Chapter Nineteen

Nickel Diner, Los Angeles…December 7, 9:30am

          Ruby stopped by my usual spot at the end of the long Formica counter and warmed up my coffee. I grunted a thank you without looking up from the sports page. I was busy getting the G2 on the Jets/Patriots game that was the Monday Night Football game this week. I was pretty sure I’d be betting on the Pats over my beloved Jets as I tend to bet with the odds and not with my heart. A practice that has saved me hundreds if not thousands over the years. Besides, Sanchez versus Brady? Gimmie a break, the Patriots will eat the Jets lunch. I could feel the waitress’ staring at me, patiently waiting for a proper response. I looked up sheepishly and gave her a weak grin.

“Sorry doll, I meant to say thank you so much Ruby Jean,” I said batting my eyes for affect. She tapped the top of my head with a menu and walked away to tend to the other patrons. “You’re a class act Whitey,” she said over her shoulder.

I watched her chit chat with a fella that I assumed was a businessman given the suit and tie he was wearing. She topped off his coffee cup as she flirted. Rosario “Ruby Jean” Baker was a handsome woman, clearly Hispanic, who I’m guessing married outside her linage given the Baker surname. Handsome is how I describe middle aged women who were obviously hot back in the day. Sexist? Chauvinistic? Yeah, no doubt, but in my defense, I mean it as a compliment. I’m careful to leave thoughts like those in my head though, no sense in inviting trouble. She wore her dark hair in a long-braided ponytail accented by a red ribbon at the end. Taller than the average Hispanic female she stood five foot ten inches with a slender figure toned by the ten-hour shifts that she spent working at jobs like this since she was fifteen in west Texas. Ruby must have caught me staring in her peripheral vision as she gave me a wry smile. She winked at the businessman and walked back my way.

“You didn’t eat much today Whitey, are you watching your waistline gumshoe?”

I stuffed the last bite of my English muffin, loaded with butter and jam into my grill and washed it down with a big gulp of fresh coffee. “Nah, you know how it is doll-face, a fella has to be lean and mean these days to chase after ambulances,” I replied chocking down the last of my breakfast. That brought a giggle from Ruby as well as from a few nearby diners.

“Relax Whitey, you still look pretty good for a geezer,” she said placing a glass of ice water in front of me.

“Thanks a lot,” I muttered, taking a long drink. I fished a twenty from my shirt pocket and left it on the counter. Swiveling to my right I hopped down from my seat and headed for the front door, ignoring the cat calls from the peanut gallery.

“Awww, don’t go away mad honey, I was just teasing you,” Ruby said still giggling, She added a cheerful, “Have a nice day.”

I waved goodbye without turning around and exited onto Main Street. Traffic was light due to all the construction going on around town. LA was finally crawling out of the collapse caused by the crash of the housing market in 2008 and the subsequent economic downturn that followed. Actually, the economy was beginning to show signs of life and projects that were stalled were being jump-started all over the city. It was a welcome relief for businesses like the Nickel Diner who had suffered during the year long absence of the normal hustle and bustle of a thriving commerce and its steady flow of hungry workers. I pulled out a pair of cheap car wash sunglasses and shaded my baby blues from the morning glare. Foot traffic was picking up and I looked up and down the street before turning right to walk back to my car which I had parked near 6^th street. I wanted to make a quick stop at my flat at the Alexandria Hotel on 5^th and Spring Street to fetch a fresh spiral notebook for my interview with Sister Patricia at Immaculate Heart of Mary.  

The moment I turned toward 5^th street I caught a fast-moving blur in my peripheral vision. Actually, I heard whatever it was before I saw any image. A nanosecond later I was nearly knocked onto my backside. I instantly recognized the hit and run skateboarding terrorist. Before I could holler an expletive, she kicked her board downward and braked hard about twenty feet ahead of me. She wasted no time scolding me first.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going ya fossil,” she bellowed.

“Come on ‘lil bit’, you could have broken my ankle,” I replied sternly, catching my breath and recovering my dignity.

“Forget your ankle, look what you did to my ride dude,” she said, holding up her skateboard to show significant cosmetic damage to the back end of her custom ride.

“You owe me man,” she barked. Adding quickly, “Are you oaky Whitey?”

          I shook my head slowly, hands on my hips and composed myself. Reflecting momentarily on the first time I met this kid. Her name was Alesha Borrego also known around the city as ‘lil bit’ for obvious reasons. She was a pretty girl, five foot nothing in her stocking feet with long jet-black hair which she wore tied back in a high ponytail. In fact, sometimes she be traveling so fast that ponytail would be flying parallel to the pavement behind her. Alesha was just shy of her 21^st birthday but she looked no older than 14 or 15. Asian genes, her mom (an elementary school teacher) is Vietnamese, and her dad (an aerospace engineer) is full blooded Māori from Wellington New Zealand. So, she came from good stock. And don’t let her appearance fool you, she wasn’t a street kid roaming wild in the city. Alesha was a journalism major at UCLA who rolled around the city looking for storylines she could scribble about and sell to any outlet that showed an interest in her work. Sure, a bit unorthodox but it was a hook that worked pretty well for her.

Which by the way is how we met. About a year ago our paths crossed while she was writing for the Daily Breeze, a local South Bay newspaper, covering a case that I was working while trying to stay a step ahead of my former bosses at the LAPD. She turned out to be harder to shake than the cops. And in spite of her troublesome birddogging, over time she morphed from pest to friend. Since then from time to time I have employed her as an extra pair of eyes and ears to aid me in my line of work. But I digress, back to this moment.

“So, what’s the hurry girl?”

“Just jetting back to my car. I gotta get back to campus for a final exam.”

“I see. What are you doing downtown so early? You’re a long way from Westwood?”

“Well, to be honest I was sort of tailing you. But you took so long to eat your breakfast that I ran outta time.”

“What? Why are you dogging me?”

“I heard you were working for the church on that thing with the priest and his latest flick.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“I have my sources gumshoe.”

“Oh no you don’t, you can’t pull that junior reporter shtick with me.”

“Oh, come on Whitey, throw me a bone. I might be able to help you man.”

I stifled an initial instinct to say hell no and quickly thought about it. Maybe there was an angle here. I knew Alesha and her family were devout Catholics and Lord knows (forgive my hypocrisy) I could use a foot in the door or more specifically a fly on the wall. I didn’t know Father Quinn as a priest or a man for that matter which was a disadvantage as I tried to discern the truthfulness of his answers to my questions. In addition, I suspected that Sister Pat was going to be an even tougher nut to crack, and that she might open up easier to a sweet young face than my scary mug. I quickly decided that there was an opportunity here.

“Alright squirt, maybe I can use your help. But you need to be discrete, and you have to promise to run any copy by me BEFORE you submit it to your editor. I don’t know who reads that paper of yours, and as you know I’m usually working in the shadow of the LAPD and can’t afford to be tossed in the clink on an obstruction beef. Agreed,” I asked?

Alesha smiled brightly, “Awesome, when can I start?”

“Cool your jets child, let me cypher on it a while. I’ll let you know soon. By the way, which church do you and your folks go to?”

“St. Anthony’s in El Segundo. It’s where I was confirmed.”

“What do know about Immaculate Heart of Mary, downtown?”

“Nothing, never heard of it, why?”

“Not important. How about a priest named Quinn. Father Nicholas Aloysius Quinn to be exact.”

” Oh yeah, Father Nick, I know who he is. His films are shown sometimes at our Parrish on teen nights. Why do you ask? What’s going on?”

“Do you know him personally? Have you ever met him?”

“Nope,”

“I see. What about a nun, Sister Patricia Cromwell?”

“Everyone knows Sister Pat. She does a lot of work at the rescue mission and teens from all the Parishes volunteer there periodically.”

“So, you’ve met her?”

“Not formally, but I’ve seen her enough times to easily recognize her.”

“Would she recognize you?”

“I doubt it, she’s seen hundreds of kids over the years.”

“Okay, good, thanks,” I said looking past her while the wheels turned in my brain.

Alesha snapped her fingers in my face, “Whitey, earth to Whitey,” she said breaking my trance.

“Sorry, good to know Alesha. You better get going if you’re gonna get to class in time for your exam. I’ll be in touch soon, in a day or two, okay?”

“Sounds good, thanks Whitey,” she said, looking at her watch. “Oh shoot, I gotta scoot!”

She tossed her skateboard onto the pavement, jumped on it and sped away, weaving in and out between unsuspecting pedestrians. I watched her disappear into the crowd and started walking to my car as well. This chance encounter changed my calculus. Now I have a spy at my disposal. This development gives me some options with ferreting out information from within the holy walls of the church. I think I’ll reschedule my meeting with Sister Pat.        

Chapter Eighteen

Los Angeles County Department of Medical Examiner…December 7, 9:00am

          A somber faced gentleman stared through the thick glass into the morgue’s viewing room. The curtain had just been drawn automatically revealing an empty sterile looking brightly lit area. A white linen sheet draped a stainless-steel gurney situated in the center of the room. Underneath an eerily still figure lay motionless, the sheet outlining the contour of his son’s corpse. Still yet to be confirmed but the staring man had little doubt. The thick glass and the heavily insulated walls prevented the scent of formaldehyde from permeating beyond the viewing room into the parlor where family prepared themselves for the tragic reveal. That was a blessing for grieving families going through the confirmation process like this one.

          An attendant studied the gentleman from the doorway behind him, being ever so quiet as to avoid interrupting the private moment. He noted that the gentleman’s posture was not stiff like a statue and not relaxed by any means either. It was if he were looking at a blank page. The somber gentleman was white, stood around six foot two with his hands clasped in front of him at the waist. He was neatly dressed in business casual attire, dark slacks, and a grey tweed sport coat over a white button-down shirt san a tie open at the collar. The attendant speculated that his appearance suggested an academic, perhaps a professor of history or political science. Or maybe a medical professional of some sort, a doctor perhaps or a scientist. To the attendant’s mind the gentleman’s demeanor suggested the former as he was calm almost to the point being unnerving, given the circumstance.

          The room was dimly lit by twin lamps setting upon two small table placed on either side of the door leading from the office area. The intent being to create a peaceful setting to lessen the shock of the moment versus subjecting the family to a glaring clinical experience that smacked more of a police line-up.

The attendant moved into the room slowly and approached the gentleman at the window. As he got closer, he could see a faint reflection of the man in the window. He was clean shaven and wore round wire rimmed spectacles. That sort of confirmed the attendant’s assumption that the man fit the mold of an academic. He paused a moment then spoke in a soft tone, “Are you ready, sir?” asked the attendant

There was not an immediate reply. The attendant paused a moment before repeating the question. Moments like these required tact and the attendant was experienced in dealing with the correct protocol. He waited another moment and then asked again, “Mr. Whembly are you ready to proceed?”

“Doctor Whembly,” the man replied without turning to face the attendant.

“Please forgive me, Doctor Whembly.”

“Thank you. Yes, I am ready, let’s get on with it,” the doctor replied, nodding his head slightly.

“Very well, please excuse me while I signal the orderly on the other side of the glass.”

The attendant stepped forward and stood beside Doctor Whembly and gently tapped on the window. Inside an orderly moved to the gurney and slowly pulled the sheet down away from the lifeless face and rested it on the young man’s chest. He stepped back and waited for the signal to replace the sheet and transfer the gurney back to the morgue.

Doctor Whembly remained still and silent, his posture unchanged, his face revealing no emotional reaction whatsoever. The attendant waited a few uncomfortable moments before speaking. “Is this your son Doctor Whembly?” he asked softly.

“It is, that is Alex,” he replied with just a hint of sorrow imagined the attendant.

“If you would like a few moments with him privately that can be arranged”

The doctor sighed slightly, “Thank you, kind of you to offer, but that will not be necessary.”

He turned suddenly and walked past the attendant towards the exit. “I’m sure there are papers to sign and arrangements to be made,” he said without looking back.

The attendant scurried to catch up, caught off guard by the doctor’s abruptness.

“Yes of course. Shall we return to my office and discuss next steps?”

The attendant quickly sidestepped the doctor to lead the way to his office. “Right this way sir.”

“Splendid,” said Doctor Whembly following close behind.

The attendant opened the door to his office and politely let the doctor enter first. Funny he thought, it was only now when the doctor said splendid did he pick up the faint accent of an Irishman. He offered one of two plush leather chairs in front of his desk to the doctor, then scurried around to be seated across from him. He picked up a couple of manila folders, green folders oddly enough and started to explain in great detail the next steps of the process prior to the release of his son’s remains. Doctor Whembly stared at the man half listening. His mind was elsewhere. He was considering his son Alex. Alexander Whembly, the little fool he thought disdainfully. He had such plans for him, a brilliant future carefully constructed from the time he was born. And the ingrate pissed it all away for the love of a penniless tart and her whelp of a child. He could see this coming, ever since Alex began attending that abomination of a pious society called the Catholic Church. His mind poisoned by the teachings of flimflam artists in colorful robes. Science was Richard Whembly’s religion, and he had twenty-five years raising his only son in it. Only to lose him to a charismatic priest who fancied himself an artist of importance creating films that challenged the social conscience of the young and the elderly. He was fuming now in his silent reflection, his mind racing with wicked thoughts of next steps that had nothing to do with what this lout was blathering on about in the seat across from him. His expression must of changed somewhat as the attendant paused his dissertation.

“Have I said something wrong Doctor Whembly?” he asked nervously.

The doctor composed himself immediately and focused on the task at hand.

“No of course not, I was just thinking of a matter that needs my attention when we finish her. Please continue.”

“Good. Alright then as I was saying…”

Richard Whembly was listening more closely now, mindful that his mood was betraying him. He stuffed his rage into a dark recess within his heart where his mind could retrieve later to formulate his revenge. He wasn’t through with the priest or the church. Not by a longshot. The real suffering was yet to come.

          The attendant slid one of the green folders across the desk, opened to a document requiring Doctor Whembly to review and sign. The doctor leaned forward slightly and accepted the fountain pen that was offered. The attendant studied him as he read looked the document over and then methodically applied his signature, neat and clear. He slid the folder back across the desk to the attendant whom he addressed by name for the first time. Standing he extended his hand, “Thank you very much Mr. Tolliver, I appreciate your professionalism and care with which you have extended poor Alex. He was a good man you know,” said Doctor Whembly. Mr. Tolliver took the doctor’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “Yes sir, I’m sure that he was. And may I say once more how very sorry I am, we are, for your loss.”

“Thank you young man, please do proceed with the transfer to the funeral home straight away. It will be greatly appreciated. Well, I must be off, cheerio sir,” said the doctor. And with that he turned to let himself out.

Mr. Tolliver called after him, “We will get right on this doctor, no worries, sir,” he bellowed slightly. He watched the doctor walk away and could not explain an uncomfortable feeling of foreboding. His mind drifted to a song by The Doors, “people are strange when you’re a stranger, people look ugly when you’re alone…”