Immaculate Reception (7 page)

“Did you know him personally?”

“Brother Ugo? I remember the man. Short and round, he was. But with a sweet heart, and a gift for baking, of course. Alas, we didn't have many opportunities to get to know each other. I was busy with my studies and my duties, but I do remember a time I was asked to help look into a very sad matter when Brother Ugo died.”

My heart began beating faster. “Was there a problem?”

He looked at me with watery brown eyes, magnified through his lenses.

“There were…questions. I'm afraid we never had any satisfactory answers. But it was wartime, you remember. And there were rumors that swirled, my dear, like dust at your feet. It was a difficult time. Even for the Vatican. Especially for the Vatican.” He shook his head at his memories. “I remember only that poor Brother Ugo's death had been unexpected. If there was anything more to it, I never found a bit of evidence.

“I was young at the time. I'd thought of Brother Ugo as an old man, but he must have only been in his late fifties, not an age we expect a healthy man to die. And so, the sad rumors. Some said he had poisoned himself, but that was malicious. A man of God would no sooner kill himself than kill another man.”

I thought that one over. “Brother Ugo left this confession…”

“That is what I wanted to see.” Monsignor Picca pushed his glasses down his rather long nose and reread the Latin in front of him. “I collect documents, you see. If this document was written by Brother Ugo it might aid in my research.”

“In what way?”

“My child, Brother Ugo was the mildest man imaginable. He spent his days baking heavenly breads and meditating in chapel. He never hurt a fly. Poor man.

“However, I believe there was a stunning plot at work during the late thirties that threatened the very existence of the church, and now…” He reread the document.

“May I keep this for further study? I'd like to check it against my journals from the time.”

“Of course. We have a copy,” I said, still unsure of what we were really talking about.

“I should like to study the matter further. I still have many papers from that time. I keep everything. My dear sister is always asking me to go through my things and
organize them, and every time I promise her that I will.” He smiled at me. “When I retire, I tell her.” And again, the monsignor let out his jolly hacks and grins.

Just then, there was a light tap on the door.

“Come in,” yelled the monsignor in his hearty, hoarse voice.

The door was opened by the assistant. Two young children stood silently in the doorway. Stan the cat came out from hiding and began to rub his furry spine against the leg of the boy.

“Have you been sent to fetch me?” Monsignor Picca asked them, beaming at their astonished faces.

Neither the plaid-skirted girl nor the blue-sweatered boy could muster a word.

“I'll be right with you, children,” the old man called out to them. And then he turned to me.

“This is unfinished business, and for a thorough man it is hard to put an unfinished thing down. You are like that too, I can see.”

I was always surprised when anyone could see anything about me. I felt opaque, and yet what he said was quite true.

“I like to solve puzzles,” I admitted.

“As do I. You see? We are quite alike.”

I regarded the two of us and smiled.

“Not on the outside, perhaps. But then there are other parts.”

“Not many look that deeply, Father,” I said.

“God does,” he said.

Good point.

“Since you and I are kindred spirits who do not stop until a puzzle is solved,” the monsignor continued, “I shall look into my records and report to you. Perhaps I can find the poor fellow's full Christian name, at the very least. May I phone you later?”

“Of course.” I stood and handed him my business card. “Thank you for giving up so much of your time.”

“Not at all.” He also stood and moved to the door.

The two silent children each took a hand and began to pull him along.

“My escorts.” The monsignor let out some more jolly dry barks and the children giggled.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Madeline Bean,” he said, shaking gently free of the little girl's hand to take my own.

“I'll check with my sister Claudia. She has many of my old things at her house. I'll go tonight. Would that help?”

“That would be wonderful. Thanks to you, I believe we may have actually discovered the identity of our Brother Ugo. But I must admit, I'm no closer to understanding what this confession is all about. Who is it that Brother Ugo confessed to killing?”

“It is disturbing,” Monsignor Picca said, his lightly accented voice suddenly serious. “But this old jagged piece may fit into a startling puzzle.”

I could tell that until the elderly priest solved this puzzle on his own, he did not appear inclined to reveal more.

I let go of his gnarled hand, and the very young lady in the St. Bede's school uniform grabbed the prize. Off they went, the two seven-year-old guides leading their elderly friend off to school.

 

The clear hard glare of winter sunshine greeted me as I stepped outside. The haze that comes with springtime was still a ways off. I reached in my bag to find my sunglasses as I walked across the blacktop of the church parking lot and nearly walked smack into a pickup truck that had lurched into reverse a half a step ahead of me. Although I was not in danger, the driver slammed on his brakes with exaggerated urgency.

The driver's window slid down, and I expected to see an apologetic face poke out.

“My fault,” I called out to the driver. “I wasn't watching where…”

“Stupid bitch!” the man at the wheel shouted.

The calm dignity of the large cross of St. Bede's stood silent witness.

Stunned, I moved back a step so I could see the face behind the venom. A man with a red complexion and hair that looked unnaturally dark.

Halfway out of his parking space, he threw the truck into park with another lurch and opened the door.

“I'm sorry,” I said, wondering if I had crossed paths with a lunatic. I quickly glanced around hoping to spot nearby churchfolk to help me out.

“Sorry, is she?” the man shouted back to the truck as he came toward me.

The birds of La Canada were singing this morning, and even though a middle-aged man was about to deck a nice young woman, they kept up their tuneful racket come what may.

“Have we had a misunderstanding?” I asked, looking directly into his small dark eyes. No matter what I said, the red-faced man was clearly getting himself even more worked up.

“No misunderstanding, sweetheart,” he said, seething. He walked right up to me and put one of his beefy hands on my shoulder. My purse strap slipped down my arm.

“Hey! Keep your hands off me.” I jerked my shoulder and backed away from him.

“Shut up,” another voice said. His companion was tall and beefy, with dark fuzz around a saucer-size bald spot. He had come out of the passenger side of the truck.

I was being mugged in a church parking lot in a suburb so quiet, half of L.A. didn't even know where it was.

“I don't have anything you want in my purse,” I shouted, hoping to attract attention by raising my voice.

“Grab her,” the first man instructed.

The big bald guy moved behind me and wrenched one hand around my waist and the other one over my mouth. I smelled pickles on his fingers and felt like vomiting. My heart pounded and my head began to ache with panic.

“Here's some advice,” the first man said. “If you're
smart you'll take it. Drop all your business for the next coupla months. Got that?”

I was wearing heels. I lifted my knee. Without hesitating I jabbed down with all my strength on the inside knob of baldy's anklebone. The hand over my mouth loosened. His other hand almost let me go, but then he snatched at my dress. I spun away. He caught a handful of waistline fabric and like a yo-yo, I could only get so far away before he yanked me back.

“Stop screwing around!” the first man yelled at his partner. Then to me, “You don't want to get hurt, just lay off your plans for the pope's party. That's not something for you. You got that? Lay off the pope's visit.”

I stopped, stunned, trying to let it sink in.

“This is about…
catering
?” I yelled at him and he turned away and moved towards his truck. “You're
kidding
, right?”

The guy who was holding me let go and hopped back into the truck.

“Who are you?” I yelled at them. “Are you crazy, attacking someone at a church?”

The truck, which had been left halfway out of its space, was thrown roughly into gear and backed the rest of the way out. Pulling up, it shot out to the street and made a right.

My heartbeat was coming back on-line.

“LUNATICS!” I shouted. “IDIOTS! BASTARDS!” But they had peeled out of the lot and were heading onto Foothill Boulevard by the time my brain had thought up that stunning retort.

I picked up my purse from the pavement and slapped at my clothing to straighten myself out as a group of young men walked past me, eyeing the sinner whom they had certainly heard swearing outside of a church.

“A
re we going to see Donald's movie?” I asked Wes, as he walked into my entry hall, looking tall and handsome in a spotless linen blazer over a spotless white T-shirt.

“Sort of,” Wes said, wiping the nondirt from the soles of his immaculate canvas sneakers on the little rug at the door.

“Dinner first?” I threw on my short black leather jacket and grabbed my shoulder bag.

“Something like that.” Wes stole a quick look at himself in the entry mirror. I looked into the mirror, too. Standing just in front of Wes, about a head shorter, we were both able to make last minute adjustments, he brushing a hand straight back through his short cropped hair, I tucking a few errant tendrils into the clasp at my neck.

We were at the point in the upcoming event where most of the prep work was done. And before our load-in began in twenty-four hours, we had a slight lull. None of us could rest, so we decided to go out and help Donald celebrate.

“Is Donald nervous?” I asked.

“You could say that.” Wes smiled at me in the mirror.

Donald Lake was Holly's most recent boyfriend. They'd been seeing each other for a couple of months. If a guy hung around more than one night, it was usually a relationship for Holly. If he was still there into a new season, the relationship was heavy. Donald was tiptoeing close to that serious ground.

Before we knew him, Donald had written a screenplay while working days driving a delivery truck for a florist. He left the script along with a showy spring flower arrangement in front of the home of one of the youngest and hippest of agents at the International Creative Management talent agency. Tonight, three and a half years later,
Gasp!
was opening in movie theaters across the country and Donald Lake's big debut was upon us.

“My car or yours?” I asked Wesley, as I held open the front door of my house to let him leave first.

“Well, here's the thing…” Wes said, leading me out.

Odd. Parked down on the street in front of my garage door was, of all things, a van.

“The thing is…” Wes continued, “Donald wants to drive around.”

“Where?”

“It's a
thing
, Maddie. Opening night, you know?”

“With us?”

“Well, I don't think there was room in the producer's van, so…”

Hollywood economics are harsh. Movies cost incredible amounts of money to make so they have to earn incredible amounts of money just to break even. Opening night is a big deal in Hollywood. If the box office doesn't start out hot on the opening weekend, it's all over; the accountants know the movie is a flop.

This all-or-nothing fever can get the people most involved totally nuts. Not content to stay home, the stars and producers now drive around and visit theaters on opening night, hoping to get a “feel” for how well the picture is doing. The producer will rent a van and invite the stars and the director to drive from theater to theater, hoping to hear the audience cheering.

In the case of
Gasp!
our first-time screenwriter wasn't invited to join in their ritual paranoia. But things could change. If the picture did well this time out, Donald might find himself in the big shot's Chrysler in the future.

“Donald rented it,” Wes said, as we stepped up to the
new Town & Country. “Holly asked me to be the designated driver so Donald could get drunk.”

I smiled. “To celebrate?”

“Or blot it out. Either way.”

I stared at the large silver beast at the curb. “I am
so
not a van person,” I commented.

Wes gave me the eye. “Force yourself, Madonna.”

I climbed aboard the suburban capsule and settled into what I believe was called a captain's chair. Hmm. Comfy. I found Wes had a can of Diet Coke awaiting each of us, taking up only two of what had to be about fourteen cup holders. My Wagoneer doesn't have cup holders. I felt a small pang of envy.

“My meeting with the orchid people went late, so I came straight over,” Wes explained. “We need to go back to my place to pick up Holly and Donald.” Wes pulled out into the clear evening. “Talk to me, woman. What's been happening?”

For a few moments all I could do was let out a rather pathetic, “Arggg.” With the death of Brother Frank still a mystery, there had been some serious suggestions that the pope's visit should be postponed, but things seemed to have settled down by late afternoon. I filled Wesley in.

“How could someone get onto a secure studio lot, enter a star's dressing room, and kill somebody? It's impossible. It had to be an accident,” Wes pondered.

“Unless Brother Frank invented a new way to accidentally bash himself on the head with an acting trophy, I think not.”

“And why Brother Frank? It makes absolutely no sense,” Wes said. “Unless…” He seemed to get lost in the thought. “Holly said his cousins belong to a gang. Think that could be related?”

“Wes, he was killed in Dottie's dressing room, not on the corner of Western and Sunset.”

“Which brings up the question of all questions. You think Dottie did it?”

“No. I don't. She's so…so…loopy.”

“Right. She may be getting desperate, but I don't think she's reached the point where she's murdering men who won't sleep with her.”

We'd been through this many times. This is where one of us said, well, the police will investigate. And the other one said, yeah, unconvincingly.

“What's really odd, Madeline, is the news coverage. There is none. Nobody's got this story.”

“You noticed that too?” I asked, glancing across the van at Wesley. Perched in the co-pilot captain's chair you get this super high-up view of the world. Pretty cool.

“A man is killed at a Hollywood studio. That is usually considered news. Man, Dottie has lucked out.”

“Perhaps it's the studio.”

“Keeping things quiet?”

“It happened in their private kingdom,” I said. “They're in control. They have their own security. When the police were notified, I bet it was done at a very high level, with lots of secrecy.”

“Just think what other crimes could be committed on the lot, with no one the wiser.”

“No kidding,” I said.

“It's suspicious,” Wes said. “You know when the cops get involved nothing stays quiet for long. Reporters hang out at the station and these kinds of stories leak. Someone's controlling this. Someone with more clout than the studio.”

It dawned on me. “Maybe it's the church,” I said. “They've got to be sensitive about a Jesuit killed by an unknown assailant. And Brother Frank del Valle had ties to gangs.”

“Yes. And then the pope is coming…”

Wes turned the van up Vine and drove past the cylindrical Capital Records building, whose kitsch architecture resembled a stack of records. The red light at the tip of its roof antenna blinked on and off. Every twenty seconds the light blinked out the word “Hollywood” in Morse code. In case, I don't know, some sailor got lost?

“Let's get crazy for a minute,” I offered. “The mayor of our city goes to…what church?”

Wes smiled.

“And didn't I hear that the mayor got married again?” I asked.

“I hear you. He needs a favor, you think, to get his last marriage annulled so this new wife will be kosher.”

“Exactly. In the doing-a-big-favor-for-the-pontiff department, how would keeping this whole mess out of the glare of the world's press rank?”

Wes said quietly, “Up there.” We were waiting out a red light at Melrose and Wes turned his head to look at me.

“Let me just get this straight,” he said. “You think the mayor is conspiring with the Catholic church and a major Hollywood studio and a famous redhead to cover up the death of a young Jesuit.”

“Only in a nice way,” I said. “See, everybody is happy in this scenario.”

“So what you're saying,” Wes said with escalating sarcasm, “is this could just be a win-win-win-win situation.” He shook his head.

“What a world, what a world,” I muttered, quoting a melting witch.

“So, who is going to go to bat for poor Brother Frank?” Wes asked, full of concern. Then it hit him. He should not be giving me any ideas. I hated to melt. I preferred drying off and fighting. He spun on a dime and mock-begged, “Please don't say us.”

“Hey, we're just speculatin', pardner. And anyway, we've got a movie to see.”

We pulled up to a large duplex in Hancock Park, which had been built in the twenties. The archways and red tile half-roofs and arched windows had been restored to pristine condition. Hidden fixtures spotlighted the building, illuminating the white stucco against the blackened night. Both the top unit and the bottom were huge apartments, their romantic Spanish architectural flourishes sheltered behind enormous ferns and lush tropical landscaping. Wes owned the place and lived in the home upstairs. His tenants downstairs had recently moved out so he was taking this oppor
tunity to refurbish the unit. In the meantime, Holly was staying there. She was constantly in need of a new place to live.

We knocked and Holly answered, beaming.

“Come in, come in,” she beckoned. The unit was mostly empty. The living room held no furniture, but the newly refinished hardwood floors gleamed.

“You guys ready?” I asked.

“I am.” Holly was dressed in a pair of off-white jeans and a cream and khaki silk bandana that she'd twisted in the front and wore as a kind of strapless bikini top. To keep warm, she'd added a milk-chocolate-colored suede jacket.

“Don't you want shoes?” I asked.

She looked down at her bare feet, with the tiny gold ring on one toe, and said, “Nah. I'm fine.”

“Where's Donald?” Wes asked.

“I think he's puking.”

“Aw. Already?” I asked, walking down the arched hallway and shouting, “Donald! Let's go! There'll be plenty of time for puking later. Hey, the night is young.”

“I'm just going to get a bowl for the back of the van,” Holly whispered. “You know, just in case.”

Donald showed up in the hall. He was six feet tall or so, exactly as tall as Holly and that made me wonder if her new shoeless look had a hidden agenda.

“Hey, Donald, you ready?” I asked. He gave me a shy smile. Donald had this country boy face with such deep dimples they formed parallel lines down each cheek. His squinty eyes were bright blue. He gave me a brotherly peck on the cheek. I like guys who were raised in close families. Holly had found a nice one, for a change.

“Let's raise hell,” Donald suggested, in such a soft, good-boy voice, we all got the joke.

Off we trooped to the van. Wesley held me back a moment for a private word.

“This is the cool part of not working every damn Friday night of our lives.”

Chef work and catering do a number on one's social life.
I was getting into the mood to have fun, and for the first time in several days, I felt like I might actually have some.

On the way to Westwood, our first official stop, Donald filled us in on
Gasp!

“See, they had Tom Cruise in it originally.”

“Tom Cruise!” Holly's eyes lit up. “Oh, man! How'd they lose Tom Cruise?”

“Schedule conflicts, I think,” Donald said, his arm around Holly in the middle seat of the van.

“Tom Cruise. Man!” Holly said. She was taking the loss pretty hard.

“Well, he's not actually anything like the character of Bennett, sweetie,” Donald told her. “This script really features the womens' parts. So if Tom Cruise had done it, they'd a' changed every damn scene to put him in there more.”

“Yeah,” Holly said. Her missed chance to be going with a guy who wrote a script for Tom Cruise was a painful loss. But she was recovering.

“So what happened then?” Wes asked Donald.

“Well, after Cruise fell out, it went to Leonardo DiCaprio.”

“Wow,” I said. This sounded like a big production.

“But he got too hot or something. Maybe it was a money thing.”

“Jeez. You lost Tom Cruise and Leo?” Holly was bummed.

“Then someone thought David Schwimmer might do it, but his people turned it down.”

“Cruise to DiCaprio to Schwimmer? I'm surprised they didn't try adapting it for Whoopi Goldberg,” I whispered to Wes.

“But I love Morgan Freeman,” Donald said, defending the star of his very first movie.

“He's great,” Wes said, over his shoulder, and we all agreed.

As Wes pulled up to a corner in Westwood, he announced, “This is it, folks.”

Dozens of people were standing near the box office of the Westwood Theater. And it got better.

“Open your eyes, Donald,” I suggested.

We all stared. People were lined up all the way down the block, waiting to see Donald's movie.

“Oh, man!” Wes said, starting to get excited. “It goes on to the next block.”

We drove past the line as it snaked down the street.

“I need a drink,” Donald called out.

“I've got the puke pot in the back, honey!” Holly offered, giggling.

The van slowly cruised the line of Friday night daters, all waiting, bless their little hearts, to see
Gasp!

“Holy moley! It's three blocks long. The damn line goes all the way…” Holly was bouncing in her seat. Boing! Boing!

“Now I do feel sick,” Donald muttered.

Holly rolled down her electric window and yelled to the waiting crowd, now queuing up four blocks from the theater, “
Fuck
Tom Cruise, baby!”

“Holly, behave yourself,” I said, as I yanked her back into the van by the back of her bandeau top.

I turned to the ashen-faced Donald and directed, “Puke pot.”

And, “Park,” I commanded Wesley, on a roll.

Wes pulled in one of those Westwood parking lots that cost a thousand dollars. In the company of Donald Lake and his four-block line, such concerns were really beneath us.