Death Watch (12 page)

S
ydney’s beige Volvo trolled the narrow roadways of Hollywood Memorial Park Cemetery at a five-mile-an-hour pace, meandering past mausoleums, old-fashioned headstones, and obelisks that marked the final resting places of Hollywood’s greatest legends. Douglas Fairbanks was buried here, so was Rudolph Valentino, Charlie Chaplin, Cecil B. DeMille, Tyrone Power, Victor Fleming, and Darla Hood, everybody’s sweetheart of
Little Rascals
fame.

In the passenger seat Hunz Vonner was fidgety. His right leg bounced up and down nervously as he searched among the tombstones for a homeless man. Sydney had never seen Hunz on edge like this. The suave international reporter almost seemed human.

They cruised down Maple Avenue past the elaborate marble tomb of Douglas Fairbanks with its sunken garden. Water lilies shared the pool with sun sparkles. On Sydney’s side of the car they rimmed a lake with an island featuring a whitewashed Grecian tomb.

Hunz turned suddenly in his seat, craning his neck.

Sydney slowed the car. “See anything?”

“No,” he said, sounding disappointed. He turned back around. His foot kicked empty breakfast drink cans on the floorboard.

“You can just toss those in the back.”

He left them there. “Why do Americans insist on living in their automobiles?” Hunz groused. “An automobile is a driving machine, not a living quarters on wheels. Here in the States you eat and drink in your cars; you do business in them, with some people turning them
into an office; you take naps in them, watch movies, and now videos; you use them as phone booths for cell phones; you convert them to music halls with elaborate sound systems; and, of course, what takes place in the backseats of American automobiles is legendary.”

“What do you drive?” Sydney asked.

“BMW 5er.”

“Figures.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Sydney shrugged. “You look like a Beamer kind of guy.”

“BMW makes a precision machine,” Hunz said. “This may come as a revelation to you, but some people purchase automobiles for reasons other than how many cup holders they have.”

The road turned gently to the right. Through three towering palm trees, Sydney spotted a couple of men trimming a hedge.

“Let’s see if they know anything,” she said.

Sydney parked the car and they approached the groundskeepers, who were both wearing safety goggles and manning electric hedge clippers. One of them looked up and saw Sydney. From the expression on his face, you would have thought Jayne Mansfield had climbed out of her grave to stretch her legs. His coworker shared his rapture. Simultaneously they shut off their trimmers and pulled off the safety goggles for a better look.

“Can I help you, darlin’?” one of them said.

If someone had interviewed them later, it’s doubtful either of them would have remembered a man accompanying Sydney.

“This may sound a bit strange,” she began.

“Darlin’, you don’t know strange. Herb and I have worked in this here cemetery for nigh onto ten years. We got stories that’ll straighten the curls right outta that gorgeous blonde hair of yours.”

Sydney ignored the banter. Two or three times a day men made fools of themselves over her. “We’re looking for a homeless man,” she said. “We don’t have much of a description other than that, but he said he’d be here today about noon. Did you happen to see him?”

“Yeah, we did!” the shorter worker, Herb, exclaimed, obviously overjoyed at being able to help out a beautiful woman. “There was this one guy. About noon, too, wouldn’t you say, Al? He was a strange one. Real strange. We was gonna run him out ‘cause it’s not good for business to have bums hangin’ around here, you know what I mean? I mean, we get a lot of tourists comin’ here to see stars, and the last thing we want them to see is bums layin’ all over the place. Gives the place a bad name, if you know what I mean. And, believe me, we get ‘em all the time. Two maybe three every—”

His coworker interrupted, “We approached this guy.”

“Al! I was telling it. Let me tell it!”

“Then tell it, and quit blabberin’ nonsense,” Al replied.

“Anyway, like I was saying, he was a strange one. And when we approached him, he was talkin’ to someone, but no one was there with him! I mean, he was standin’ there all alone, plain as day. And then, when we told him to leave, he seemed real perturbed, you know? Like we was interruptin’ a private conversation or somethin’.”

“He was talking to someone?” Sydney said. “Maybe he had a cell phone.”

“Naw, bums don’t got cells,” Herb said. “He was talkin’ to the air. Usin’ both hands, like he was arguing with someone, or somethin’. Only no one was there.”

“Hey, Herb. Maybe he was talkin’ to Harvey. You know, Harvey? Jimmy Stewart’s invisible rabbit?”

Herb guffawed, obviously thinking that was funny.

“Thanks, guys,” Sydney said. She’d seen enough of the Herb and Al act.

“Wait! There’s more!” Al said. “He kept complaining about having to go to Chicago.”

“Chicago?”

“Yeah. Then he said something real strange. He said, ‘How do you expect me to get there? I ain’t got wings!’ That’s
exactly
what he said. ‘I ain’t got wings.’ I’m not making this stuff up.”

“Al! I was gonna tell her that,” Herb complained. “You said I could tell. That’s the best part.”

“He said he was going to Chicago?” Sydney asked.

“Now I wouldn’t say that, darlin’,” Al said. “This guy was loonier than Mel Blanc. I’ve seen his kind before. They talk and talk like that, but it don’t mean nothing. After that, he just took off.”

“Yeah, we chased him outta here.”

“Thank you, guys,” Sydney said. “You’ve been a big help.” She and Hunz turned to leave.

“Hey, darlin’,” Herb called after her. “If you’d like to stick around, we can give you a personal tour of the place. Show you things tourists don’t get to see.”

“Thanks, fellas,” Sydney said. “I’ll take a rain check.”

When they were back in the car, Sydney said, “Well, he was here.” She looked at her watch. “Where to now? I have about two hours before I pick up Cheryl. I’m taking her to the studio.”

Hunz was studying the email printout. “He calls himself The Rev,” he said. “Reverend, right?”

“Probably. Though it might be The Revolutionary.”

“You think?”

“It’s possible. Everybody’s political out here. Many of them are still stuck in the sixties. Long hair. Tattered jeans. Tie-dyed shirts. The whole thing. But given the fact that he claims to talk to angels, ‘The Reverend’ is probably our best bet.”

“So, besides alleys and parks, what places would a homeless man with a religious streak frequent?”

“The rescue mission,” Sydney said.

“Is it close?”

“Five or six miles.”

“Let’s go.”

T
he Gospel Rescue Mission was located on East Fifth Street in Little Tokyo. Once a thriving Japanese community, the downtown area was in transition. Only a single block of the original Little Tokyo was still intact with oriental markets, clothing shops, and Japanese-language businesses. The surrounding city blocks were a juxtaposition of new development and skid row.

The sleek new Disney Hall was just a few blocks away, while the ten-story Higgens building, built in 1911 and now an eyesore, was an abandoned shell of a bygone era.

Also in the area were the Los
Angeles Times
building, the county courthouse, and city hall with its distinctive sandstone tower, the longtime symbol of Los Angeles, constructed with sand from every county in California and water from the state’s twenty-one missions.

Fifth Street had already surrendered to shadows when Sydney turned onto it. Stripped of sunlight the buildings looked even older than they were. Many were boarded up with weathered sheets of plywood and tattered posters several layers deep. The wind toyed with the trash in the gutters, stuffing it in corners. A good number of ragged, colorless, homeless people lined the sidewalks. The luckier ones were camped out in doorways.

“There it is.” Hunz pointed to a red brick building.

Protruding at a right angle from the building was a white neon cross with red letters: J
ESUS
S
AVES
. Beneath it, in block letters:

G
OSPEL
R
ESCUE
M
ISSION.

Sydney drove half a block farther before locating a parking place. A shadowy chill greeted them as they climbed out of the car.

Hunz Vonner’s European-cut suit and Sydney’s brilliant blonde hair and clean complexion made them an instant spectacle on the street. Eyes followed them with the detachment of people watching television.

“Have you come to volunteer?” A happy man with short, thinning red hair and wearing a sweater-vest greeted them as they walked into the mission. They stood in a large room filled with wooden chairs lined in rows. A massive wooden pulpit was at the far end of the room facing the chairs. Next to the entrance was a table with stacks of religious tracts. There was an open passageway on the side wall. Kitchen sounds and smells came from it.

“Actually, we’re looking for someone,” Sydney said.

Happy man’s smile turned defensive, but not unfriendly. “Many of our guests prefer not to be found,” he said. “May I ask about the nature of your inquiry?”

Sydney handed him her card. “I’m with KSMJ,” she said. “This is Hunz Vonner, a visiting newscaster.”

The man’s eyes lit up in recognition. “I saw you last night on the news,” he said to Hunz. “That man in Pasadena who died. The death watch victim.”

“It’s the death watch notices that bring us here,” Sydney said. “Are you familiar with them?”

“I wish to God I wasn’t.”

Sydney continued: “This morning I received a message from a man who identified himself as The Rev. He said he wanted to meet me, that he had some information on Death Watch.”

“Billy?” the man said.

“You know him?”

The man in the sweater-vest nodded and then gestured for them to follow. He led them between a row of empty chairs, through the side door, past a brightly lit kitchen where a dozen workers were stirring steaming pots, lining rolls on baking sheets, and replenishing saltshakers. The end of the hallway opened up to a large dining room set with tables and chairs. They didn’t go that far. Halfway down the hallway they entered an office.

“By the way, I’m Ken Overton.” His voice was deeper in this room, as though a mantle of authority had been placed over his sweater-vest as he entered the office. He shook Hunz and Sydney’s hands crisply, then sat behind a desk that nearly filled the room, not because the desk was that large, but because the room was that small. He offered Sydney and Hunz a pair of old wooden chairs that swayed when they sat down.

Overton interlaced his fingers and placed them gently atop the desk. “Billy Pepper’s a good man. Hardworking. Intelligent. Homeless by choice.”

“What do you mean by that?” Hunz asked.

“Billy could secure employment. He’s been offered jobs. He’s chosen to turn them down for religious reasons.”

“Working is against his religion?” Hunz asked.

Overton laughed. “No. Billy feels he’s been called to minister to the homeless. He’s a street preacher. A Samaritan. And a volunteer here at the mission. He does everything we ask of him without complaint. He serves food. Sweeps floors. Makes beds. Preaches. And washes feet.”

“Washes feet?”

“Once a month Billy oversees a foot-washing service here at the mission. It’s a worship experience. Jesus washed his disciples’ feet the last night he was with them. It teaches humility to those who are ministering and reminds all those who participate of the humanity of the homeless, including the homeless themselves. Following each foot-washing service we provide medical checkups by certified podiatrists.

“In fact, when it comes to available services, Billy is something of a roving ambassador for us. You see, we not only hold worship services, serve food, and provide emergency shelter, but we also make available medical and legal services to those who can’t afford them. We offer health clinic services through UCLA School of Nursing, dental services through USC School of Dentistry, and legal aid through Pepperdine University. Whenever Billy Peppers
comes across someone with a need we can fill, he brings them to the mission.”

“The man who contacted me calls himself The Rev,” Sydney said. “You’re certain he and Billy Peppers are one and the same?”

“I don’t recall who first started calling him that, but it’s stuck.”

“Have you seen Billy lately?” Hunz asked. “Will he show up here tonight?”

“That’s hard to say. As a rule, street people don’t keep to a routine. I can tell you that he’s not scheduled to preach tonight.”

“Where else might we find him? Does he have any other places he frequents?” Hunz asked.

Overton rubbed his cheek in thought. “Tell you who might know . Here, let me get him.”

He disappeared for a few minutes, leaving Hunz and Sydney alone in the cramped office. When he returned, he brought a Hispanic man with him—small, swarthy, muscular arms, mustache. He smelled of dish soap.

“This is Lony Mendez,” Overton said, making the introductions. “Lony, these are television reporters. They’re looking for Billy.”

“Ain’t seen Billy for a couple of days,” Lony said with a heavy Hispanic accent. “But that’s not unusual. Sometimes he’s gone for two, three days. A week. No one knows where. He just disappears.”

“Do you know him well?” Sydney asked. “It’s important that we find him. He contacted me.”

“Billy and I go way back,” Lony said. “Billy and me were cellies at Calipatria.”

“State prison,” Overton interpreted.

“Yeah, Billy had two strikes on him for burglary and drugs, same as me, only I stayed away from the nasty stuff. We used to joke about which one of us would be the first to get a third strike and end up at Calipatria forever.” He laughed. “But God had other plans.”

“God?” Hunz said.

“It was God who dumped a whole bucket of Spirit on Billy’s head when he was in prison. Billy ain’t never been the same since. At first, it was real hard on me, you know? It ain’t easy sharin’ a cell with the apostle Paul. But Billy? He was real patient with me. It was him who led me to the Lord. And when I got out a year later, guess who was standin’ out there waitin’ for me. Billy. He’d hitchhiked all the way from LA just to see me get out.”

“Do you know where he is right now?” Hunz asked.

Lony shrugged. “Could be anywhere the Spirit leads him, you know? The guy will do anything to help someone. I seen him give his blanket away on a cold night. And his shoes. That kinda thing just doesn’t happen on the street, you know? Did I tell you angels talk to him?”

“So we’ve heard,” Sydney said.

“It’s the truth. I ain’t seen any of them. They don’t just show themselves to anybody. But Billy sees them. They tell him stuff and he does it. Ooooeee, but he pays for it, let me tell you that.”

“What do you mean?” Sydney asked.

“Well, Billy sees these angels, but that means he sees demons too, and they don’t like being seen. Sometimes they hammer on Billy something awful.”

Hunz had obviously heard enough. He stood. “If you see Billy, tell him we’re looking for him,” he said.

“You gonna interview him? Put Billy on TV?”

“We just want to talk to him,” Hunz said.

“When you see him, tell him to call me on my personal cell phone number,” Sydney said. She wrote it down for him on her card.

Lony fished in his back pocket and produced a worn and crumpled gospel tract. He handed it to Sydney in exchange for her card. “Are you saved, Miss St. James?” he asked.

Sydney looked at Hunz. Her cheeks warmed. “I’m a Midwestern girl,” she said. “I was raised in the church.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Lony said. “I asked if you was saved.”

“Let’s go.” Hunz grabbed Sydney by the arm.

As Sydney and Hunz left the Gospel Rescue Mission, she stuffed the crumpled tract in her pocket.

In the car, Hunz shrugged. “Well, that was a waste of time.”