Try Darkness (33 page)
A faint, almost imperceptible laugh issued from Sister Mary Veritas. I put my hand under her chin and lifted it a little. “Now, that is a comment that led to war. You didn’t call Sister Hildegarde a baboon, although . . .”
“Watch it.”
“So I think you’re in the clear. There’s still a First Amendment in this country.”
OUTSIDE, I ASKED
Kylie if she’d be fine staying here awhile while I went on a little trip.
“I’m feeding the cats,” Kylie said. Three of them were purring around a bowl. “You can feed them when you come back.”
Fran smiled at me, nodded. She looked like she was having the best time of all.
“Sounds good,” I said. “You stay with Fran till I get back.”
“Okay,” Kylie said.
Fran said, “Maybe we’ll have some oyster crackers and grapes.”
“Oh, boy,” Kylie said. “I like grapes.”
“So where are we going?” Sister Mary said.
“We?”
SISTER MARY DROVE
.
“We’re going to follow the little red dot on the B-2 bird dog,” I told her. “Do a little surveillance.”
“Cool.”
“You know, I just can’t seem to get used to the idea of a nun saying ‘cool.’”
“It’s all in how you look at it. In some ways, we’re the ultimate cool.”
“Let’s not go into that right now.” I took out my phone and brought up the tracking data Blumberg had programmed into it. A map showed up with a blinking red dot in the middle. I hit the info.
“Our boy’s in Long Beach,” I said.
EVERY FEW MILES
I checked again. It was steady. I thought I knew why. That’s where DeCosse Senior had his floating golf course moored. But we’d checked on Senior earlier, and according to one news item he was in New York for meetings.
Which could mean that Junior was taking the family yacht out for a spin.
Gee, Dad, I didn’t mean to beach her. I was just trying it out . . .
I knew a spot up high where we could park and watch the boats come in. I used binoculars to find the DeCosse space. It was empty.
So we waited. With windows rolled down and a nice sea breeze coming through.
“Ask you a question?” I said.
“Sure.”
“Theological.”
“Really?” she looked extremely pleased. “Shoot.”
“About nuns. You take vows and all, right?”
“That’s right.”
“But sometimes nuns stop being nuns.”
She said nothing.
“You know,” I said. “I’ve seen it in the movies. What was it,
The Nun’s Story
?”
“Audrey Hepburn. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. Jacqueline liked old movies. Her favorite thing wasn’t going out to dinner. It was pizza and TCM with me.”
“I think that’s very cool.”
“There you go again. So about
The Nun’s Story.
Didn’t she walk out at the end?”
“Yes.”
“Why? I can’t remember.”
Pause. Sister Mary looked out the windshield, toward the ocean, as if the answer might be there. Finally she said, “She was torn between what she felt was her calling to serve God as a nun, or in the world as a nurse.”
“So let’s say you wanted to go out in the world, what would you do?”
“We Benedictines take a vow of stability, to remain in community and obedience to our abbess. And—”
She stopped and looked down.
“I get that,” I said. “I don’t like authority, either.”
“I didn’t say that,” she snapped. Fire in the voice.
“What did you mean, then?” Heat in mine, and it surprised me. I was more interested in her answers than I thought.
“It’s a lot deeper than that,” she said. “We’re talking about God here.”
“I thought we were talking about Sister Hildegarde.”
“Who serves at the behest of God, I would remind you.”
“Maybe,” I said. “And maybe not. I mean, who knows the mind of God, right?”
“That’s what you have a church for.”
“But the church gets it wrong sometimes.”
“How would you know?”
“Agnostics know a few things, too.”
“Just don’t die an agnostic,” she said. “Otherwise they’ll have to give you one of those special gravestones.”
“What special gravestone?”
“The one that says, ‘All dressed up and nowhere to go.’”
WE TALKED SOME
more and then I saw it. Heading in. No question—it was DeCosse’s yacht.
Through the binoculars I had a clear view and didn’t see any deckhands. One guy on the bridge.
Junior.
Then I saw someone else on the bridge. A woman in a large-brimmed hat and shades. She put her arm around Junior and kissed his cheek.
“Well,” I said, “it looks like our boy has a tootsie.”
“Tell me you didn’t just say
tootsie
.”
“Tootsie.”
“Your world is very strange,” she said.
“Just get ready to drive.”
“Where?”
“Wherever the dot leads us. I want to see where Junior and Tootsie go next.”
THE DOT LED
us north, through downtown L.A., and exited in Hollywood.
We were about five minutes behind them. The dot stopped on Cherokee. Behind Musso & Frank Grill, a Hollywood institution since 1919.
I had Sister Mary park at the curb. “Looks like a little early dinner at Musso’s,” I said. “Ever been there?”
“No.”
“Want to go in? Have a martini?”
“Mr. Buchanan—”
“Ty, please.”
“. . . don’t mess with me.”
“Not messing. They’re famous for their martis. One of those and you’ll be so theological you’ll—”
“Thank you, no.”
“A milk shake?”
“Some other time.”
I looked at my watch. Called Fran. She and Kylie were having spaghetti and meatballs. I asked if Kylie might spend the night. That was aces with Fran. She put Kylie on.
“Hi, Ty.”
“You having fun?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Fran’s cool, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“If it gets late, would you like to spend the night? We can come get you in the morning?”
“I like Fran,” she said.
“So it’s okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Remind me to buy you some ice cream next time I see you.”
“Okay.”
I clicked off and turned to Sister Mary. “Let’s talk about your case,” I said. “We have some time.”
“My case?”
“With Sister Hildegarde.”
“Oh. There’s no case. She is the judge.”
“Jury and executioner?”
“We don’t have those,” she said.
“Not since the Inquisition, I guess.”
“This talent you have for insults, is it a gift?”
“No,” I said. “I have to work on it.”
ABOUT AN HOUR
later Junior and the woman came out the back door of Musso’s making like octopi. Arms all over each other. Sucking face. I saw Junior a little more clearly. He wore a black shirt and black coat with a white handkerchief in the pocket. He fished out a wad of bills and peeled one for the valet.
The valet brought the red Ferrari around and the happy couple got in. Junior pulled out onto Cherokee, then took a right on Hollywood Boulevard.
We followed the dot. Past the El Capitan and Kodak Theater, to La Brea, where it took a left.
And came to a stop at a corner a half mile later.
When we got there I saw the Ferrari in front of a theater, one of the many small venues in the city where actors can show their stuff in the hopes an agent or producer will wander in some night and see them. And then sign them up, get them on a soap or hit series or the new Spielberg. That happens about as often as the Cubs win the World Series.
The theater marquee announced
As You Like It.
They were going to see Shakespeare? Junior had culture?
I had Sister Mary pull to a stop on the opposite side of LaBrea. We waited and watched. The red Ferrari was empty, parked illegally at the red curb in front of the theater. A few people milled around the entrance.
A couple of minutes later Junior came out the front doors, alone. He jumped in the car and drove off.
“Follow?” Sister Mary said.
“No,” I said. “We can pick up his location later. I’d rather see if we can talk to Tootsie.”
We found a metered parking place on the street then walked to the theater. At the box office I asked a guy with glasses and tufts of gray hair sprouting around a bald head if the production was worth seeing.
“Yeah, it is,” he said. “
L.A. Weekly
loved it.”
“Sam DeCosse said I should see it.”
“Then you came to see Elinor.”
I smiled as if I knew who he was talking about.
“She is absolutely radiant,” the ticket guy said.
“Radiant?”
“The theater is all about the suspension of disbelief,” he said, getting excited. “When an actor is on, it makes that suspension of disbelief easy. You forget you’re watching a play. That’s what she does every night.”
“Pretty good review,” I said.
“How do you know Mr. DeCosse?”
“I’m one of his lawyers,” I said. “One of many.”
Ticket guy laughed. “I hear you.”
“So just between us,” I said. “Does she have what it takes to go all the way? You know, to the movies?”
Ticket leaned forward. “Movies, nothing. This is where it’s at. Shakespeare. She’s great. And it’s a great part, of course. Maybe the best for a woman ever. Right? Am I right about that?”
“Better than Juliet?”
“Please! Rosalind is a woman in control of her fate. She would have stepped in and solved the feud.”
“Right on,” I said, having forgotten most of what I knew about the play. “I’m surprised Sam didn’t stick around.”
“He’s seen it four times,” Ticket said. “That counts for something.”
“Okay, give me two tickets,” I said. “You sold me.”
Thirty bucks for Sister Mary and me to sit at the back of the small theater and watch Shakespeare. The program said it was Elinor Hanlon in the part of Rosalind. Her bio was brief, only that she was studying with a noted acting teacher and was thrilled to be making her Shakespeare debut with this production.
As we waited I asked Sister Mary if she knew the play, and she not only knew it, she went on to give me the rundown on its historical significance.
“Rosalind is both witty and wise at a time when this was not thought feminine,” Sister Mary said.
“I think it’s feminine,” I said. “You could play Rosalind if you didn’t cheat at basketball.”
“Be quiet. I’m lecturing. You want to learn something? Rosalind is one of the great characters in theater. She points us to the joys of true freedom even in the midst of absurdities.”
“Such as?”
“Rosalind teaches us that the way of love is irrational and yet . . .”
“And yet what?”
She was silent, looking at the stage. Then she said, “Necessary.”
She looked down and didn’t say anything else.
The theater got about three-quarters full by the time the lights went down. Recorded music started, a sort of bucolic theme.
Lights up and the play began. I followed along and was even getting into it when Rosalind made her entrance.
“Dear Celia,” she said, “I show more mirth than I am mistress of . . .”
In the dark my jaw dropped. But Sister Mary must have seen it.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Rosalind,” I whispered back. “I know her.”
“An old flame?”
“Hardly. And her name’s not Elinor Hanlon. It’s Ariel DeCosse.”
AFTER THE SHOW
we went backstage. Made our way past young actors with towels rubbing their faces and chattering. Nobody stopped us. We found the door to the women’s dressing room. A female techie was about to go in and I asked if I could speak to Elinor.
The techie went inside. A moment later Ariel stepped into the corridor. She was all smiles, fielding some compliments from other actors. Still wearing her boy clothes from the play.
When she saw me she frowned. Then slapped on a grin. “Mr. Buchanan, isn’t it?”
“Nice to see you again,” I said.
“Did you enjoy the show?”
“A really interesting interpretation,” I said. “What’s with the stage name?”
“I just want to act. I don’t want to be known as Mrs. DeCosse who got her break because . . .” She looked over my shoulder at Sister Mary.
“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?”
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?”
