to her face.

  “You better arrest them right now,” he said, “or I will sue you and your whole department, you hear me?”

  Estevez said, “Sir, I would like to talk to her if—”

  “No,” he said. “I need to get her to a hospital.”

  “Maybe I can help,” I said. Before anybody could stop me I went to Junior, right up close, and thought of the best movie cliché I could. “You’re goin’ down.”

  It worked. He jumped me. We fell back on the floor. Rumbled around. The male cop pulled Junior one direction. Estevez pulled me in the other.

  I heard the cop say, “You’re under arrest, sir.”

  “Do you know who you’re dealing with?” Junior shouted.

  “Turn around,” the cop said.

  “Hey,” I said, getting up. “Why don’t we just chalk this one up to a misunderstanding. I won’t swear out on him this time.”

  The cop looked disappointed. Like he really wanted to slap bracelets on Junior. “All right,” he said. “Let’s clear the lobby now.”

  “This isn’t over,” Junior shouted, and walked out the front door with Ariel.

  To Estevez I said, “Well, it doesn’t look like there’s reasonable cause to detain me and the sister.
”

  “What’s he mean by that?” Ticket said.

  Estevez nodded. “You have a card?”

  I gave her one. She said, “You can go now. I’ll be in touch if I need you.”

  “Unbelievable!” Ticket said.

  “Suspend your disbelief,” I said.

  170

  OUTSIDE, THE NIGHT air was moist and warm. We walked toward the car in silence, but I couldn’t get in until I asked, “How did it feel smashing her in the nose?”

  “I did what I felt I had to do,” she said. “You were about to get really hurt.”

  “She surprised me,” I said.

  “Don’t worry. Your manhood is intact. But we all need a little help from time to time. Even big-deal lawyers.”

  “Thanks for the press release. And thanks for cracking her in the schnoz. That’s not going to endear the Catholic church to the DeCosses.”

  “Let them take it up with the pope. What’s our next move?”

  “Our next move?”

  “You’re not getting rid of me now. Not after I saved your bacon.”

  I was looking in her eyes and there was a blue and green restaurant sign reflected in them. I wanted to put my arms around her and pull her to me and kiss her. I was this close to doing it, so close my stomach clenched like it was in the grip of Stone Cold Steve Austin. And I hated myself.

  I gulped down a dry throat and said, “We call Lieutenant Brosia. I have something he needs.”

  171

  WE WENT TO Fran’s to check on Kylie. She was asleep. Fran was still up and said they’d had a wonderful day, baking brownies and watching the sunset.

  I told Fran we’d had a less than wonderful night at the theater, and we’d come back for Kylie the next day and did she have a Ziploc bag?

  She did. I carefully placed the program Ariel had autographed into the bag and sealed it.

  I got Sister Mary back to St. Monica’s and said a quick good night, then drove all the way down to Central Division, where the nice detective had consented to wait up for me.

  When I handed him the Ziploc I said, “This is either going to be very big or nothing.”

  Brosia said, “We of the Los Angeles Police Department appreciate your efforts. But if it turns out to be nothing, we will appreciate it even more if you stop trying to help us.”

  All the way back to St. Monica’s, I wondered if it would be big. Or if this was all a product of my fevered brain, rattling around looking for anything certain to land on.

  I drove the 101 past the old lights of Hollywood—the Knickerbocker and Capitol Records—and on toward the newer lights of Universal City Walk. And I kept trying not to think of a certain nun, and I kept not succeeding.

  172

  THE NEXT MORNING I heard the ball being pounded on the basketball court. Sister Mary was up early, doing her workout. I peeked out through the kitchenette window. I took a shower and when I got out she was gone.

  Good. I got dressed and went to see my next-door neighbor.

  Father Bob was in his civvies, a white T-shirt and jeans, barefoot, holding a copy of a thick book in his hand.

  “Need to talk,” I said.

  “Fine,” he said. “Aquinas can wait.”

  We sat at the kitchen table, where the cup drum set still was. Only now he didn’t tap anything. He waited for me to start.

  So I did. “I just want to know how bad it is if a guy, hypothetically speaking, of course, has—how shall I put this—thoughts about a nun.”

  Father Bob’s gentle features did not reflect surprise. “I’ve been wondering when we would have this conversation.”

  “You saw it coming?”

  “A guy reading braille could have seen it coming.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

  “Timing. Like comedy, there is timing in life, too. The time is now here. Tell me, how deep do these thoughts about Sister Mary go?”

  “You want the details? It’s not like I want to jump into bed with her. No, that’s not it. But, yeah, there’s attraction there. I think about what it would be like to kiss her. About holding her. About . . . all right, yes, sometimes about going to bed with her. And here I haven’t even stopped grieving about Jacqueline. So there you go. Am I damned? Am I going to burn? Do I need to get out of here?”

  “One question at a time. So you want to go with damnation, hell, or whether you have to leave St. Monica’s?”

  “Let’s start with if you think I’m a really bad guy for thinking this.”

  “No, Ty. You see, thoughts are not inherently sinful. It often comes as a shock to people to hear me say that, so I don’t say it very often. But desires or thoughts, in and of themselves, do not constitute sin. You are wired by God for sexual desire, and it can occur at any time. Even after you’ve lost a fiancée you don’t stop being a man. It’s only when you allow those desires to control your actions that they become sin.”

  “So I’m safe?”

  “No one is ever completely safe outside of the power of God. So, no, truth in advertising compels me to tell you that doing battle with your desires on your own power is doomed to failure.”

  “You saying I’m going to end up doing something I will regret?”

  “The odds are in that direction.”

  “What if this is not just sexual desire, but something more?”

  “Ty, Sister Mary has taken vows. Vows don’t mean much to most people anymore, but to a Catholic they are a solemn matter. She has not taken final vows, but it is still very, very serious.”

  “What if she left?”

  “What do you think would happen if you were the reason she did? Do you think you could live with that?”

  “Quit asking me what I think.”

  “Is that a bad—”

  “Forget it.”

  I got up and left.

  And walked.

  Walked out the back, out on the land waiting for the DeCosse family to ravage it. Walked fast, trying to clear my head. It was a riot in there. Scenes from Jacqueline’s death duking it out with pictures of Sister Mary.

  Then I thought about the darkness inside me, not wanting it there but thinking it was not going away.

  And what that meant for any future I had among the living.

  173

  BROSIA CALLED ME a little before noon.

  “It’s big,” he said.

  174

  I DROVE TO Sam DeCosse’s fortress on the hill. Stopped at the King Kong gate, got out, hit the button on the security box. I gave the cameras a wry smile.

  A moment later the gates opened. Without so much as a hello.

  Devlin was waiting for me at the front of the house. As I got out of the car he said, “You should make an appointment next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” I said. “And I’m really going to miss you.”

  I walked by him. And felt a brick hit my kidney. Not enough to do permanent damage, but enough to make me wish I’d gone to the beach instead.

  I looked at him. He showed me his brass knuckles.

  “You’re a real hero with those things on your hand,” I said.

  “Just want to impress you with my resources,” he said. “Save your energy for Mr. DeCosse.”

  175

  SAM DECOSSE WAS in his library, putting golf balls into a little machine. I watched as a ball rolled in and the machine punched it back.

  “You’re intemperate, Mr. Buchanan,” DeCosse said.

  “You’re doing it all wrong,” I said.

  He looked at me. “What?”

  “Your grip is all wrong. Look.” I walked over with my hand out. He gave me the putter. He must have felt awfully secure with Devlin standing in the room. I kicked one of the balls toward the door, where Devlin was stationed.

  I walked to the ball. Then I put the putter in my hands like a baseball bat and swung like A-Rod.

  Taking out Devlin’s left knee.

  He cried out. His face contorted and he went down. He
grabbed his knee with both hands.

  DeCosse’s face tightened.

  “I just wanted him to be impressed with my resources,” I said. “Thanks for the putter.” I threw it on the floor.

  “You’re going to be sorry you did that,” DeCosse said.

  “How’s your wife?”

  “Not good public relations to bring that up. But I do know my wife, despite her best efforts, has a temper. Is it true a Catholic nun did that to her?”

  “It’s true.”

  He shook his head. “The world is changing. Now, what do you want?”

  “I’m ready to settle with you,” I said. “But we have to do it my way.”

  “With putters at high noon?”

  Devlin was still on the floor. Probably wondering why nobody was paying attention to him.

  I said, “I want you and your whole legal team, in the conference room of Gunther, McDonough. We are going to have a sit-down and hammer out a settlement once and for all.”

  “You drove up here to tell me that?”

  “You’re the quarterback. I didn’t want to go through your filtering system. This is between us.”

  Devlin was starting to get to his feet.

  I said, “Are we on?”

  “I’ll call Pierce McDonough and set it up.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Anything else?”

  “Tell Mr. Devlin I don’t want to see him again.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” DeCosse said. “He has a mind of his own.”

  “He has a mind?”

  176

  I COULDN’T GET down off that hill fast enough. Away from the stink. Down to where people got up every day and went to work and fought the fight and tried to do good things for their kids.

  Yeah, there’s the other kind, too, who don’t care about the kids they father. Who leave their idea of manhood scattered on the streets, spawning boys who will become lousy fathers someday, and the wheel goes round.

  Back at St. Monica’s, the sky was cloudy, the grounds sleepy, I walked around the hill outside the walls. A hill that was pretty much the same as when the Gabrielino Indians walked over it, dreaming not of Hollywood stardom but of altered states. They smoked weed. Jimsonweed to be exact, in a ritual for moving young men into adulthood.