Earth Angel (34 page)

David carried me forward a couple of steps and set me back onto the counter. He pulled out and I adjusted the elastic on my
underpants. I knelt to the floor and picked up the toothbrush and soap that had shaken loose from
my butt, rinsed them both off, and returned them to the counter. David sat on the edge of the tub, breathing hard. His skin
was slicked with sweat and he held his head up with his hands, elbows propped on his knees. “Whew!” he said.

“Not bad for a guy with a bum leg.”

He briskly rubbed his face. “Come on, David, snap out of it, you’ve got to go to work. I’m so drained I probably couldn’t
win at rock-scissors-paper. Hell, I can’t even stand up.”

I made a fist. “Try it.”

“I was kidding.”

“Come on, try it. I want to see if I’ve taken any of your powers away, mighty Samson.”

He pointed a finger at me. “I just thought of a movie reference. You remind me of the Asian servant to Peter Sellers in the
Pink Panther movies, the guy who’s always attacking Sellers to keep him sharp.”

“Ready?” I said.

He sighed, made a fist.

One-two-three. I threw paper, he threw scissors. We did it five more times and he won each time.

“Guess I’m not as tired as I thought.”

“How do you do it? I demand to know.”

“You are not ready, Luke Skywalker.” He peeled the condom from his penis, wincing slightly as it yanked on a few hairs. The
weighted tip of the condom looked unusually full as he dropped it into the toilet with a loud plop. He flushed. We both watched
it swirl in the whirlpool and disappear down the throat of the toilet like a beloved but dead goldfish. Instinctively we both
looked at each other, then looked away.

I was stretched out on a beach towel in David’s backyard, writing a list of biblical epics.
Ten Commandments. Ben-Hur.
Jesus Christ, Superstar. Last Temptation of Christ…
My pen touched the paper, blue ink soaking into the yellow paper, as I tried to think of another one.

“Hurry up, guys,” David’s voice shouted from the second story. “No one’s late today. Not to school, not to work. New day,
new attitude.”

I didn’t look up. They’d all been running around getting ready for the past twenty minutes and I wanted to stay out of the
way. David was running late because of our brief bathroom sex. I’d passed Josh in the kitchen and he’d ignored me as he carried
his orange juice up to his room.

Concentrate, Season. Biblical movies. The language of the kidnapper’s note was sort of religious: reference to “the fire next
time,” meaning how God intended to destroy the world after the flood, if people ever got that evil again; also, the line about
“thy wife, neighbor,” referring to the seventh commandment about coveting thy neighbor’s wife. Yet, I couldn’t connect roadkills
or Popeye to the Bible. Frustrated, I stabbed the pen into the lawn and rolled onto my back. I thought I caught a rustle of
curtains at Josh’s bedroom window. But I saw no one there.

“He’s just being weird,” Rachel said, walking toward me, carrying her backpack at her side. “He’s embarrassed at getting caught
yesterday. You know boys.”

“I wish I did,” I said, quickly flipping a corner of the towel to cover my notepad. David and I had agreed it would be best
if the kids didn’t know what I was doing for the police. They might tell somebody and that could put us all in danger. I moved
over on the towel so Rachel could sit beside me. “Did you know about Josh’s gambling at school?”

“Sure. Most of the kids knew, and a lot of the teachers.”

“The teachers knew?”

“Some. But they figured it was better than dealing drugs or guns or something so they let it slide. As long as we
stay away from drugs, everyone’s happy.” She finally sat down. “It’s really not that big a deal.”

“Except it’s illegal.”

She shrugged. “So’s everything.”

She looked cute in her simple black shift, white T-shirt, black shoes and white socks. She tried hard to look plain and spiritual,
but she had an undeniable sexiness about her. If anything, her outfit only enhanced it. Of course, the sexiness could have
been the result of her being pregnant.

“Rachel.” I lowered my voice. “Do you want to talk about your pregnancy, go over the options?”

She shook her head. “I’ll figure it out.”

“I know you will. I’m just here if you want to talk, or you need help. You know, a ride or money.”

“Oh, you mean you’d take me if I got an abortion?”

“If that’s what you decided.”

She nodded again but didn’t say anything.

“I still think you should tell David. It’s not fair to exclude him.”

She hoisted her backpack on one shoulder and stood up. “Gotta get to school. See you later.”

“Bye.” I watched her go. I hadn’t handled that well at all.

I returned to my movie list. I couldn’t think of another biblical movie title to save my life. I laid my face on the notepad
and closed my eyes. The morning sun pounded against my cheek. My brain was the receptacle of thousands of years of medical
knowledge. I knew things that, were I transported back into time just a couple decades, I could save thousands of lives. Yet,
because I had misspent many youthful hours watching obscure movies on TV while downing whole bags of malted milk balls and
huge cans of Orange Hi-C, I was involved in a police case.

“You’re sleeping on the job, Detective Weiss.”

“Screw you,” I said, rolling over and opening my eyes.

“At least you talk like a cop.” David sat on the edge of the towel and stroked my thigh. “You look cute in my shorts. Almost
as cute as me.”

I was wearing a ragged pair of white Air Jordans and a plain white T-shirt I’d borrowed from David. His hand slid up the leg
and nestled against my crotch. Conscious of Josh and Rachel’s bedroom windows above, I pushed his hand away. “What time will
you be back?”

“A few hours. Try to solve the case while I’m gone so we can go to a movie or something.”

I snorted. “How’s Josh doing?”

“Imagine Rasputin with constipation.”

I laughed. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I have no idea.” He stood up, brushed off his pants. “Let’s just say he’s pissed. But he and Rachel left for school, so he
can be pissed there for a while. That means you’ve got the whole house in which to work your magic and save the day.”

“Jeez, thanks for not putting any pressure on me. Where are you off to?”

“Some high-school students in Ventura are protesting their library removing some books. I’m going to check it out, see if
it’s worth including in my film.”

“What’s being removed?”

“Alice Walker’s
The Color Purple
. Have you read it?”

“I saw the movie. Oprah and Whoopi. It made me cry. My date thought that meant I was in the mood for romance, so he tried
to feel me up immediately afterward. I nearly broke his fingers. What’s the fuss about?”

“The book has a few more references to lesbianism than the movie so the parents want it out. A group of student protesters
are staging some kind of demonstration.”

A cloud moved away and a sudden blast of sunshine hit me in the eyes. I shielded them with one hand while looking up at David.
“How does all this relate to your
film on rites of passage, or are you just going over to be disruptive, introduce some chaos?”

“Are you making fun of my film?”

“Yup.”

“Need I remind you that it is government-funded, therefore significant.” He kneeled down and kissed me. “Gotta run.”

I hugged him close and sniffed his neck. “Why do you always smell like the ocean?”

“ ’Cause I have crabs.” He smiled and limped away, waving to me over his shoulder.

After three hours of making lists that seemed to go nowhere, I drove to a Tower Video store and walked their aisles, hoping
I’d see some title that would help me put it together. Drama. Comedy. Horror. Adventure. Finally, after two and a half hours,
I found the right movie. I’d actually passed it once, not even registering it. This time I picked it up. It was so obvious
I actually hit my forehead with my hand. I signed up for a store membership and rented the video. I called Lt. Trump and she
told me to come right over.

I
DROPPED THE VIDEO ON HER DESK
. “H
OLLY
H
UNTER
, M
ARY
Steenburgen, Tim Robbins, Alfre Woodard, Scott Glenn.”

Lt. Trump picked it up, looked at the cover, flipped it over, read the back. “
Miss Firecracker
. Never heard of it.”

“You don’t know how tired I am of hearing that. I think that’s been the kidnapper’s point all along. Obscure films.”

Lt. Trump sighed wearily and leaned back into her chair. Her face was drawn and her eyes red. She’d started the day with makeup,
but most of it had worn off and she hadn’t bothered to replace it, so her skin looked a little splotchy. “Go on,” she said
impatiently.

“The movie came out in 1989, based on an off-Broadway play by Beth Henley called
The Miss Firecracker Contest
. In the movie, Holly Hunter is a contestant in the Miss Firecracker Contest. And what’s the first line of our kidnapper’s
note? ‘Do not
contest
my will or it will be the
fire
next time.’ Contest and fire are the key words.”

“There’d better be more than that.”

“There is.” I was about to tell her more when she held up a hand to stop me. She reached for the phone, punched
a couple buttons. “Ian there? Send him back up. The movie gal is here.” She hung up.

“The movie gal?” I said.

“Relax, I don’t mean any disrespect. We’re trying to keep your identity secret, even around here. We’ve got cops who pick
up some extra money selling info to those news shows like
A Current Affair
.” She pointed to the chair across from her desk. “Sit, he’ll be right here.”

We sat in a large room filled with a dozen black metal desks, most of which were empty. Two men were typing at the far end
of the room. The air conditioner was blasting right down on me, freezing my legs and arms. I rubbed them while we waited.

A young girl about twelve entered the room carrying two paper cups filled with something. She walked very slowly, careful
not to spill anything. When she arrived at Trump’s desk she set them both down. “Can we go now, Mom? I’ve got soccer practice
in an hour.”

“Pretty soon, sweetie.” Lt. Trump pried open the case and handed the girl the video. “The VCR is set up in Interrogation Room
B. Why don’t you watch this for a few minutes, tell me if it’s any good.” She nodded at me. “Lyla, this is my friend Grace.”

The little girl looked at me and smiled, revealing a lot of braces. “Hi, Grace.”

“Hi, Lyla.”

Lyla looked back at her mother. “One hour, Mom. I don’t want to get suspended again for missing practice.”

“You won’t. I promise.”

She marched away with the video and disappeared down the corridor.

Sgt. Ian McCauley passed her on the way in, stopped and said something to her, and they both laughed. Still chuckling, he
headed our way. He had a burrito in one hand and a can of Sprite in the other. He nodded at me while chewing a large mouthful.
He plopped into the chair
at the desk next to Lt. Trump’s and walked the chair over until he was beside her. She handed him the video cover.

“Never heard of it,” he said.

“Go on,” she said to me.

I repeated to him what I’d already told her.

“There’s more, right?” he said testily.

“Yes, there’s more. Alfre Woodard plays a character called Popeye because her eyes bulge out. She’s a seamstress, which covers
the line in the note: ‘Ask Popeye the tailor.’ Tim Robbins plays a guy who shovels roadkills, as in ‘Or robin the roadkill.’”

They both leaned forward now, eyes bright. Sgt. McCauley threw the rest of his burrito in the trash can. “What about the last
line, uh…”

“‘Or thy wife, neighbor,’” said Lt. Trump.

“There’s a cameo appearance by Christine Lahti, who plays the neighbor. She’s married to the guy who directed the movie, Thomas
Schlamme.”

Sgt. McCauley looked at Lt. Trump. “Who the fuck’s Christine Lahti?”

“Actress,” she said. “She was in…” She looked at me for help.

“Housekeeping, Gross Anatomy, Running on Empty
with River Phoenix,
Just Between Friends
with Mary Tyler Moore. Some others.”

They both stared at me as if I’d just picked their pockets.

“Sergeant McCauley,” I said, “who was the all-time leading rusher in football?”

“Walter Payton.”

I shrugged. “When there’s a sports nut running around kidnapping people, you’ll get to be Mr. Wizard.” I stood up to leave.
“Anyway, that’s all I know. You guys can figure out what it all means.”

Lt. Trump stood up and offered her hand. “We appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Weiss.”

I shook her hand, acknowledging my appreciation for
using my alias. “Don’t forget to return the video. It’s checked out on my credit card.”

“You’re a genius. You’re Jim Phelps from
Mission: Impossible
. You’re Wylie Coyote, super genius.” David poured milk into the champagne glasses and cut another slice of cheesecake for
me. “Eat, we have to keep feeding the genius cells.”

“I’m stuffed,” I protested.

He picked up the can of whipped cream, shook it, and whooshed a fluffy golf ball onto his tongue. “Yummy. I can feel myself
getting smarter.” He leaned toward me. “Tongue,” he ordered.

“I can’t. My stomach is going to explode all over the walls and ruin all your artifacts.”

“Tongue.”

I stuck out my tongue. He nozzled a cherry-sized dollop onto the tip.

“Now we’re whipped-cream brothers. Kinda like blood brothers, but without the pain and scabs.”

We were sitting on the living room floor, the lion-eating-the-antelope coffee table between us, strewn with cheesecake, milk,
and whipped cream. This was our second dessert for the night. We’d had the first round with the kids over dinner a couple
hours earlier. They were now in their rooms, supposedly studying.