Death Watch (13 page)

D
aylight was little more than a thin strip on the western horizon when Billy Peppers reached Los Angeles International Airport. It took three hitched rides, but he managed to get to Century Boulevard exit on Interstate 405. He walked from there, still not knowing how he was going to get a flight to Chicago with no money in his pocket.

The Lord will provide,
Billy told himself, toting his Nike shoe box.
Can you fathom the mysteries of God? Not me. No sir, not me.
And so Billy kept his feet moving forward. They were God’s feet now. Billy gave them to God, then asked God to use them to get him to Chicago.

Upon reaching the airport boundaries God’s feet took Billy in an unexpected direction. Instead of heading toward the passenger terminals, they led him down the road toward the cargo hangars. Names of freight companies were displayed prominently on the sides of hangars and on the tails of airplanes—UPS, FedEx, Transworld Freight, Star Courier, Industrial Express, Global Air Freight.

Billy Peppers smiled.

Global Air Freight.

He knew now how he was getting to Chicago.

O
ne more street, then we have to go,” Sydney said. They’d canvassed the blocks surrounding the Gospel Mission in hopes of finding Billy Peppers. More accurately, in hopes that
Billy Peppers would find them, because they had only a general description at best of what he looked like—black, dreadlocks, jeans, gray jacket, maybe light blue, sometimes with a grocery cart, or as Sydney remembered him, carrying a Nike shoe box. At least she thought that was Billy Peppers she’d seen with the shoe box.

Billy, on the other hand, would notice Sydney on sight, so their slow rolling tour of Little Tokyo was more about being seen than searching. But after a while, the passive approach became too taxing and the need to do something took over.

The direct approach proved equally futile. They found the homeless to be skittish about people approaching them. Some ran away. Others cringed and shut their eyes until Sydney and Hunz left them alone. Still others mumbled incoherently. Among those who would talk to them, who spoke intelligibly, they either didn’t know Billy Peppers or hadn’t seen him.

“Would you like me to drop you somewhere?” Sydney said.

Hunz didn’t answer. He was looking down an alley.

Sydney turned onto San Pedro Avenue. It was getting late. She’d told Cheryl she’d pick her up in thirty minutes.

“Hunz?”

He dialed a number on his cell phone.

“Agent Fernandez,” he said into the phone.

On the sidewalk a woman with a brown knit cap pushed a grocery cart overflowing with old rugs. Atop the rug pile, like royalty, sat a Pekingese scratching fleas.

“Fernandez,” Hunz said a little louder. “Vonner. Anything?” He frowned as he listened to the FBI agent. “Yeah. Fine. Thanks.” Hunz snapped shut his cell phone.

“Anything?” Sydney asked.

“No.”

Hunz turned away, presumably to continue looking for Billy Peppers, but before he did, Sydney noticed an odd expression on his face. It was the expression of a man who had just lost a lot of money on the stock market.

“Would you like me to take you back to your hotel?” Sydney said.

“No,” Hunz said.

“The station?”

“No. I’m going with you.”

“To the game show? I thought you said it was a waste of time.”

“It is.” Hunz Vonner’s jaw was set. The Billy Peppers lead hadn’t panned out. All they could do now was wait for the FBI to do their job. And it was obvious that Hunz Vonner was not very good at waiting.

D
warfed by the size of the cargo planes on the tarmac, Billy Peppers smiled at seeing Buster again. Buster wasn’t smiling back.

“Hey, man, I’m glad to see youse and all,” Buster said, “but what you’re asking me to do is impossible. I could get in a lot of trouble. I could get fired. I know you gots me this job, and I’m grateful for it, believe me I am, but this this is just asking too much.”

“I didn’t get you this job, Buster. God did,” Billy said. “And now it’s time to give back to God.”

A hulk in a gray Global Air Freight jumpsuit, Buster Kozloski’s body resembled an inverted triangle with the sum of his massive shoulders twice that of his hips. Like many cons, he’d spent all his exercise time in the prison weight room. As a result, Buster the parolee was double the size of Buster the defendant.

“I don’t know ” He looked around for his shift supervisor. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

Billy had met Buster a little over a year ago. Having reverted to his old ways, Buster was breaking into a Radio Shack store. It was one of those sweltering LA nights, the kind when you couldn’t buy a breeze, and Billy was looking for a cool place when he happened upon the break-in. Buster threatened Billy with a tire iron. Billy leveled Buster with the Holy Spirit.

“I have to get back to work,” Buster said, apologetically.

“The plane you’re loading, it’s going to Chicago, right?”

Buster took a step back. “How’d you know that?”

“God wouldn’t have led me here if the plane wasn’t going to Chicago,” Billy said. “I have to get to Chicago, Buster. I’m on a mission.”

“What kinda mission?”

“A mission from God.”

“That’s not good enough. I need to know more if I’m going to get involved.”

“You’re going to have to take a step of faith, Buster.”

Buster was staring at the shoe box. Couldn’t take his eyes off of it. Maybe it was the way Billy was carrying it; maybe it was because of all the security measures that had been instituted at airports, all the warnings about packages and bombs.

“What’s in the box, Billy?”

“Angels.”

Buster’s eyebrows rose. “Did your angel visit you again?”

“I’m not going to try to convince you, Buster. This is something you’re going to have to do on faith.”

“It’s about all this death watch stuff, isn’t it?”

“Buster, what difference would it make if the whole world needed saving, or just one soul? God’s giving you a chance to be part of his mission. You know he won’t force you, and neither will I.”

Buster looked around again. “Okay,” he sighed. “Wait here. Keep an eye on that ramp.” He pointed to a ramp leading into the belly of a cargo plane. “When I give you the signal, you skedaddle up the ramp as quick as your old bowlegged legs will carry you, understand?”

“God will bless you for this, Buster,” Billy said.

He crouched in the shadows of the hangar for twenty minutes as men and forklifts went in and out of the belly of the cargo plane. The activity became more sporadic; the intervals between forklifts grew longer.

Buster appeared at the top of the ramp. Keeping an eye on the portion of the hangar Billy couldn’t see, Buster made a quick waving motion.

Billy scurried out of the shadows and up the ramp into the plane. It was longer and steeper than it looked, and midway up the ramp he was laboring for breath.

“Hurry!” Buster said, frantically checking the hangar.

When Billy managed to make it to the top, bent over and gasping for air, Buster led him to the midsection of the plane, past a section of animal crates—dogs, cats, parrots—where a large wooden crate lay open. Inside, Buster had fashioned a bed of pink packing peanuts. A heavy jacket lay on top.

“It’s the best I could do,” Buster said, sweating from exertion or nervousness, or both.

Billy ducked inside the crate, pulled on the jacket, and nested in the middle of the packing peanuts.

“You’ll need this to get out.”

Buster handed him a hammer.

“I’m proud of you, Buster,” Billy said.

“Just promise me that someday you’ll explain exactly why I risked my job tonight.”

Buster lifted the side of the crate to nail it shut.

“Buster?”

“Yeah?”

“Does this flight serve complimentary drinks?”

A
nd now, America’s favorite game show—
Wonder Wheel!”

APPLAUSE

APPLAUSE

APPLAUSE

Cued by the flashing sign, the studio audience erupted with noise—clapping, yelling, a couple of wolfish whistles. After all, this wasn’t your grandmother’s game show; it was a game show for the postmodern generation, one in which the viewing audience participated.

“And the host of Wonder
Wheel
—Skip Hirshberg!”

The smiling, trim master of ceremonies jogged into the bright studio lights, dressed in casual tan slacks and a black polo shirt. He gave the appearance of being an easy-going, fun-loving guy, the kind you’d feel comfortable inviting over to the house for a few laughs. Though in his midfifties, Skip had a perpetual boyish charm about him, largely due to his hair, which was all his, color and all.

“Goooood evening, America!” Skip shouted to the audience. “Are you ready to play
Wonder Wheel?”

The audience was on its feet, shaking the rafters with their shouts and stomping.

Sydney and Hunz stood in the vomitory, an entrance to the stage cut beneath the stadium seats. Hunz was holding Cheryl’s daughter Stacy in his arms, the surprise of the night.

Three-year-old Stacy had taken to Hunz at the hotel the moment she saw him. More surprisingly, Hunz had taken to her. Sydney had never pictured the German newscaster around children. He didn’t seem the type.

While Cheryl made one last pass through the motel room, gathering up her things, little Stacy grabbed Hunz by the finger and pulled him into the back room to show him her coloring book pictures and Brenda doll, a knockoff of Barbie with a modest figure. International news broadcaster Hunz Vonner followed enthusiastically.

Actually, there were two surprises at the hotel. Hunz and Stacy were the second surprise. The first was when Cheryl opened the door. She greeted Sydney with an embrace that was surprising for both its enthusiasm and its duration. It was a lingering hug normally reserved for dear friends and long-absent family members.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Cheryl said, her breath warm on Sydney’s ear.

Sydney couldn’t remember the last time she’d been hugged by another woman with such genuine affection. The affection soothed an ache in her soul and brought tears to her eyes.

“Tonight will be a lucky night for one of our three studio contestants, or possibly someone at home!” cried master of ceremonies Skip Hirshberg. “It could be you!”

Along with the two other studio contestants, Cheryl McCormick stood behind an electronic podium smiling radiantly, her red hair ablaze under the studio lights.

“Let’s meet them, shall we?” Skip said. “Our returning champion and reigning queen of
Wonder Wheel,
Barb Whitlock!”

“Hello, Skip,” Barb said with a note of familiarity. A matronly middle-aged woman wearing a conservative print dress, Barb could easily be mistaken for a research librarian with her short brown hair, black-frame glasses, and thickset figure.

“Barb Whitlock is a district manager for Southern California Edison. She lives in Alhambra, California, with her husband, Phil, and pet cockatoo, Sir Talks-a-Lot. To date, Barb has won $123,568!”

Cheryl joined the audience applause, as did the middle contestant, a male in his late twenties, well over six feet tall, with a belly that hung over his belt like a flow of thick ooze, straining his shirt buttons. He weighed three hundred pounds easily.

“Our second contestant is Wendell Wicker Jr., a senior at Cal Poly, Pomona, where he is majoring in computer science. Welcome to
Wonder Wheel,
Wendell.”

“C-c-call me Junior, Skip.”

As he spoke Junior’s eyes bulged, revealing an abnormal amount of white surrounding the pupils. It was as though they were gasping. He repeated this annoying habit two or three times a minute, more when he was nervous.

“Tell me, Junior,” Skip said. “When you’re not hitting the books at Cal Poly, do you have a hobby? Or a girlfriend?”

The big man tittered. His eyes breathed. “Video games, Skip,” he said. “I just changed my major from French poetry to computer science so I can make some really awesome games. You know, Skip, video games are good for society. They keep kids off the streets.”

“How often do you play, Junior?”

Junior shrugged. “Five hours a day, minimum.”

“Our third contestant tonight is—my, my, my, she certainly is, isn’t she?—our third contestant is an expectant mother and last night’s winning telephone contestant, an elementary school teacher from Evanston, Illinois. Meet Cheryl McCormick!”

“Clap for Mommy,” Hunz said to Stacy, bouncing her up and down.

Stacy clapped happily.

Skip Hirshberg crossed the floor to Cheryl’s podium. “May I?” he said, placing a hand on her belly before she could respond.

Cheryl smiled, though Sydney could tell she was uncomfortable with the master of ceremony’s presumption.

“You do understand, don’t you, that if you deliver the baby during the next hour, the child automatically becomes the official property of Wonder Wheel!”

Skip flashed an enormous grin, playing to the cameras.

Cheryl forced a smile. Sydney admired her for it. Had she been in Cheryl’s shoes, she probably would have decked him.

“And now, America, let’s play
Wonder Wheel!”

Skip Hirshberg returned to his podium, which was but a few steps away. Sydney remembered her reaction the first time she saw the size of an actual news studio in Iowa City. It was much smaller than it looked on television. This set was just as compact.

The three contestants stood in a row behind a podium bearing his or her name and two electronic displays, one for category and another for winnings to date. The three studio contestants faced the master of ceremonies.

Appearing between the contestants and the master of ceremonies on the back wall, suspended by wires against a black backdrop, was the Wonder Wheel—three stationary concentric circles with flashing lights that moved in alternating directions. Beneath the wheel was a display with ten digits for area code, prefix, and four-digit telephone number.

The Wonder Wheel came alive, the outer and inner circles flashing clockwise, the middle circle flashing counterclockwise. It had a mesmerizing effect.

“Round and round she goes!” Skip cried. “Each contestant will get a chance to answer a question and earn big money depending on the alignment of the Wonder Wheel. The outer wheel determines the question value with a number from zero to ninety-nine. The middle wheel determines the category of the question. And the inner wheel determines the difficulty factor, from zero to nine. The question value and difficulty factor are multiplied together to determine the dollar value of each question. The greater the difficulty, the more money a contestant wins for a correct answer!

“The contestant who spins the. highest dollar value goes first. A right answer wins the money. A wrong answer and the dollar amount will be deducted from the contestant’s score, and a call-in contestant will be given a chance to win his money, so get ready, America!

“The Wonder Wheel will select tonight’s area code and prefix. So television viewers, if you see your area code and prefix displayed, be the first person to call and you can win!

“And remember, contestants. This isn’t your grandmother’s game show!
Wonder Wheel
rewards only the best! It’s winner-take-all. One of you will go home tonight with everything, while two contestants will leave with only the fond memory of having once shared the stage with Skip Hirshberg.”

He paused so the audience could laugh.

“Light up the wheel! It’s time to play
Wonder Wheel!”

Applause.

“Contestants! The wheel’s in motion. You have five seconds to lock in your selections!”

The Wonder
Wheel
theme music began. The colored lights on the three concentric wheels began to accelerate. The studio audience was deafening.

Junior hit his contestant button quickly, locking in his choices. Barb was next. Cheryl stared at the flashing lights. She looked confused. The music was coming to its conclusion.

“Choose quickly, Cheryl,” Skip encouraged her.

Cheryl hit the contestant button on the podium an instant before the computer locked it out.

The results appeared on the contestants’ podiums.

BARB

SAYAHH

$30,800

JUNIOR

SINGING FOR YOUR SUPPER

$28,000

CHERYL

ROCKS OF AGES

$6,600
“Barb, you scored the highest dollar value with a question value of eighty-two and a difficulty factor of four for a total of $32,800. The category is
Say Ahh, anatomy for amateurs.
Do you wish to play or pass?”

Barb Whitlock winced. “Ouch,” she said, which got a laugh. “I never was good at anatomy, Skip. And though it’s hard to pass up that kind of money, I think I’m going to have to pass.”

“Junior, you’re second highest with a question value of fiftysix and a difficulty factor of five for a total of $28,000. Your category is Singing
for Your Supper, famous actors in musical theater.
Play or pass?”

“Oh, man,” Junior groused. “Musical theater? Now if the category was about supper, I’d have a fighting chance. Pass.”

“Well, Cheryl, that brings it down to you. You scored the lowest total value with a question value of twenty-two and a difficulty factor of three for $6,600. A rookie mistake. The Wonder Wheel favors the bold, Cheryl, but it looks like things may have worked out for you this time. Your category is
Rocks of Ages, history set in stone.
Will you play, or are we going to give our first caller of the night a chance to win some money?”

Cheryl fidgeted, but only for a moment. “I’m going to play, Skip.”

“Your question is: Which of these presidents does not have his likeness carved in stone on Mt. Rushmore? (a) Thomas Jefferson, (b) Franklin D. Roosevelt, (c) George Washington, (d) Theodore Roosevelt.”

Cheryl didn’t hesitate. She smiled and said, “B. Franklin Delano Roosevelt.”

“It looks like the schoolkids of Evanston, Illinois, are in good hands,” Skip shouted. “Franklin D. Roosevelt is correct, and Cheryl McCormick is our first contestant on the
Wonder
Wheel board tonight with $6,600!”

Amidst the applause, Sydney’s cell phone rang. Studio personnel within earshot looked alarmed, then angry, cocking an ear to locate the intrusive chirping.

“Sorry.” Sydney pulled her phone from her pocket. “Sorry, sorry.” She skulked to the back of the studio, under the unforgiving glare of the floor director, cameramen, and sound technicians. “I’ll turn it off,” she mouthed to them.

She pressed the answer button to stop the ringing but didn’t speak until she was well out of earshot.

Pressing the phone to her ear, she heard, “Syd? Syd? Are you there?”

“Hello?”

“Syd? Josh. We have to talk.”

“Yes, we do,” she said, instantly angry at hearing his voice. She hadn’t forgiven him for selling her out in Helen Gordon’s office. Cori may have been the mastermind behind it, but that didn’t excuse Josh for being part of it.

“Where are you?” he asked.

She told him.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I have to talk to you.”

“What? Now? Josh, we can talk in the morning.”

“No. I really need to talk to you now, Syd.”

He sounded strange. Upset.
Well, he should be upset,
she thought.
That makes two of us.

“Promise you won’t leave until I get there,” he said.

Sydney hit the disconnect button, then programmed the phone to silent mode. She really didn’t want to talk to Josh tonight; there was already too much going on with getting Cheryl to the airport and chauffeuring Hunz.