Gods Go Begging (37 page)

“You missed four court appearances this morning,” said Eddy, with a confused and worried look on his face. “You’d better call the courts and massage the judges or they’re going to hold you in contempt of court. Judge Taback had a fit.”

“I didn’t have any court appearances today,” responded Jesse as he reached into his jacket for his calendar. “Those four court appearances are for Thursday, the seventeenth. I’m sure of it.”

“That’s today,” said Carolina impatiently. She did not look at Jesse as she spoke. “Today is the seventeenth. Where the hell were you yesterday?”

There was anger and disappointment in her voice.

“What did you do yesterday? You didn’t go to your office. You didn’t call anyone. You didn’t bother to call me. No one could get in touch with you. I had to call Eddy.”

Jesse closed his eyes as the realization hit him. After all of that mezcal and beer he had slept right through an entire day and into another night. Twenty-four hours had been lost. He unlocked the door, walked into his motel room, then began calling the courts.

Carolina and Eddy followed but stopped at the front door. The room smelled of sweat, alcohol, and vomit. There was a disconcerting haze in the air, the palpable residue of nightmares. Neither Carolina nor Eddy would step through it. Carolina, who had never been baptized a Catholic, crossed herself at the threshold. She lifted a nonexistent crucifix to her lips and kissed it.

“Qué barbaroto!”
she muttered.

“Everything has been put over until Monday,” said Jesse, hanging up the phone. “Judge Saldamando and Judge Louie really didn’t give a damn about my failure to appear. Jack Berman didn’t even notice that I wasn’t there. He sent my guy to a drug program, then left to play tennis. Hell, I haven’t missed a court appearance in over ten years. But I did have to remind that sanctimonious Judge Taback about those two mornings during our last trial when he overslept and the jury had to be sent home for the day. He claimed it was the flu, but I jogged his memory a little. He should stick to Manische witz and give up those double martinis.”

“None of that excuses you,” said Carolina angrily.

Jesse nodded curtly at her. She wasn’t looking back at him. He then turned quickly toward his investigator.

“I heard the tape, Eddy!” There was a strange intensity in his voice. “I heard the tape! She said just one solitary word to the 911 operator. She said, ‘Amos.’ I knew Amos Flyer, Eddy! I knew the man!”

His hand dove into his pocket as he spoke. He felt for the dog tag, the miraculous one that had pierced the wall of the Salon des Refuses. In an instant the excitement in his voice died away. Images of the Creole sergeant’s death were filling his mind, displacing tamale pie and lemonade.

“In a way, I think I knew her, too. I’ve known her for years. I don’t know why she was killed, but I think I know why Persephone Flyer died. I know it all sounds impossible. I know it’s hard to believe, Eddy, but I understand why. If I’m not mistaken, Mai Adrong died for the same reason. We’ve got to talk to Mr. Homeless. When can I talk to him? I’ve got a feeling about that guy.”

“I gave him the food money,” said Eddy. “He’s had at least two or three good meals at Klein’s Deli by now. I told the people at the deli not to sell him any alcohol. Anyway, I’ve got something to show you. It can’t wait. I went out to Tracy and talked to Margie Dixon about the Supreme Being and her other brother, Richard. The woman had a lot to say. There’s something you’ve got to see. I haven’t seen it yet, but if Margie is right about this, the supreme being could walk away free from this beef.”

“What is it?” asked Jesse excitedly, his thumb rubbing the raised letters of Sergeant Amos Flyer’s name.

“We’ve got to go see it. Just trust me on this,” said Eddy. There was excitement in his eyes. No description could do justice to this.

“If Margie’s description is correct, it could be a complete defense to all the charges. It’s over in Modesto, in some old barn or warehouse. Margie has the location and the keys to the place. We’re supposed to pick her up in Tracy in about two hours. She’s waiting for us at some hamburger stand called Chez Boeuf. I don’t know what
boeuf
is so I brought some Hawaiian food with me in case we get hungry. I’ve got two bento boxes of spam musubi with egg.”

Jesse looked toward Carolina, whose large dark eyes were refusing to meet his. He was going to Tracy and she knew it. There would be no talking today, no explanations today, and she was more than angry about it. He walked toward her, stopping just in front of her. Using both hands, he reached out, cupping her pouting face in his palms, his thumbs caressing her lips.

“Topolina,” he whispered softly. Lifting her face he kissed her gently, then walked to his car. Eddy touched Carolina’s hand and followed Jesse. When they turned Eddy’s car onto highway 101 South, they could see her, still standing in the middle of the motel parking lot, her face filled with tears of utter disbelief.

“I’ve never seen you kiss her,” said Eddy quietly. “I’ve never seen you kiss her.”

Margie Skelley Dixon was nothing at all like her brother Bernard. She was tiny and delicate, with strawberry-blond hair and long, elastic fingers that seemed double-jointed. Her wrists, her ears, and the flesh of her neck were almost transparent. Her smile was soft and humane. Premature worry lines had already pleated the corners of her eyes, eyes that were clear blue and direct evidence of an inquisitive, agile mind. Using her dreams as cement, and huge, hardbound editions of Dickens and Joyce as bricks, she spent her days and nights building a wall of books between herself and her appointed destiny.

Genetics and the suffocating limitations of Tracy had joined forces and doomed her to a future in a trailer court or a stark tract home somewhere in the Central Valley, to a life of television and tabloids and preparing meals in which every organic object is mummified with batter, then chicken-fried and smothered with white gravy.

Through the mail she ordered cookbooks from all over the world and spent long evenings memorizing their contents and imagining the exotic flavors while touching the photos with her fingertips. In time she would be able to discern the spices present in any given recipe simply by caressing a photograph of the final dish. It was her fervent hope that the recipes for coquilles St. -Jacques and ratatouille Provençale would eventually displace the constant impulse to stuff a hot dog with Velveeta and then wrap it with bacon. She prayed that saltimboca would jump into her mouth and dislodge her taste for lard. Her bookshelves were crammed with Berlitz courses in nine different languages. The walls of her bedroom were a collage of maps and travel guides.

Every chance she got, she would drive the fifty-five miles into San Francisco to savor pad Thai, caldo de camarones, and ziti Tartufo. She would spend endless hours at the aquatic park listening to the African drummers and basking in the sound of exotic tongues. Using will power alone, she hoped against hope to plug the holes in the cultural sieve that was her heritage—her hillbilly heart. This woman labored against providence with every breath she took.

“Nous sommes ici,”
sang Margie as the car pulled onto a dusty dirt road on the outskirts of Modesto. Her lilting voice belied the growing terror in her heart. She exited the car and walked slowly toward a large, weathered barn. She walked as though she were on the surface of Jupiter; the weight of her own reticence coupled with the weight of her determination had caused her shoulders and hips to sag visibly. In front of her the wide front door of the barn had been chained and padlocked.

“¿Dónde están las llaves?”
she muttered as she pored through her crowded purse. After opening the lock, she pulled at the huge door but was unable to move it. Eddy and Jesse had to lift the door, then tug on it in unison before it finally yawned open.

“When he lost his job, he sold almost everything,” Margie said as she led the way into the barn. “He even sold his rider lawn mower, his precious John Deere, and he didn’t even have a lawn. But some things he just couldn’t sell.”

Jesse and his investigator stood awestricken at what they saw. Covering every wall was an array of weaponry that only the best-equipped armies could match. In the far corner of the barn was a deuce-and-a-half truck, and behind that was a battered armored personnel carrier, probably of Korean War vintage. The hack wall of the barn was covered with an array of semi-automatic weapons, including old M-1s and M-14s, and at least three .38-calibre “grease guns.”

There was a rack of M-16s to the left, a crate of hand grenades, and one ancient mortar tube. The mortar rounds were lying next to it like a pile of discarded soda bottles. The ground to the right was covered with ammunition boxes, tent halves, entrenching tools, and one M-60 machine gun. Hanging from the rafters were huge Confederate and Nazi flags. Behind the flags hung a cheap tapestry depicting the Last Supper. Judas’s face had been painted black and a large nose had been added.

“My brothers, Bernard and Richard, are in the local militia,” whispered Margie. “This is their company headquarters.”

There was a table near the door that was covered with yellowed periodicals—tracts from the Posse Comitatus, an SS action team in Michigan, and a worn copy of the Turner Diaries. Margie ran her fingers over the photos on the front page of one of the tracts. “Tasteless,” she said to no one.

A chill went down Jesse’s spine as he stared at the weaponry around him. Not even the San Francisco Police Department had this kind of armory. Eddy walked cautiously outside to see if anyone was lurking nearby.

“Don’t worry,” said Margie, “they won’t come out here today. They’re on maneuvers in Manteca.” Margie’s face contorted as she spoke the Spanish word for lard.

“Maneuvers?” asked Jesse.

“They take about three hours putting on jungle fatigues and their camouflage makeup, then they crawl around in the dirt for about five minutes before they pull a muscle or puke their breakfast. Then they break out the beer and hot dogs and tell phony war stories. It’s truly ridiculous. They use walkie-talkies to talk between the picnic tables. ‘Apache One to Apache Niner; you got any mayonnaise on your table? Over.’ ”

Margie laughed at her own imitation of her brother Richard’s voice. As her laughter slowly died, she walked toward a large object that was covered with a dusty tarp. It had been placed into the far right corner of the barn. With one hand she grabbed a corner of the tarp and began to pull. As the object was slowly revealed, Jesse and Eddy stared in anxious anticipation. There was a wry smile on Eddy’s face as the canvas tarp moved across the midsection of the object. It was a huge, wooden bed. The large, thick quilt that covered the mattress was made from an American flag. Soon, all that remained hidden by the tarp was the headboard.

“Are you ready?
Están listos?”
said Margie. Jesse assumed that her sense of the dramatic was showing, but quickly changed his mind. There was something else in her voice—a cold and cutting edge. “Are you ready?” she repeated, as though those three words were the only possible words appropriate for this moment. No one answered, so she quickly pulled the tarp to the floor. “It was never Bernard,” whispered Margie as the object came into view. “It was always Richard.”

Jesse’s stare immediately turned to glee.

“Photograph it, Eddy!” he screamed, laughing and walking in circles, unable to contain his joy. “Photograph it, then let’s remove the headboard! We’re gonna lash it to the car. Come here, Margie.”

He threw his arms around Margie Skelley Dixon, lifting her off the floor with the force of his embrace.

“Eddy,” exclaimed Jesse, “remind me to call Chez Panisse on the way back to San Francisco. I’ll make reservations for six. Are you still seeing that English professor from Merced? ”

Margie nodded.

“I’m going to buy you the best dinner you ever had. We’ll drink two bottles of Margaux, Premier Grand Cru.” Then Jesse noticed that the same hint of sadness had returned to her face. He lowered her to her feet. With a hand on each of her shoulders, he held her at arm’s length and forced her to look into his eyes.

“Listen, Margie, you’re not choosing between brothers. That’s not what you’re doing. You’re making sure that the truth is known. You’re bringing just a little bit of justice to a world that needs it very bad!y.”

“That’s not why I’m sad,” said Margie softly. “I always knew this day was coming. I always knew there was something wrong with my niece Minnie. The little girl was never, ever happy. The poor thing was never given the chance to be a child. She’s never wanted to have a doll or to play house. God!” sighed Margie. “She was having sex years before she got her period. That son of a bitch took away her first childhood crush, her first prom, the nervous joy of her wedding night. I’m sad because I suspected this long ago and did absolutely nothing about it. I didn’t want to believe it was happening to her.”

“Minnie’s just a child,” said Eddy. “There’s still hope for her. Children can heal.”

“Her mother is not going to be there for her,” added Jesse in his softest voice. “She’s probably known what her husband has been doing all these years and closed her eyes to it. But little Minnie will have an aunt, an aunt who understands this kind of pain very well, and who, in spite of it, has managed to fall in love twice.”

Margie turned to face the lawyer.

“How did you know? she asked.

“I don’t know how I knew,” said Jesse, unaware of the fact that he had placed the jade stone beneath his tongue. “But I know that you’re running away. All those arcane books, all those languages you speak … I’ve never seen anyone run so hard. You’re trying to escape from far more than just Spam kabobs and Velveeta pick-me-ups.”

“Will I have to testify against my own brother?”

“You might not have to,” answered Jesse. “This bed and the DNA testing that I’m going to order might be enough. It’s Minnie that I’m worried about. To this day she hasn’t had the courage to name her true assailant. She’s given a description that could fit either brother and she’s pointed to a picture of the supreme being, but she might have been pointing to the eagle. She’s never given a name. She has never spoken the name out loud. She’s going to have to see this headboard again and have the courage to tell the whole truth. I’m sure she’s scared to death of her father.”