CoverBoys & Curses (12 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

The
Farm

SIXTY
FIVE ACRES, and the blaring horn sounded throughout all corners. It signaled
roundup time.

           
Workers dropped their tools, along
with all conversation. They collected what bushels they had already gathered
and placed them into the giant bins located on every four rows of crop. They
then proceeded to flood toward the farmhouse and the platform in front of it.
All of them.

           
Dr. Coal stood before his people in
the grandeur of pure white linen. The long sleeves, the hem of his tunic and
the flowing pants all swayed in the gentle breeze. The image projected a mortal
man engulfed in gliding white doves. His dark sunglasses protected him from
their sins, as he often reminded them.

A mere
hand direction by Dr. Coal and his audience praised the gathering with a
resounding and unanimous, “Yes!”

Coal sat
down. His followers immediately bowed their heads. No murmurs could be heard. No
shuffling of shoes. Only silence. Even the birds and the winds seemed to
respect the need for a calm quiet.

“I am
happy today. Our fellowmen, Abraham and Juan fell ill. It was God’s will. They
cheated God. They cheated all of us. They did not provide their tithing. They
stole our food and we were hungry. They rested even as we worked. They were
weak. They had fallen but they came to recognize their sins and they paid their
penance. They are healed.

“I have
promised you healing. All the medical care you need you can find right here
with me.

“There
shall be no thievery amongst you. No sins of the human flesh, the mind, or the
spirit.

“Some of
you may think to defy my laws. Think again, for these are not my laws. They are
the laws of your soul and your very being. Therefore they are God’s laws. Think
how we could heal the aching world if only they knew our secrets. You are
blessed. I am blessed and I bless you.”

Designated
helpers began the ritual of chanting.

“Bring
forth your tithing and your weary bodies from an honest day of work and you
shall save yourself from the destruction of this earth.”

Coal
rose from his chair. The chanting subsided and heads were bowed once again.

Coal
disappeared behind the veil of white stage draping.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The
Centre Gathering

AFTER
NAGGING, BROCK finally agreed to go to The Centre for their Saturday night
feast.

We
toured the grounds, now decorated with white tablecloths and chairs and tables
laden down with colorful edibles. Blooms from plentiful scalloped gardens competed
with the scents of baked goods to enchant the evening air.

           
Dr. Coal appeared from behind a
draped-off cabana, the kind you might find at the beach resorts. Our eyes
immediately met, except for his sunglasses that shielded his. He pulled the curtains
closed again and headed toward me with an elegant gait, like a Triple Crown
champion horse might prance to enter the gate for yet another victory.

           
Again, I thought he reminded me of
someone.

           
After a long embrace he said, “I
hoped you would join us tonight.”

A mass
of people had congregated on the lawns at The Centre. Instantly I noticed they
all wore jeans and a similar type of denim shirt. While I was smart enough not
to wear heels knowing I would be traversing the lawns, everything else about my
attire screamed inappropriateness. My white dress was short and cut to fit
every curve.

           
“I guess I overdressed,” I said.

“Don’t
be ridiculous. You are a breath of fresh air. Besides, we look like a couple,”
he laughed, raising his arms so the breeze could catch the sleeves of his white
tunic.

Brock
stepped forward, ensuring his presence didn’t go unnoticed.

“Dr.
Coal, this is my friend, Brock Townsend. Brock, this is Dr. Coal,” I said.

“Oh,
yes, the baseball giant,” Coal said. “Good to have you here, Slugger.”

Only I
could detect the hairs rising on the back of his neck, but Brock made nice.
Sort of.

“The
name Slugger is usually reserved for batters but I guess you don’t know much
about professional sports.”

 
“You’ll excuse me,” Coal said, and slipped away.

           
“Tell me again why you dragged me to
this thing,” Brock mumbled as he sifted through the crudités.

           
“Because all my good friends are
busy,” I answered.

           
“Thanks. Two insults in less than
three minutes. Doesn’t Carly live here?”

           
“She has a place here, yes.”

           
“A place?”

           
“She still has her home in Bel Air.
She just prefers to live here for now.”

           
“I thought you told me this was a
family picnic thing,” Brock said.

           
“Sure.”

           
“Well excuse me for noticing but
where exactly are all the kids?”

           
Without wasting any time, Brock
signaled me to follow him to the main food line, ever the athlete with the
hearty appetite to match. Colorful bowls lined the first table with assorted
fruits—plantains, blackberries and papayas. Another table offered corn, snap
peas, broccoli and cauliflower. The third displayed baskets of cracked wheat
and pumpernickel bread, pitas, and tortillas, and a huge wooden bowl of pecans.
Brock looked on to the last table, offering large apple pies and cakes.

           
“I hoped maybe we could get caught up
with one another over a decent meal,” Brock said.

           
“What’s wrong with this meal?” I
asked.

           
“It’s weird, Laurs. If anything,
high protein diets are still hot, but there is barely a trace of protein laid
out here. Not exactly a health cult,” he roared.

           
“Is there a problem here?” a woman
cutting pies overheard Brock’s complaint. The six-footer backed away from the
table. “No problem,” he said. Brock took my arm with his free hand and escorted
me away.

           
I looked at the trays of drinks
being served. Carrot and orange juices. No wine.

           
“See what I mean?” Brock whispered.
“Something’s definitely weird around here.”

           
“You’re just used to being around
athletes and their stinky cafeterias and swanky groupie-filled bars. And you
need more protein in your diet than most people.”

           
“People need protein to
think
,” Brock grumbled. He picked at the
food on his paper plate before tossing it into a nearby trashcan.

           
We walked around the grounds a bit
more while waiting for the release of twelve injured birds that The Centre
community had rehabilitated. I kept trying to spy Carly in the crowd but with
no luck.

           
We passed Coal’s house. The screen
door was closed but we could see a man dressed in black standing erect just
inside and looking back at us. I smiled at the man, but what he returned to me
was something more like what you’d expect from the Royal Guards at Buckingham
Palace. Not exactly congeniality. I thought I caught a glimpse of a long black
ponytail. I wasn’t certain.

           
“What’s in there?” Brock asked.

           
“The director’s residence is in the
front. A records room of some sort is behind it.”

           
“You mean it’s Dr. Coal’s house?”

           
“Yes.”

           
Brock smirked.

           
From our position, both of us could
see the small space dedicated to the living quarters and the stone wall that
sealed off the rest of the building. The man with the ponytail was gone.

           
“Must be some kind of hall of records,”
Brock said. “I don’t want to spoil things, Lauren, but this place gives me the
creeps. I can handle being called ‘Slugger’, but not from a slug. He appears to
be some shepherd of mental health but it looks more like mind control to me. Let
me take you back to Malibu.

“Idiot,”
he continued to mumble. “Batters are sluggers.”

           
The flap of strong wings and short
screeches of freedom sang out from behind us as the birdcages opened. The once
injured gulls swept across the grounds, each one guided by instincts to fly west
toward their beloved ocean.

It was
hotter than hell in the city. The beach would be much cooler. I was annoyed at
Brock’s ignorance about The Centre but I was also tired of squabbling with him.
And Dr. Coal had disappeared, anyway.

Brock
clutched my arm again to take me back to Malibu.

I kept
thinking about the odd familiarity I felt when seeing Dr. Coal. Something. And
the man with the braided ponytail.

And then
I decided I liked a good mystery.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

A
Brother, Bullshit, & Braids

BROCK
MADE HIMSELF at home, opening my refrigerator in search of protein. Not
thrilled to find it almost empty, he finally settled on a slightly aged package
of sliced roast beef and my specialty—moldy cheese. I filled the wine glasses,
knowing he’d like some of his protein from alcohol.

           
Brock had been enjoying his best
season ever. I didn’t know much about baseball but I loved to hear him talk
about his passion. His true and only passion. Brock’s eyes lit up like a
seventeen-arm candelabra when he got any chance to jabber about his favorite
subject.

           
I didn’t have to say much about
CoverBoy
. He subscribed. He bought extra
copies before he boarded the team plane. I hadn’t told him much about any hint
of trouble. He knew the deal. Hate mail arm-and-arm with accolades from
readers. Surely he received the same type of reactions from his fans when he
was playing a game.

           
After he devoured the meat and the
glass of wine, we headed down to the beach. Immediately a sociable Golden
Retriever indicated he was up for a game of fetch and my baseball hero sure knew
how to pitch. Brock spied a suitable stick and the game began.

           
We moved down the beach with each
throw of the stick. Sometimes Brock complained about his shoulder, but only
when he wasn’t throwing something. He proved to be a worthy companion to the
dog who wanted to run and retrieve relentlessly.

           
We walked along the shoreline, four
houses beyond mine. Brock paid scant notice but an Italian aria was playing
from somewhere inside the home. I knew the piece,
Tre
Giorni
. My father had played it often. The
tune intrigued me, probably because of my father’s love of it. While Brock and
the retriever continued their mission to outlast one another, I moved closer to
the home and the music.

           
The man sitting on the patio was
speaking on the phone. Yelling on the phone. He looked up, saw me, then rushed
inside his house. The door was slammed shut and the curtains drawn.

           
“What is it?” Brock asked. “You’ve
stopped dead in your tracks and now you’re shaking.”

           
I hadn’t realized it. I took a deep
breath of the cool and damp night air. “I just thought I recognized a man that
was sitting out on that deck.”
Or maybe
it was I thought he recognized me.

           
“Some movie star?”

           
“Just some guy that looked like the
man we saw at Dr. Coal’s house. Dressed in black and same demeanor. That’s
all.” With a ponytail, I thought.

           
“Let’s get you back to the house.
You need a wrap. I’ll make a fire.”

           
There’s never any real privacy on
the beach. In spite of the laws that dictate the beaches are public, Malibu
real estate owners with beachfront properties fight for privacy. There
is
an unspoken tenet in beach etiquette
that calls for spatial distancing. Maybe I was the one breaking the rules and
this man I had seen felt his space had been invaded.

The dog
seemed to comprehend the game was over. He tossed his head back and forth and
ran off in the opposite direction. I hoped it was toward his home.

           
“You know I’m the poster boy for
good behavior when I’m playing, but I’m a born rule breaker,” Brock said.
“Let’s finish that bottle of wine of yours.”

           
As we walked toward my house Brock
said, “How’s Sterling doing?”

           
“I was going to ask you the same question.
I haven’t seen her since the infamous dinner party at Gabri’s. I believe she
was your date.” I controlled the pout in my voice but it did little to abate
the humiliation and hurt emanating from my body language.

           
“That is weird!”

           
“Brock, if you say
weird
one more time, I’ll—”

           
“You’ll what?” He put his gentle and
firm arm around my waist and cinched me toward him.

           
I shrugged, almost caving into the
stealth shield of his body, but I kept on walking with a straight gait.

           
“I mean it, Laurs. I thought the two
of you had conspired against me because she hasn’t returned my calls.”

           
The hurt intensified. So, he’d been
calling her. I stepped outside of his reach. “I guess you’re not quite the
catch you think you are.”

           
He changed the subject. Too easily. “How’s
Gabri?”

           
“I haven’t heard much. She’s keeping
a low profile after news of her dinner party made the rounds. She still thinks
you’re mad at her for blowing some real estate deals.”

           
“She’d be damn right. It was a few flips.
Quick flips. I’d buy distressed properties, have some guys fix them up, and
sell them. She wasn’t paying attention. The woman lost me some big money.”

           
I watched his pulse grow faster with
flinched indentions at his temples. His gait stiffened and he walked with urgency.

           
“She thinks you might have been mad
enough to commission that painting of her, then have the gall to be her guest
when it was presented to her.”

           
He turned to me, “For the record I
wasn’t there when she opened up that damn thing.”

“So? Did
you do it?”

“Is that
what you think?”

           
“I can tell you’re mad.”

           
“Mad as hell. But it’s only money.
Now I might have commissioned that painting if I’d had the time to dream up
such a scheme, but I’m a gentleman. I’d never be her guest, eat her food and
drink her wine, only to let her open that piece of atrocious shit.”

           
“I know,” I said as we neared the
stairs that led to my deck. “I know you better than that. I’ve seen you rescue
a chinch bug from your kitchen floor and deposit it outside rather than just
step on it.”

           
“That’s not to say Gabri’s any
better than a chinch bug.” He made it sound like a joke. A sick joke. Brock was
mad. Mad as hell.

           
He pecked me on the cheek and called
it a night. A big brother thing. No friendly benefits.

           
As he pulled out of my driveway I
noticed a black convertible Corvette pull down the street. The driver had a
long black braid.