City of Angels Read online

  I couldn’t stop looking at the couple in the loft—the one that reminded me so much of my parents—as they did the most mundane couple things. I sat there and smoked half a pack of cigarettes watching them. They laughed and talked as they cooked a late dinner party after some fancy event. They answered the door to women in fur and men in tuxedos. They and their friends sat at a massive wood table, toasting something or someone with crystal-cut wine glasses, laughing and talking. I kept smoking and sat there, holding my mother’s picture, until my legs fell asleep under me. Finally, the couple stood in their doorway saying the last goodbyes to their friends. They put their arms around each other and retreated to their dark bedroom.

  The next morning, the golden sunbeam filtering through my window lifted my spirits. For no good reason I felt a tiny glimmer of hope, a small sense of peace tamping down the desperation clawing at my insides since Rain disappeared. Stuart had sent Chad on a wild goose chase. I needed to believe that everything was going to be okay, that I was safe and Rain was safe, too. I pushed back thoughts of the two surfer boys and the memory of Taj with that girl.

  I leaned against the wall in a patch of streaming sunlight, closing my eyes and feeling the sun’s warmth beat down on me until someone knocked. Last night at work, Sadie, in what I assumed was some odd gesture of friendship, had said she was going to drop by this morning to give me some old clothes she didn’t want any more. I told her I pretty much would take anything as long as it was black—the only color I’d worn since my mom died.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened. It was Taj. For a long moment, we stared at one another. I scrambled to my feet and started straightening my hair, which was sticking up.

  “You should’ve stayed like that,” he said, and slowly smiled.

  I stared at him. It was his turn to have a shiner and there was a small cut across his nose. I gestured to his face.

  “Some losers were bugging Eve at Al’s last night.” He shrugged.

  I had forgotten that Eve also filled in as a waitress at the punk rock bar. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine.” He came over and stood against the wall, running his fingers through the dust swirling in the sunbeam. His knuckles were covered in newly formed scabs. “Jerkoff skinheads needed to be taught some manners. Making cracks about jungle love. John took on the lot of them. I was only backup.”

  Skinheads? Jungle love? Oh. Because Eve was black and John was white. My face grew hot thinking of anyone saying anything cruel to Eve. My hands clenched into fists and adrenaline surged through me, making me want to kick the wall. How could people be such assholes?

  “They won’t be around this neighborhood anytime soon.” He paced my room, running his fingers through his hair. A few times he started to say something, but stopped. I raised my eyebrows but he closed his lips tightly. A golden beam of light lit him from behind, giving me an idea.

  “Take off your shirt,” I said over my shoulder, rummaging around in my bag.

  He turned around with a grin. “I think you got the wrong idea. I wanted to talk, but if you insist.” He flung his t-shirt across the room and stood smirking at me. For a second, I couldn’t talk, and then my photographic instincts took over. The light would be gone soon.

  “Go sit in that sunbeam. Right now.”

  “I didn’t know you were into guys with black eyes or I would’ve gotten one weeks ago.”

  I ignored him, loaded a new roll of film and, perched on my knees, starting snapping off shots.

  “No, no, no. Don’t look at me. Light a cigarette. Look out the window. Like you’re thinking of something important.”

  He sputtered out a laugh. He was so startling beautiful sitting on my wooden floor with his bare chest and bare feet in faded jeans that I quickly went through an entire roll. He took a deep drag, eyebrows drawing together as I dug for another roll. Damn. I was out of film. I sat back on my legs and made a face.

  “The light’s almost gone anyway,” he said, moving so close to me I inhaled sharply. He pulled me up by one hand and wrapped the other around my waist, pulling me closer. He leaned down and his warm lips were so urgent on mine, I pulled away.

  “About last night…that girl you saw—” he started.

  I cut him off with my mouth. The next moment we had sunk onto my futon. I rolled over so I was on top of him, kissing his jaw and down his neck, his groans encouraging me to go on, farther down. When I got to his tattooed angel, it brought me up short. Who was this girl he loved enough to tattoo on his body? I ran my fingers down his side, tracing the tattoo. His eyes were softly slit.

  “Who is she?” I said it quietly.

  He sat up, sending me teetering to one side and slowly pulled on his t-shirt without answering. Standing, he kept his back to me. His sudden coldness stung. He started toward the door. But then paused with his hand on the doorknob.

  Then he opened my door and walked out.

  Dark clouds whirled in the sky overhead, bringing with them the hopes of rain to break up the endless days of heat and sun. It felt like the city was alive, throbbing, simmering with rage and violence, ready to boil over. I sat at the bar at the restaurant, sipping a soda and smoking, watching the news on the TV screens hanging from the ceiling. The restaurant was dead. The heat zapped any motivation to go anywhere. Nobody wanted to move.

  Even the news people talked about the need for rain to cool temperatures and tempers. They said something needed to happen soon to stop the violence bubbling up in the ghettos.

  Reporters talked to police officers who said that murders, robberies, and calls about crazy people rose during heat waves like this, especially when the Santa Ana winds swept through L.A.

  Sadie told me the winds were a legend in Los Angeles. The TV showed shop owners sitting outside their business, fanning themselves with newspapers, bored. Stores had sold out of fans, popsicles, and sprinklers long ago. As night fell, the clouds grew gentler and drifted close to the ground, shrouding downtown in misty fog. With it came gusts of cool, fresh ocean air. It wasn’t the rain everyone had hoped for, but it was something.

  The mist even had a name, Sadie said—the Santa Ana Fog. It sometimes settled over the city when the winds died down. As if by an arranged signal, people poured into the restaurant full of energy and laughter. I ran from table to table and left that night with more tips in three hours than I usually made in two nights.

  When I ended my shift, a man with a stocking cap pulled low approached me as I walked out of the restaurant. The cap hid most of his features. All I had was a fleeting glimpse of a plaster-white face poking out of a torn puffy coat. He didn’t say anything, handed me a note, and disappeared into the fog.

  In tiny, neat letters, Frank asked me to meet him at the gas station the next morning. I was excited that he might know something about Rain. It had been more than a week since I’d talked to the other homeless guy.

  I began walking home, yawning and running what the note said over in my mind. What was Frank going to say? A slight breeze blew my hair into my eyes and sent a chill across my bare legs. A sound behind me made my heart race and then the crunch of running footsteps was close and loud and fast. I whipped my head around to peer into the darkness behind me but couldn’t see anything in the fog. Icy fear rippled across my scalp as the sound grew louder. Walking backward now, my eyes searched the soupy grayness. I turned and started to run when a figure emerged from the mist.

  A man in a ski mask. Reaching toward me. My body jerked backward as he yanked on my bag. A startled scream escaped me, but unless someone drove by, nobody in this deserted warehouse district would hear me. I tried to scream again, but nothing came out except a choked eek.

  The man, who wasn’t much taller than me, kept jerking the strap on my messenger bag, which was looped over my shoulder and across my chest. Terror racing through me weakened my legs. Even if he let go, I wasn’t sure I would be able to walk. Running was out of the question.

  In the chaos, I wondered why
he wasn’t trying to drag me into the bushes to rape or kill me. It must be a plain old mugging. He’d take my money and leave. My thinking cleared slightly and the panic subsided a tiny bit. Cash. Money. Tips. As he yanked on the strap, which chafed against my neck, I managed to dig into the front pocket of my jeans and thrust a wad of cash at him.

  “Here,” I said, panting. “My tips. All my money. Take it, please.”

  The man hit my hand away, sending the money flying and the coins tinkling onto the sidewalk “Give me the bag, bitch.” He said it in a menacing low growl.

  His words sent fear shooting through me again. He didn’t want my money. He kept groping for my bag. He tugged on my bag and some of its contents spilled, a lipstick, a pen, a book. He jerked on the strap harder.

  “Stop. Stop. Here, you can have it.” I tried to untangle the bag’s strap from my hair and jacket collar but my hands were shaking so bad I couldn’t get it off. The man grabbed a hunk of my hair and yanked it back so hard I cried out.

  “Hurry up.”

  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t untangle the strap. I pulled and tugged and it seemed to get tangled even more on my body. I was sobbing. “I’m trying,” I choked out.

  The man punched me in the gut and sent me sinking to my knees on the ground, woozy. My vision started closing in on me when bright lights blinded me. The jarring sound of screeching tires sent the man scrambling away. I groped and felt my bag still on me. A familiar girlish voice echoed through the mist.

  “Where you going, motherfucker? You scared of little old me? You want to mug my friend? I don’t think so.” It was Sadie. “That’s right, run, you fucking slime ball!”

  In the chaos of the moment, my mind stuck on one thing—my friend. Sadie had called me her friend.

  Through the mist, I saw Sadie standing in the headlights of the car, legs spread, in her black miniskirt and Little Juan’s t-shirt, gripping a huge gun with both arms outstretched. With the fog surrounding her and the headlights illuminating her silhouette and mane of long blond hair from behind, she looked like an avenging angel.

  The homeless guy who had left me the book was dead.

  His name was Chris. Frank and I were sitting behind the gas station in a dirt lot strewn with used condoms, beer cans, and cigarette butts.

  I sank to the ground. The rocks and debris cut into my bare legs, but I barely noticed. The stink of gasoline and the nachos the gas station sold made my churning stomach heave. Bile shot into my mouth and I swallowed it, making a face.

  “What did Chris tell you when you met him that night?” Frank’s voice and face were stern, but his eyes were red.

  Shaking, I related my conversation and how Chris had talked about “they,” not “him,” when he mentioned the black car, but hadn’t explained further. Frank listened with his face scrunched, then nodded.

  “What happened?” I asked. “I mean to Chris. How did he…” I wanted to know but was also afraid of what he would say.

  “He was found behind the car wash with his tongue cut out.”

  I slumped back against the gas station wall, my heart pounding.

  “I don’t understand.” I couldn’t process what Frank had said. He wasn’t making sense. “His tongue cut out?” I finally managed to ask.

  “My dear, haven’t you watched any mob movies?”

  “No. I mean, yes.” I lifted my head and stared out at the dirt lot. I could feel my chin quivering.

  “Then you must know they cut out your tongue when they think you’ve said too much.”

  I shook my head. “That’s impossible. Nobody saw us talking or heard our conversation.” Then I remembered the car that had passed, briefly shining its lights on us as we spoke that night. “Oh God, someone did see us. A car. And it did a U-turn. Oh my God.”

  A man was dead because of me. For talking to me. How many more people would die because of me? My vision started closing in and I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. With my head between my knees, I opened my mouth and concentrated on gulping in air. Pull yourself together. Tongue cut out.

  I leaned over and threw up the coffee I had downed on my way over. Frank reached down and patted my back awkwardly. Even though he was homeless, I didn’t shrink away from his touch and I was glad.

  “I’m so sorry.” I blinked and wiped my mouth.

  Frank nodded. He pressed his mouth together. “He was a good man. He was a little out there, but he always meant well.”

  I covered my face with my hands.

  “Now, now there. Chris would’ve never met with you unless he thought it important.” Frank paused. “He must have told you something. Something important. Think hard.”

  I stared down at the broken glass and cigarette butts near my boots. I realized what he meant. If someone was dead because they talked to me, it must mean they killed him for something he said. It had to do with the black car. What was it?

  “I told you everything we talked about.”

  “Think,” Frank said. “Is there anything else that happened?”

  “I found a book,” I said. “After he left. It was on the ledge. I think he left it for me. It’s called Insights.”

  Frank’s eyebrows drew together, his wrinkles crinkling around his eyes, and his teeth worked the inside of his lip.

  “Insights, huh? That’s a very disturbing book. It claims to be an advice book, but it is much, much more than that.”

  “Like what?”

  “It is all about controlling other people.”

  “How do you know so much?” I was embarrassed, worried I might be insulting him by stereotyping him as an ignorant homeless person, but I had to ask.

  “I minored in religious studies.”

  I raised my eyebrows and he continued.

  “My dear, I know it’s hard to believe but this old man holds a master of fine arts from UC Berkeley. Once upon a time, I lived in San Francisco with the beat poets. We held gala poetry readings in Golden Gate Park and probably did a few too many drugs.” Here, Frank chuckled, but then his face grew grim. “Unfortunately, my own personal devil was the bottle. I loved it much too much. I loved it more than anything else in this world. More than my job, more than my house, more than my wife, and more than…” He looked at the sky and murmured, “…my kids.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. My mother loved drugs more than she loved me.

  Frank shrugged. “It’s not a unique story. I’m not special. Same story as most of the fellas underneath the Fourth Street Bridge. But I got one thing going for me that they don’t.”

  He waited until I asked, “What?”

  “I’m clean and sober.” He fished out a small gold medallion and rubbed it between his fingers. The worn medal glinted in the morning sunshine. “Thirty-six months now. I go to AA meetings five times a week. I’m going to find a job soon. I’m moving out from under the bridge.”

  I really hoped so. Frank radiated peace and calm and something I couldn’t put my finger on it. It wasn’t his melodic baritone voice that lulled you. It wasn’t the goodness gleaming in his eyes. It was all that and something more. Something I never dreamed I would ever see or find in a homeless person. Not after the day I found my mother in that abandoned house surrounded by homeless addicts.

  I stood and fished out my smokes. Frank lit my cigarette for me.

  “I don’t know why I’m encouraging this. You’re too young to smoke. It’s bad for you.”

  I cupped my shaking hands around his to shield the flame and my eyes met his in gratefulness. It was the first time I’d ever touched a homeless person. And it felt okay. Good, even. I thought about the first time I’d met him and how he’d been so protective of me.

  “What did you mean the other day when you said things had changed now because of Rodney King?”

  “The people are preparing. You don’t want to be some little white girl in this city when that verdict goes down.”

  “Preparing?”

  “For the uprising.”
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  ON THE WALK home, I counted back in my head how many days had passed since I’d spoken to Chris. A week. And I was still no closer to finding Rain. I didn’t even know where to start. She had been gone now for more than two weeks. Since then, besides my two encounters with Taj, I’d been avoiding everyone on my floor. I was still so angry they thought Rain had run away.

  Lying in bed that night, I remembered what else Frank had said to me before I left him that morning, urging me to leave Los Angeles. I told him I had no other place to go.

  “You be careful, then.” He said it with a look so penetrating I couldn’t meet his gaze. “L.A., you may think she’s a queen worthy of all your devotion, but don’t forget that L.A. is a selfish woman. She will woo you with all her charms, which even I admit are quite considerable, but then she will turn on you in an instant. Like that.” Here he snapped his fingers, startling me. “The mistress of angels only cares about herself. Don’t fool yourself into thinking otherwise. She likes nothing more than to take innocent young ladies like yourself and your little friend, use them up, and then spit them out.”

  Rain had been gone for one month.

  Any time I had to be in the hall at the American Hotel, either coming home or using the bathroom, I would hurry, hoping to avoid anyone, especially Taj. He hadn’t come to see me since the day I took his pictures. I even started taking showers on the third floor, sneaking down the stairs with my towel and bathroom stuff. I’d ruined everything with Danny and Eve the night Rain disappeared. At least Sadie still spoke to me at work. None of them believed—like I did—that Rain had been taken, so I didn’t need them anyway.

  That was fine. I’d prove them wrong all by myself. Screw them. I didn’t need them. I didn’t need anybody.

  One day, I was so sick with a bad cold that I couldn’t even lift my head off my futon. Luckily, it was my day off, because I didn’t even know how I would’ve let Amir know I wasn’t coming in. I was weak and dizzy. I slept until the afternoon, rolling around, having feverish dreams. I crawled over to one of the small purple crates I used as shelves and ate an entire sleeve of crackers before lying back in bed, exhausted by the effort. As I lay there, I wanted my mother so badly it took my breath away. All I wanted was her cool hands on my forehead, tilting my head up to sip some broth, and soothing me with her melodic voice, telling me everything would be okay.