Signs of Pain, page 6
Ida became restless during the album’s last song. “It’s almost eleven.”
Anxious, Cherry burst out of the car. Jogging back to the corner, she peeked down Shutter Street toward the church. At 11:02, about a dozen folks filed out of the hall, dispersing toward the Tabernacle lot and to cars parked on the street. Mrs. Cantu split off in Cherry’s direction, trotting at a steady, determined pace. Is she running? Out of fear? Cherry sprinted to the Honda and started it, moving closer to the intersection.
Mrs. Cantu rounded the corner, and scrambled to the back seat. Checking first for opposing traffic, Cherry U-turned away from the church.
Safely several blocks away, Cherry regarded Mrs. Cantu in the rearview. “Are you okay?”
Mrs. Cantu answered in a quivery sigh of relief. “Si.” Tiny breathy sobs followed.
Ida reached her hand back, which Mrs. Cantu grabbed.
26
With the secret video downloaded, Ida, Esther and Cherry perched at the kitchen table and faced Cherry’s laptop.
The doorbell rang.
“It’s Jill. The more support the better.” Cherry megaphoned at the front door. “Come on in!”
“What’s up, Inspector Bomb!” Jill said, squeezing a chair close to Ida. “Where’s the popcorn?”
“Thanks for coming,” Cherry said. “My head’s ready to explode. I need a neutral pair of eyes.”
“I’m down!”
Mrs. Cantu came out of the restroom, blotting her face with a tissue. She leaned against the counter as the footage played.
Through dim light, video showed one row of partially occupied folding chairs in front of Mrs. Cantu. Beyond stood an ornate pulpit covered with burning red candles, and a banner depicting a sheep sacrifice, blood spewing from the animal’s neck among engulfing flames.
Esther and Ida sucked in their breath.
Cherry hammered her finger at the screen. “That’s like the pastor’s office art.”
The drawn curtain exposed a bare stage except for a lone boulder among more candles. Day-care overseer Helen entered the picture, cueing someone backstage. Strange amplified pipe organ music introduced three people emerging from a wing: one in a sheepskin hooded cape escorted by two other adults in traditional Nativity-scene garb.
“Could you see who they are?” Cherry asked.
“The sheep is a pobrecito,” Mrs. Cantu said. “A boy. The others I think older men.”
Footage darkened as a sonorous male voice spoke over the daft music.
“Slaves, be subject to your masters with all reverence, not only to those who are good and equitable but also to those who are perverse.” Then the off-screen orator segued into guttural honking.
“There!” said Mrs. Cantu.
“Sounds like the voice is saying bleat,” said Jill.
“Like a sheep!” Esther said. “It’s a terrible sound. Makes me feel sick.”
Ida groaned, then covered her mouth.
Parishioners began to rock and sway to the overhead bleating.
“Mrs. Cantu, is everyone chanting along?” Cherry asked.
“No, only moving. I don’t like to do the move.”
“That’s good, because the picture is clear.”
Another Biblical message sounded out:
“You will be pledged to be married to a woman, but another will take her and rape her. Your ox will be slaughtered before your eyes, but you will eat none of it. Your sheep will be given to your enemies, and no one will rescue them. The Lord will afflict your knees and legs with painful boils that cannot be cured, spreading from the soles of your feet to the top of your head.”
The bleating restarted, the cycle repeating a few more times, ending with “because he hath a blemish; that he profane not my sanctuaries.”
At sanctuaries, a pulpit lamp flicked on from below, illuminating Pastor Wardens’ face. In scarlet pontifical gloves, Wardens rang a bell, and a spotlight appeared on the three stage performers. The sheep reclined on a boulder, waving to the audience.
For thirty seconds, the scene was blocked by a congregant standing in front of Mrs. Cantu and the lens, the circus music continuing.
“Shit! What’s happening?” Cherry said.
Mrs. Cantu scrunched up her face. “A woman stood up and threw a gassy pedo.” She fanned her nose.
The view cleared up, and the robed men, having pinned down the sheep, plunged a theatrical dagger down to nick a prop. Fake blood poured forth from the hidden source.
Covering her eyes, Mrs. Cantu whimpered.
“Do they charge for this haunted house?” Jill said.
Tilting her head toward frazzled Mrs. Cantu, Cherry shushed Jill.
The film showed Helen closing the curtains as the hall lights turned on, pulpit vacant. Helen extinguished the candles with a snuffer. A collection basket, already filled to the brim with dollars, poked at other parishioners, then hovered in front of Mrs. Cantu. She dropped in some bills.
The few churchgoers in view made an exodus down the middle aisle. Mrs. Cantu and the camera followed, filing out of the front double doors into the November daylight. Scuffling footsteps were heard, and Cherry was briefly seen on the footage as a distant figure at the corner of Shutter and Knuckle. As she walked briskly toward the meeting spot, Mrs. Cantu nervously hummed “Jesus Loves Me.” Rounding the corner, facing Cherry’s Honda, Mrs. Cantu blurted out, “I forgot to push stop!” Rustling, fumbling noises ensued, the video went topsy-turvy, then black.
The women surrounding the now-quiet laptop became conscious of Mrs. Cantu weeping.
“Can you see why I stopped going?” she said. “I don’t want to go back there.”
“No, never again,” Ida said.
Cherry got up and hugged her.
“Thank you for doing this, Mrs. C.,” Cherry said. “You are an angel.”
Mrs. Cantu put her head wearily on Cherry’s shoulder, relaxing into an overdue embrace of sincere human contact and affection.
27
In bed under her pine-forest blanket, Cherry was riled-up, barely sleeping. The recording only verifies a bullshit church carnival. Too bad Mrs. Cantu couldn’t film behind the scenes. But the stacks of money in the basket! How did it fill up with so few at the service?
The next day, she navigated through Mrs. Cantu’s sign jungle. The doorbell chimed the beginning bars of ‘O Holy Night.’
Cherry harmonized. “The stars are brightly shiii-ning.”
Mrs. Cantu answered starry-eyed, as if waiting all her life for a porch serenade.
“Morning, Mrs. C. Your ringer is set for the holiday season,” Cherry said.
“For Christmas. Merry Christmas.”
“You too. Mrs. C.”
“You want to come in for a cup of Nescafé?”
“No thank you. Another time. Listen,” Cherry said, “is the Errant Sheep money basket always so full as at yesterday’s service?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Cantu said. “Whenever they pushed the basket under my chin, it was piled with dollars. Twenties, fifties, hundreds...too expensive for me to match.”
“Did you see anyone put in those big bills?”
Her neighbor thought, then shook no. “Nunca.”
“Okay. Thank you, your help is important to me,” Cherry said, giving her a quick hug. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
Mrs. Cantu waved earnestly as she drove off.
Cherry parked the Honda on one side of Acme Descanso, not on Knuckle but on Sapo Avenue, one block in the opposite direction from Errant Sheep Tabernacle. Dressed in black sweatpants (deep pockets holding her phone and a compact Maglite), black T-shirt and her most broken-in sneakers, Cherry strutted into the dispensary, approaching her retail acquaintance Stu with a peace sign.
“Hey, here for an encore cookie bag?” Stu asked.
“Still working on the first Bolsa,” she said. “I have a favor to ask: can I leave my keys with you? They’re weighing me down.” And they jingle too much in my pocket.
Stu replied in a nanosecond, as if such a customer request was common. “Sure. I’ll lock them in the Alice’s Edibles drawer. What’s your name?”
She handed over the key chain. “Cherry.”
“My favorite shade of red,” Stu said. “Will you be picking them up before nine? That’s when I split work.”
“Oh, yeah!” Cherry said. That is if I’m not arrested for trespassing. “Thanks, Stu.”
Cherry egressed to Knuckle Avenue, veering to the corner, surveilling the scene down the street at the church.
Helen, decked out in a hummus-colored pantsuit, emerged from the utility door near the church office. Propping the door open (What luck! Cherry thought.), Helen hauled out a flatbed hand cart, the familiar bingo sign on top. Cherry crossed the street beyond the public sidewalk to the alley, briskly journeying to the church building.
With cat burglar agility, Cherry slipped through the ajar door. First impression was stacks of folding chairs and a custodial wheeled caddy crammed with brooms, mops and bottled cleaners.
Two paces in, Cherry’s heart throbbed as the deeper dark expanse dared her to enter. Well, I am officially trespassing. The eerie theatre hidden behind the drawn curtain was full of overhead tracks of lights, ropes and pulleys, as well as wing curtains, a system of backdrop scenes (Wow, more sheep.), and more scenery props. Boulders, a large rustic crucifix, a larger fancy crucifix, and shrubbery were shoved against a section of wall.
Press on, Cherry. She moved beyond a wardrobe rack of sheepskin cloaks and shepherd costumes to a roped-off nook sequestering audiovisual equipment. Stepping over the rope and examining the controls, a stack of music CDs caught her eye. She air-traced her finger over the top CD’s title. Satan Takes a Holiday? Anton Lavey? That’s the Church of Satan guy. No wonder Mrs. C. was creeped out. The other music names were even more arcane and non-Christian.
Taking a strong breath, Cherry detoured to a nearby short corridor. It ended at a white-walled dressing room, with makeup tables, mirrors coordinated with dim Vaudeville-era lightbulbs, and more racks of costumes, though encased in zippered plastic. Using the Maglite, Cherry was awed by carefully tagged, intricate garments. What the fuck is all this? DRESS, DANISH, 17TH CENTURY? Fishing out her phone she snapped a pic of it and other costumes labeled by century and world region.
Cherry peeked through the old-fashioned keyhole of a semigloss-white door. The day-care courtyard was on the other side, with Hiram and a few others milling about in the sunshine. As usual.
She left the dressing room, tiptoeing to the stage. Cherry examined the rock altar, expecting it to be a hokey papier maché form. It turned out to be a real heavy boulder. How’d they install this? Cherry wondered. The horizontal surface had bowl-like depressions. Like the Aztecs would catch blood during sacrifices. Cherry took a photo of a withered index card affixed to the side, the words BRONZE AGE typewritten within its curling corners.
Cherry took a step back and the stage floor beneath her shifted. Trap door? she thought. She started to open it, but halted abruptly when the hinges squeaked. Cherry held the trap door and her breath, expecting to be caught by Helen or whoever might be on the other side of the curtain. Cherry heard nothing, not a footstep or a peep, and continued lifting the hatch, seeing a tarnished handle on the underside, flashing light into the nether space. Built-in ladder; down I go. I need to see where this goes, even if it’s just to more dressing rooms. Cherry closed the hatch on the fourth rung down, descending about seven feet into a low-ceiling passage.
Torch lighting the way, Cherry made slow, careful strides forward through the dark corridor. Hope I don’t run into the spooky asshole pastor, she thought. At least my shoes aren’t making a sound. She sped up along the noise-absorbing concrete ground and walls. The path declined, and Cherry finally accepted she was no longer beneath the stage, but in an underground passageway.
Checking her phone, she worried.
No reception. I could be in some deep shit now.
A few seconds heading downward, the floor became level, spots of brick wall exposed behind degraded concrete. The flashlight found a smattering of antique wood crates tucked into cubbies left and right. One box without a top contained several old-fashioned bottles with Canadian Club labels, unopened, seals intact.
“I presume full of liquor. Please don’t get any freakier,” Cherry whispered to herself, treading further.
The walkway began to ascend. Cherry finally found herself at another utility door.
Although there was a bolt on the door, it was not in locked position. The door swung inward toward the interior, toward Cherry. Beyond the door was daylight: Cherry squinted at the alley bordering the freeway wall and the old-timey horse trough in the familiar carport accommodating a bright red Lexus, license plate VBODYLC.
28
She huffed and sputtered at the...shock? Cherry reeled in the noise of her erratic breathing. All that time me working in this building, a geek daydreaming at the whimsy of these horse corral remains, I never gave a damn about these ugly, dusty doors! Cherry tried the other door, but it didn’t budge.
Cherry lifted her scrutiny to the eaves and walls of the VetBody structure.
No security cameras at all. Good for me. But what else goes on undetected? I’ve gotta reassess.
Taking off through the public alley, running parallel to the freeway, she ended up on Sapo Avenue where she had left her car. She leaned on it to catch her breath.
Dimanche Quinn walked at the opposite end of the Sapo block, waving at her. Cherry waved back, then detoured from her hatchback to speak with him.
“Hello Miss Cherry,” Dimanche said, tipping his dark-green porkpie to her.
Despite the tidal wave of information disrupting her brain, Cherry registered his snazzy fashion: celadon short-sleeved guyabera and navy slacks tapering over navy Birkenstocks.
“On your way to play bingo?” Cherry asked.
“No, going to my center to do some chores.” He pointed to a low-key gate recessed in a beige stucco wall. CARIB & GULF DAUGHTERS & SONS CULTURE CENTER read the gate sign. “We don’t have bingo. Dominoes, maybe chess.”
Dimanche moved into a courtyard, its walls topped with mortared ceramic shards. To deter scaling intruders like me, Cherry guessed. Cherry followed Dimanche inside, intending to ask for more of his thoughts on the church.
“This is a Caribbean social club?” Cherry asked.
“Yes, though anyone is welcome. Some members are from New Orleans.”
The door in the center’s building was open, revealing men huddled over a game of Dominoes.
“Mr. Quinn,” Cherry said.
“Dimanche is fine.”
“It’s French for Sunday, right?”
“Yep. Born on the Sabbath day. Just like the old rhyme.”
“Huh, me too. Bonny and blithe, and good and gay.”
Dimanche smiled at Cherry.
“Have you seen any more negligence at Errant Sheep Tabernacle?”
“Was about to bring that up. I am not welcome there any longer.”
“Really? The same with my mom and our neighbor. They were told the games are now private. Is that what you were told?”
“No. They were irritated after I spoke up about a day-care attendant being impatient with a young man.”
“Impatient how?”
“Like before, the kid was outside the facility in the alley. I had just parked. The odd thing was the kid and the chaperoning attendant were away from the church grounds, closer to the rear of the animal clinic. The worker was yanking him by his shirt,” Dimanche said. “The kid was pulling away, and in the scuffle his pants fell to his ankles. Maybe they were unfastened or were too big.
“Anyway, I told the orderly to cool it, to be patient, and he became irritated and embarrassed. Right then he took the disabled kid toward the church, outside the locked door that leads to the courtyard, and pounded it until someone let them in.
“Minutes later inside the hall, all the bingo workers outright cold-shouldered me. When I asked to buy-in, they turned their heads away, wouldn’t look at me,” Dimanche said. “So now I play at my grandson’s high school. Rather give the money to them.”
“So, you’re sure the person, the one who was mean, worked at Errant Sheep?”
Dimanche turned his palms to the sky. “I assume so, since he wore a white medical coat.”
29
To Cherry, traipsing from Dimanche’s club felt like crossing over a hanging rope bridge unraveling beneath her feet. And a hurricane is about to hit. She entered Acme Descanso.
“Seems you’ve had a fright,” Stu said, handing back her car keys. “Sure you don’t need a toke?”
“Eventually.” Cherry saluted him goodbye. “Thanks for stashing my keys.”
She plonked down in the car.
By hook or by crook, I’m getting to the scummy bottom of whatever is happening at the Shutter Street properties.
Cherry thought about her own past brushes with the law, particularly the one with Sorin Robstone that made her unemployable. Am I unemployable? Really, I gave up on myself after that. I could have fought Robstone to get that termination expunged. Time to fight now, for Paula. This time with extra caution.
She thought about what she had done so far, mainly as a trespasser into Errant Sheep Tabernacle and inadvertently VetBody. After breaking and entering, she couldn’t go to the police with vague suspicions backed up by nothing more than pictures of antique costumes and a boulder on a stage. The church passed the surprise welfare check, though Zinnia’s colleague Jorge didn’t look underground.
Cherry knew she would have to do more breaking and entering, to investigate further. She knew it could blow up in her face, and she could even get arrested.
Cherry turned on the ignition, and drove home to Meadowlark Lane.
30
“I will absolutely back you up,” Jill said, responding to Cherry’s phone request for help to ensnare Wardens and Robstone. “So happens I need to use some vacation days. Perfect timing.”
Anxious, Cherry burst out of the car. Jogging back to the corner, she peeked down Shutter Street toward the church. At 11:02, about a dozen folks filed out of the hall, dispersing toward the Tabernacle lot and to cars parked on the street. Mrs. Cantu split off in Cherry’s direction, trotting at a steady, determined pace. Is she running? Out of fear? Cherry sprinted to the Honda and started it, moving closer to the intersection.
Mrs. Cantu rounded the corner, and scrambled to the back seat. Checking first for opposing traffic, Cherry U-turned away from the church.
Safely several blocks away, Cherry regarded Mrs. Cantu in the rearview. “Are you okay?”
Mrs. Cantu answered in a quivery sigh of relief. “Si.” Tiny breathy sobs followed.
Ida reached her hand back, which Mrs. Cantu grabbed.
26
With the secret video downloaded, Ida, Esther and Cherry perched at the kitchen table and faced Cherry’s laptop.
The doorbell rang.
“It’s Jill. The more support the better.” Cherry megaphoned at the front door. “Come on in!”
“What’s up, Inspector Bomb!” Jill said, squeezing a chair close to Ida. “Where’s the popcorn?”
“Thanks for coming,” Cherry said. “My head’s ready to explode. I need a neutral pair of eyes.”
“I’m down!”
Mrs. Cantu came out of the restroom, blotting her face with a tissue. She leaned against the counter as the footage played.
Through dim light, video showed one row of partially occupied folding chairs in front of Mrs. Cantu. Beyond stood an ornate pulpit covered with burning red candles, and a banner depicting a sheep sacrifice, blood spewing from the animal’s neck among engulfing flames.
Esther and Ida sucked in their breath.
Cherry hammered her finger at the screen. “That’s like the pastor’s office art.”
The drawn curtain exposed a bare stage except for a lone boulder among more candles. Day-care overseer Helen entered the picture, cueing someone backstage. Strange amplified pipe organ music introduced three people emerging from a wing: one in a sheepskin hooded cape escorted by two other adults in traditional Nativity-scene garb.
“Could you see who they are?” Cherry asked.
“The sheep is a pobrecito,” Mrs. Cantu said. “A boy. The others I think older men.”
Footage darkened as a sonorous male voice spoke over the daft music.
“Slaves, be subject to your masters with all reverence, not only to those who are good and equitable but also to those who are perverse.” Then the off-screen orator segued into guttural honking.
“There!” said Mrs. Cantu.
“Sounds like the voice is saying bleat,” said Jill.
“Like a sheep!” Esther said. “It’s a terrible sound. Makes me feel sick.”
Ida groaned, then covered her mouth.
Parishioners began to rock and sway to the overhead bleating.
“Mrs. Cantu, is everyone chanting along?” Cherry asked.
“No, only moving. I don’t like to do the move.”
“That’s good, because the picture is clear.”
Another Biblical message sounded out:
“You will be pledged to be married to a woman, but another will take her and rape her. Your ox will be slaughtered before your eyes, but you will eat none of it. Your sheep will be given to your enemies, and no one will rescue them. The Lord will afflict your knees and legs with painful boils that cannot be cured, spreading from the soles of your feet to the top of your head.”
The bleating restarted, the cycle repeating a few more times, ending with “because he hath a blemish; that he profane not my sanctuaries.”
At sanctuaries, a pulpit lamp flicked on from below, illuminating Pastor Wardens’ face. In scarlet pontifical gloves, Wardens rang a bell, and a spotlight appeared on the three stage performers. The sheep reclined on a boulder, waving to the audience.
For thirty seconds, the scene was blocked by a congregant standing in front of Mrs. Cantu and the lens, the circus music continuing.
“Shit! What’s happening?” Cherry said.
Mrs. Cantu scrunched up her face. “A woman stood up and threw a gassy pedo.” She fanned her nose.
The view cleared up, and the robed men, having pinned down the sheep, plunged a theatrical dagger down to nick a prop. Fake blood poured forth from the hidden source.
Covering her eyes, Mrs. Cantu whimpered.
“Do they charge for this haunted house?” Jill said.
Tilting her head toward frazzled Mrs. Cantu, Cherry shushed Jill.
The film showed Helen closing the curtains as the hall lights turned on, pulpit vacant. Helen extinguished the candles with a snuffer. A collection basket, already filled to the brim with dollars, poked at other parishioners, then hovered in front of Mrs. Cantu. She dropped in some bills.
The few churchgoers in view made an exodus down the middle aisle. Mrs. Cantu and the camera followed, filing out of the front double doors into the November daylight. Scuffling footsteps were heard, and Cherry was briefly seen on the footage as a distant figure at the corner of Shutter and Knuckle. As she walked briskly toward the meeting spot, Mrs. Cantu nervously hummed “Jesus Loves Me.” Rounding the corner, facing Cherry’s Honda, Mrs. Cantu blurted out, “I forgot to push stop!” Rustling, fumbling noises ensued, the video went topsy-turvy, then black.
The women surrounding the now-quiet laptop became conscious of Mrs. Cantu weeping.
“Can you see why I stopped going?” she said. “I don’t want to go back there.”
“No, never again,” Ida said.
Cherry got up and hugged her.
“Thank you for doing this, Mrs. C.,” Cherry said. “You are an angel.”
Mrs. Cantu put her head wearily on Cherry’s shoulder, relaxing into an overdue embrace of sincere human contact and affection.
27
In bed under her pine-forest blanket, Cherry was riled-up, barely sleeping. The recording only verifies a bullshit church carnival. Too bad Mrs. Cantu couldn’t film behind the scenes. But the stacks of money in the basket! How did it fill up with so few at the service?
The next day, she navigated through Mrs. Cantu’s sign jungle. The doorbell chimed the beginning bars of ‘O Holy Night.’
Cherry harmonized. “The stars are brightly shiii-ning.”
Mrs. Cantu answered starry-eyed, as if waiting all her life for a porch serenade.
“Morning, Mrs. C. Your ringer is set for the holiday season,” Cherry said.
“For Christmas. Merry Christmas.”
“You too. Mrs. C.”
“You want to come in for a cup of Nescafé?”
“No thank you. Another time. Listen,” Cherry said, “is the Errant Sheep money basket always so full as at yesterday’s service?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Cantu said. “Whenever they pushed the basket under my chin, it was piled with dollars. Twenties, fifties, hundreds...too expensive for me to match.”
“Did you see anyone put in those big bills?”
Her neighbor thought, then shook no. “Nunca.”
“Okay. Thank you, your help is important to me,” Cherry said, giving her a quick hug. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
Mrs. Cantu waved earnestly as she drove off.
Cherry parked the Honda on one side of Acme Descanso, not on Knuckle but on Sapo Avenue, one block in the opposite direction from Errant Sheep Tabernacle. Dressed in black sweatpants (deep pockets holding her phone and a compact Maglite), black T-shirt and her most broken-in sneakers, Cherry strutted into the dispensary, approaching her retail acquaintance Stu with a peace sign.
“Hey, here for an encore cookie bag?” Stu asked.
“Still working on the first Bolsa,” she said. “I have a favor to ask: can I leave my keys with you? They’re weighing me down.” And they jingle too much in my pocket.
Stu replied in a nanosecond, as if such a customer request was common. “Sure. I’ll lock them in the Alice’s Edibles drawer. What’s your name?”
She handed over the key chain. “Cherry.”
“My favorite shade of red,” Stu said. “Will you be picking them up before nine? That’s when I split work.”
“Oh, yeah!” Cherry said. That is if I’m not arrested for trespassing. “Thanks, Stu.”
Cherry egressed to Knuckle Avenue, veering to the corner, surveilling the scene down the street at the church.
Helen, decked out in a hummus-colored pantsuit, emerged from the utility door near the church office. Propping the door open (What luck! Cherry thought.), Helen hauled out a flatbed hand cart, the familiar bingo sign on top. Cherry crossed the street beyond the public sidewalk to the alley, briskly journeying to the church building.
With cat burglar agility, Cherry slipped through the ajar door. First impression was stacks of folding chairs and a custodial wheeled caddy crammed with brooms, mops and bottled cleaners.
Two paces in, Cherry’s heart throbbed as the deeper dark expanse dared her to enter. Well, I am officially trespassing. The eerie theatre hidden behind the drawn curtain was full of overhead tracks of lights, ropes and pulleys, as well as wing curtains, a system of backdrop scenes (Wow, more sheep.), and more scenery props. Boulders, a large rustic crucifix, a larger fancy crucifix, and shrubbery were shoved against a section of wall.
Press on, Cherry. She moved beyond a wardrobe rack of sheepskin cloaks and shepherd costumes to a roped-off nook sequestering audiovisual equipment. Stepping over the rope and examining the controls, a stack of music CDs caught her eye. She air-traced her finger over the top CD’s title. Satan Takes a Holiday? Anton Lavey? That’s the Church of Satan guy. No wonder Mrs. C. was creeped out. The other music names were even more arcane and non-Christian.
Taking a strong breath, Cherry detoured to a nearby short corridor. It ended at a white-walled dressing room, with makeup tables, mirrors coordinated with dim Vaudeville-era lightbulbs, and more racks of costumes, though encased in zippered plastic. Using the Maglite, Cherry was awed by carefully tagged, intricate garments. What the fuck is all this? DRESS, DANISH, 17TH CENTURY? Fishing out her phone she snapped a pic of it and other costumes labeled by century and world region.
Cherry peeked through the old-fashioned keyhole of a semigloss-white door. The day-care courtyard was on the other side, with Hiram and a few others milling about in the sunshine. As usual.
She left the dressing room, tiptoeing to the stage. Cherry examined the rock altar, expecting it to be a hokey papier maché form. It turned out to be a real heavy boulder. How’d they install this? Cherry wondered. The horizontal surface had bowl-like depressions. Like the Aztecs would catch blood during sacrifices. Cherry took a photo of a withered index card affixed to the side, the words BRONZE AGE typewritten within its curling corners.
Cherry took a step back and the stage floor beneath her shifted. Trap door? she thought. She started to open it, but halted abruptly when the hinges squeaked. Cherry held the trap door and her breath, expecting to be caught by Helen or whoever might be on the other side of the curtain. Cherry heard nothing, not a footstep or a peep, and continued lifting the hatch, seeing a tarnished handle on the underside, flashing light into the nether space. Built-in ladder; down I go. I need to see where this goes, even if it’s just to more dressing rooms. Cherry closed the hatch on the fourth rung down, descending about seven feet into a low-ceiling passage.
Torch lighting the way, Cherry made slow, careful strides forward through the dark corridor. Hope I don’t run into the spooky asshole pastor, she thought. At least my shoes aren’t making a sound. She sped up along the noise-absorbing concrete ground and walls. The path declined, and Cherry finally accepted she was no longer beneath the stage, but in an underground passageway.
Checking her phone, she worried.
No reception. I could be in some deep shit now.
A few seconds heading downward, the floor became level, spots of brick wall exposed behind degraded concrete. The flashlight found a smattering of antique wood crates tucked into cubbies left and right. One box without a top contained several old-fashioned bottles with Canadian Club labels, unopened, seals intact.
“I presume full of liquor. Please don’t get any freakier,” Cherry whispered to herself, treading further.
The walkway began to ascend. Cherry finally found herself at another utility door.
Although there was a bolt on the door, it was not in locked position. The door swung inward toward the interior, toward Cherry. Beyond the door was daylight: Cherry squinted at the alley bordering the freeway wall and the old-timey horse trough in the familiar carport accommodating a bright red Lexus, license plate VBODYLC.
28
She huffed and sputtered at the...shock? Cherry reeled in the noise of her erratic breathing. All that time me working in this building, a geek daydreaming at the whimsy of these horse corral remains, I never gave a damn about these ugly, dusty doors! Cherry tried the other door, but it didn’t budge.
Cherry lifted her scrutiny to the eaves and walls of the VetBody structure.
No security cameras at all. Good for me. But what else goes on undetected? I’ve gotta reassess.
Taking off through the public alley, running parallel to the freeway, she ended up on Sapo Avenue where she had left her car. She leaned on it to catch her breath.
Dimanche Quinn walked at the opposite end of the Sapo block, waving at her. Cherry waved back, then detoured from her hatchback to speak with him.
“Hello Miss Cherry,” Dimanche said, tipping his dark-green porkpie to her.
Despite the tidal wave of information disrupting her brain, Cherry registered his snazzy fashion: celadon short-sleeved guyabera and navy slacks tapering over navy Birkenstocks.
“On your way to play bingo?” Cherry asked.
“No, going to my center to do some chores.” He pointed to a low-key gate recessed in a beige stucco wall. CARIB & GULF DAUGHTERS & SONS CULTURE CENTER read the gate sign. “We don’t have bingo. Dominoes, maybe chess.”
Dimanche moved into a courtyard, its walls topped with mortared ceramic shards. To deter scaling intruders like me, Cherry guessed. Cherry followed Dimanche inside, intending to ask for more of his thoughts on the church.
“This is a Caribbean social club?” Cherry asked.
“Yes, though anyone is welcome. Some members are from New Orleans.”
The door in the center’s building was open, revealing men huddled over a game of Dominoes.
“Mr. Quinn,” Cherry said.
“Dimanche is fine.”
“It’s French for Sunday, right?”
“Yep. Born on the Sabbath day. Just like the old rhyme.”
“Huh, me too. Bonny and blithe, and good and gay.”
Dimanche smiled at Cherry.
“Have you seen any more negligence at Errant Sheep Tabernacle?”
“Was about to bring that up. I am not welcome there any longer.”
“Really? The same with my mom and our neighbor. They were told the games are now private. Is that what you were told?”
“No. They were irritated after I spoke up about a day-care attendant being impatient with a young man.”
“Impatient how?”
“Like before, the kid was outside the facility in the alley. I had just parked. The odd thing was the kid and the chaperoning attendant were away from the church grounds, closer to the rear of the animal clinic. The worker was yanking him by his shirt,” Dimanche said. “The kid was pulling away, and in the scuffle his pants fell to his ankles. Maybe they were unfastened or were too big.
“Anyway, I told the orderly to cool it, to be patient, and he became irritated and embarrassed. Right then he took the disabled kid toward the church, outside the locked door that leads to the courtyard, and pounded it until someone let them in.
“Minutes later inside the hall, all the bingo workers outright cold-shouldered me. When I asked to buy-in, they turned their heads away, wouldn’t look at me,” Dimanche said. “So now I play at my grandson’s high school. Rather give the money to them.”
“So, you’re sure the person, the one who was mean, worked at Errant Sheep?”
Dimanche turned his palms to the sky. “I assume so, since he wore a white medical coat.”
29
To Cherry, traipsing from Dimanche’s club felt like crossing over a hanging rope bridge unraveling beneath her feet. And a hurricane is about to hit. She entered Acme Descanso.
“Seems you’ve had a fright,” Stu said, handing back her car keys. “Sure you don’t need a toke?”
“Eventually.” Cherry saluted him goodbye. “Thanks for stashing my keys.”
She plonked down in the car.
By hook or by crook, I’m getting to the scummy bottom of whatever is happening at the Shutter Street properties.
Cherry thought about her own past brushes with the law, particularly the one with Sorin Robstone that made her unemployable. Am I unemployable? Really, I gave up on myself after that. I could have fought Robstone to get that termination expunged. Time to fight now, for Paula. This time with extra caution.
She thought about what she had done so far, mainly as a trespasser into Errant Sheep Tabernacle and inadvertently VetBody. After breaking and entering, she couldn’t go to the police with vague suspicions backed up by nothing more than pictures of antique costumes and a boulder on a stage. The church passed the surprise welfare check, though Zinnia’s colleague Jorge didn’t look underground.
Cherry knew she would have to do more breaking and entering, to investigate further. She knew it could blow up in her face, and she could even get arrested.
Cherry turned on the ignition, and drove home to Meadowlark Lane.
30
“I will absolutely back you up,” Jill said, responding to Cherry’s phone request for help to ensnare Wardens and Robstone. “So happens I need to use some vacation days. Perfect timing.”
