“Understood,” Brother Arno said, biting his lip at the prospect. “There are alternatives.”
“I bet.”
“If you’re not comfortable with full penetration, we can substitute. You may simply fellate me.”
He dropped his pants to the floor. His legs were fat and hairy. He stepped out of his shoes. His black socks came up to his pudgy knees.
“Sorry.” She shook her head. “Not my thing.”
“I only need what any man needs.”
“I’m not saying ‘no,’” she said. “But I want to find my friend Pamela first.” She got the photo out of her pocket. A black-and-white picture-booth print of Pamela, taken a couple of years back before Colleen got out of prison. Pamela’s face was desolate and angry, lined by her descent into drugs at the time. Colleen held the photo up.
Brother Arno’s eyes narrowed on the picture. Colleen wasn’t sure but she thought she saw a glimmer of recognition.
“You’ve seen her, haven’t you, Brother Arno?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Yes, you have.” She held the photo closer. “Take another look.”
“I will. After you service me.”
He stood there in his silly ruffled shirt, threadbare at the collar, his pants around his ankles. Fetching.
“Answer the question, first,” she said, holding the photo up.
“Then, will you do as I say?”
She took a deep breath through her mouth, so as not to breathe his body odor in the confined room.
“Yes,” she said.
She saw his eyes light up with desire in the pall of the single bulb. “You know what I think, Carol? I think you enjoy toying with me.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
He grinned. “I’ll admit it’s stimulating, even as shallow and meaningless as it is. It’s starting to make me tumescent, as a matter of fact. Look for yourself.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Take off your coat,” he said. He nodded at the mattress. “And your dress. Your shoes.”
“You need to answer my question before I do any of that.”
“No. Use your hand on me, woman.”
“I will do more, Brother Arno, if you simply tell me if you’ve seen her.”
“More?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Who is she again?”
“She’s my friend’s little sister. I’m worried about her, and I simply can’t relax, until I know she’s safe. Once I know that, I’m fine.”
“And then … are you prepared to …” He didn’t finish the question.
“Yes,” she said.
The pink tip of his tongue licked his lower lip. He was trembling, clearly becoming more aroused.
“I have seen her.”
It wasn’t much but it was enough to keep her pushing this facade. “When?”
“Just once. Over a month ago? She was a neophyte.”
Colleen lowered the photo. “Was she okay?”
“Yes.”
“How did she look?”
He shrugged. “Like anyone else.”
“Where is she now?”
He shrugged.
“Is it possible she’s gone on this pilgrimage with Brother Adem?”
“I am not sure. They don’t tell me everything.”
“Have you spoken to her? Ever?”
“No.” He nodded at her coat. “Take off your shoes.”
“I will—soon. But I need to know.”
“I’ve not spoken to her.”
“Who would know?”
“One of the elders.”
“Where are they?”
Shook his head. “I’ve told you more than enough.” He walked over to the mattress, began unbuttoning his shirt.
“Where’s my application?” Colleen asked.
“They are not approved freely. You need me. I must go to the office.”
“You said this was the office.”
“Take off your shoes. I want to see your feet.”
Colleen stifled a groan of frustration. “Where is the office?”
“I’ll tell you when I’ve finished!” he snapped. “We could have been done by now.”
She exhaled. “I need to clean up.”
He shook his head. “No, you don’t. That is one of the guiding principles: reël four.”
“Well, I need to clean up.”
“You’re fine.”
“I haven’t been with a man since my husband. I need to clean myself.”
He gasped in frustration. “Two doors to the left.”
“Thank you.” She turned.
“Stop!” he said, climbing up off the floor. “I’m coming with you,”
“No,” she said.
“I’m coming with you,” he said firmly.
He didn’t trust her. For good reason.
“Fine,” she said. “Hurry up.”
She went to the door, stood in front of his jacket while he pulled his pants on, buckled up. Surreptitiously she slipped her hand in a side pocket. Nothing. The other pocket. Same. While he was zipping up, she felt into the breast pocket. A wallet. Come to mama. It was in the pocket of her overcoat in no time.
Once dressed, his collar askew, they went next door to the restroom.
She opened the door. There were several stalls. He followed her in.
“I need privacy,” she said.
“You will learn that that is another fallacy that has been hindering your growth.”
“For the time being,” she said, “I’ll have my fallacy.”
Their eyes met. He sighed. “Very well.”
He left, waited outside the door. She could hear him breathing heavily, even with the disoriented music and crowd milling around in the church downstairs.
She went into a stall. Stood, went through his wallet. A frayed blue membership card, in Afrikaans, to Die Kerk. It recognized him as Bröer Arno. It had an address on the back—99 Pacheco Street. She pocketed it. The rest of the wallet did not contain much. A driver’s license. Brother Arno was Leonard Gunther from St. Paul, Minnesota. There were a few dollars. She left them. She flushed the toilet. Went outside.
He was waiting.
“I’m ready,” she said.
His tongue was working his lower lip vigorously.
They returned to the storage room. He quickly got undressed. While he stepped out of his shoes, she slipped the wallet back into the breast pocket of his jacket.
He turned, dropped his pants again. “Come on, woman!”
“I’m so sorry, Brother Arno,” she said. “But I just can’t.”
His mouth fell open. “Wha—what are you talking about?”
“Since my husband … I just can’t.”
“It’s part of letting go!” he snapped. “You will see that.”
She shook her head. “Next time. When will I see you again?”
“There will be no next time. You will lie with me now, woman. Or I will summon the guards.”
“What—in your tatty underwear, Brother Arno?”
He reddened with anger. “Don’t you dare disrespect me, girl!”
“Rule number fourteen and a half: it’s 1978, so we don’t call women ‘girls.’ Not if you want to jump their bones, that is.”
“How dare you!” He stormed over, grabbed her arm, hard, hurting her wrist. “Get on the mattress. Now. Do as I say and it will be over soon.”
She jerked herself free, raised her knee into his groin, full force.
Brother Arno oofed, collapsed to the floor like a fallen tree. The floorboards shook.
“You brought that on yourself, brother,” she said.
He curled up into a fetal position, clutching himself. “You will pay for this!”
She left the room quickly, pulled the door shut. She broke into a run down the hallway. She heard the door open as she stepped down the stairs.
“Guards!” he shouted.
Down in the main church, the Farsi organ
was louder. The place was emptying out. She looked around, saw no Pamela, pushed her way out through the crowd.
Pam was on that damn pilgrimage; Colleen just knew it. Vintage Pam: pick the worst possible option and go for it with gusto.
Colleen found the front door, shoved herself past the two guards in robes.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Next morning, Colleen stood outside a spear-pointed wrought-iron fence on 99 Pacheco Street, hands in the pockets of her leather coat, collar up, hair in a tail under a black ball cap. Sunglasses hid her eyes.
Behind the fence, beyond a sizable lawn, lay a former mansion from another time painted a jarring matte black, trimmed in gold, with gold columns and balustrades.
Die Kerk van die Volmaakte. Church of the Perfect.
The main office was nestled in Forest Hills, where San Francisco’s old money resided on rolling streets lined with established trees. Die Kerk took up the corner of a block, obscured by gnarled old cedars, making it look less incongruous with its conservative neighbors.
Constructed by a prominent stockbroker who lost it during the Crash of ’29, the building had been a speakeasy during Prohibition, and later traded hands amongst wealthy San Franciscans as property values escalated. The current owner was a reclusive rock ‘n’ roller whose Summer of Love anthem became a worldwide hit in 1967 that continued to generate royalties that kept him in the jet set. He no longer lived here, having donated the five-thousand-square-foot building to his church. From Colleen’s research at the public library on Van Ness, the place was as ominous as the two Dobermans that came bounding across the lawn at her now.
She jolted as the beasts rooted themselves on the other side of the fence, snarling with barred teeth.
She moved on to the front gate.
Die Kerk demanded complete “bevestiging”—attachment—from followers, which prohibited communication with the outside world. Much about the church was unknown, although charges had been filed for extortion and physical violence against those that spoke out against it.
All too similar to Moon Ranch, Pamela’s last fixation. Pam obviously needed answers, answers that Colleen hadn’t provided as a parent. Being in prison for most of Pam’s young life hadn’t helped.
She had to find Pamela, soon.
At the front gate she rang an intercom buzzer.
A man answered, his electronic voice crackling with static. He had an accent, somewhere from the eastern side of the world.
She introduced herself as Ms. Aird, interested in learning more about the church.
“Are you with the press, Ms. Aird?”
“No.”
“The IRS? A law enforcement agency?”
“No. Why?”
“You do realize that if you attempt to infiltrate the church under false pretexts, Die Kerk will take the strongest legal action available?”
“I’m a file clerk—all quite mundane. I’m just at a point in life where I want some answers to things.”
His tone shifted. “That’s certainly a normal step in our short time on earth, Ms. Aird. God knows there will be hell to pay for what man has done. Repentance is the only way. And who is your guardian?”
She consulted Brother Arno’s membership card, which she had pulled from her coat pocket. It had gotten her this far. But it might not be wise to reference him, even though she suspected he might not be in a hurry to advertise a lost card after his failed encounter, may not even know the card was gone yet. His groin was most likely still smarting from last night. She hoped so, anyway.
Even so. Tread warily. For Pamela’s sake.
“None yet,” she said. “How do I meet a guardian?”
“New members are sought out, not the other way around. If a guardian feels that someone is a suitable candidate, they will let it be known to them.”
And, before she could answer, he clicked off.
She looked at the elegant black-and-gold structure.
A sheer curtain moved downstairs. The shadow of a figure moved.
She left, drove home, made a sandwich that she didn’t really want but nibbled because she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime yesterday. In her office with the Bay Bridge poking through fog, she made out an envelope to Moon Ranch, slipped the locker key to Fletcher’s stash of acid in. He was scum but he had delivered. And she might need him again.
She lit a cigarette. Sat back. The fog was swirling away. The tip of the Transamerica Pyramid was visible downtown.
How to get into Die Kerk’s office?
Another person came to mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Steve Cook lived in the Mission in a Victorian apartment building he owned and had nearly lost due to financial difficulties. His twelve-year-old daughter had recently been kidnapped but, thanks to Colleen, rescued, and was now living with her father in what could be termed a challenging relationship. But Steve was up to the task. From ’60s British teen idol to international fugitive to down-and-out murder suspect, Steve Cook had done more in his three decades on earth than most men could dream of in three lifetimes. And he’d done it with panache, and a voice that sold a million albums, and a look that had once riveted masses of teenage girls—Colleen included. Now that he had his daughter back, he was raising her solo, singing with a local band, and dreaming of a comeback, while he recovered from the emotional and financial upheaval of her kidnapping.
SF’s Mission District, the Latin part of town, rarely had parking so Colleen nosed the Torino up onto the sidewalk in front of Steve’s building and into the narrow driveway, just kissing the carriage-style garage doors built long before cars.
Getting out, she saw that the once-deteriorating Victorian was now prepped and primed and ready for paint. Steve’s Union Jack hung over the first-floor bay window. From the flat above, the boom of Patti Smith at volume competed with the street noise: “Because the Night.”
She took a breath and stepped up onto the porch. She and Steve had spent a night together, and although it was not to be forgotten, she wasn’t sure it should be repeated. Most days anyway. Steve had his hands full. And so did she. But still.
At the newly sanded glass-and-wood door to Steve’s flat, Colleen heard the rhythmic pounding of a hammer inside. She knocked.
Steve answered in a damp T-shirt and faded blue jeans speckled with sawdust. Medium height, well built, his body tight with manual labor, his safety glasses were pulled up on his tousled dark hair, leaving raccoon eyes on a handsome rough-hewn face, also finely dusted. He needed a shave about two days ago, as per usual, but Steve was the kind of man who looked good with five o’clock shadow. Steve would look good climbing out of a dumpster.
He was also looking more settled after his daughter’s recent ordeal. His dark brown eyes sparkled again.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said in his British working-class accent. “Nice to see you, love.”
She returned the smile. “Likewise.”
“Come in, come in.” He stood back, holding the door, brushing himself off with his free hand.
The last time Colleen had been here, the interior of the flat was down to the studs, a complete gut-and-remodel that had gone off the rails when Melanie had been abducted. But now walls were in place, sheetrocked, mudded and taped, waiting for paint. Period doors had been re-sanded and rehung. An elegant glass light fixture hung in the hallway. Victorian molding and trim had been reapplied. That wonderful smell of new lumber and fresh plaster filled the air. The front small parlor, sitting room, and formal dining room had been opened up into one long living area, with French doors separating the old rooms to preserve the separation if need be. Cast-iron fireplaces had been stripped down to the metal and oiled. Wood trim had been sanded and cut glass and mirrors added light that hadn’t been there before.
“My, my,” Colleen said. “When you’re done here, can you do my place?”
“Just say the word.”
In the back, where the dining area would be, sat a drum kit under a plastic sheet. Co
lleen noticed Deena’s paint-spattered Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirt on top of the plastic-covered sofa. Steve’s drummer was also a onetime fling. Colleen wondered if there had been a rekindling and experienced a pang of jealousy. That sofa was the same one Steve and she had consummated their whatever-it-was on.
“Fancy a beer, love?” Steve said.
“I hate to see you drink alone.”
She followed him to the back of the flat to the kitchen, one room not completely torn out during the remodel. Stylish black-and-white tile and cabinetry to die for. One wall was a collage of Steve’s rock ‘n’ roll heyday: Steve sitting at a piano with Aretha Franklin, Steve with Mick and Keith backstage, passing a bottle of Jim Beam back and forth while Marianne Faithfull gave a wry smirk. Steve with Otis Redding in a recording studio, Steve’s ears cuffed in headphones. Steve and his old band The Lost Chords, British teenagers with their ’60s mod cuts, hip hugger pants, ruffled shirts, Victorian military tunics. It was like a museum.
Steve opened the fridge, got out two oil cans of Foster’s lager.
“Whoa,” she said. “Half of one of those for me.”
“Lightweight.” Steve put one back in the fridge, got a glass out, popped the beer, poured half into the glass, leaving a perfect head, handed it to Colleen. He held the big can in his hand.
“Cheers, love.”
Their eyes met for a moment. Was he thinking of that night, too?
“Cheers,” she said, clinking glass and can, then sipping ice cold beer while he downed half of what he had in his can. She watched his Adam’s apple bounce.
“How’s Melanie?” she asked when Steve came back for air.
“In school today,” he said. “Or she better be.” A slight grimace crossed his face. “I’ve caught her playing hooky more than once.”
That sounded like Melanie.
“And you two?” she asked. “Getting along?”
Steve shrugged, set the giant steel can on the counter. “Give and take, as the social worker says.”
Steve realized he was still wearing goggles on top of his head, pulled them off with a laugh, tossed them on the counter as well. She fought the urge to straighten his ruffled hair, although it looked fine. The same way that his workaday sweat smelled just fine. It was all in the packaging.
Bad Scene Page 10