Double Exposure Page 7

  My Savior appeared at the river,

  In the shade of an old willow tree-e-e,

  And I looked on the face

  Of the Lord of the race,

  My Savior who suffered for me!

  The choir dipped under, humming another stanza.

  A little red dome glowed on camera one and Hammond shifted subtly. “My dear brothers and sisters in Jesus Christ, consider what our Lord meant when He said ‘Render unto God the things that are God’s.’A The voice a fruity, folksy drawl; clear, level gaze. “My friends, God needs your offerings; needs your pennies, dimes, quarters, an’ dollars. He needs them to heal the sick; He needs them to comfort the afflicted; He needs them to clothe the naked. An’ He needs them, yes! he needs them to spread His Divine Word!”

  The old-time cadences rolled. Half-hidden by camera one, the real Hammond was motionless and uncompelling. But the video image on the floor monitor was hypnotic. The massive head loomed; the deep eyes stared out, benign and sorrowful; and the rumbling voice drawled on: “Send your dollars, dear brothers and sisters; send ‘em to me; send ‘em now. Dig deep, dear friends, for Jesus!”

  No oratory here, no Bryan bouncing it off the bleachers. Hammond pitched it for the microphone like a radio announcer. A media professional.

  “I will bless you, my friends, an’ the Lord will bless you, an’ all the pore, lost souls who hear His Word will bless you, an’ your offering will return unto you a thousand-fold.”

  Cue camera two. Choir up full:

  Well I looked on the face of my Savior,

  Who died for my sins long ago-oh,

  And the sorrow writ there

  Was too heavy to bear,

  And I felt my poor heart overflow-oh,

  I felt my poor heart overflow!

  The monitor showed a PO box address superimposed over the choir. Cut to camera one; hold the super over Hammond; and fade to black.

  Cut.

  The loudspeaker boomed, “Looking good. Wanna see playback?”

  Hammond’s nod was far too small to be seen from the booth at the back, but he knew that camera one was still sending his closeup to the director’s monitors. Yes, very obviously a pro.

  As the floor monitor started the playback, Hammond walked over to watch. He stood beside me, clearly approving his grave but kindly image. When it was over, the speaker erupted again: “Right on the money for timing. How’d you like it?”

  “Real fine.” Hammond spoke softly, knowing that his tie clip mike was still live. He noticed me. “How ‘bout that?”

  “Very clean take.” In this business, you develop a repertory of meaningless compliments.

  “Do I know you?”

  “I’m a friend of Lee Tolman.”

  Blank stare.

  “She was your secretary, wasn’t she?”

  Pause. Then, “Hard to recollect; I got me such a turnover.”

  “Lee hasn’t been heard from in some time. Her mother’s worried.”

  He shook his head, producing an obviously standard phrase, “Lord pertect the chi’dren of today.”

  “Any idea where she might be?”

  “I didn’t keep track.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  Hammond appraised me, then nodded as if admitting me to his fold. He removed the mike from his tie and draped the cord over the monitor, then looped a pastoral arm around my shoulder. “You’re concerned for this child, I can tell. That’s real good. Truth is, she had a few little... problems. ‘Course I tried to counsel her, but it didn’t hep much.”

  “Problems? I don’t mean to pry, but...”

  The sorrowful blue eyes regarded me for fully five seconds, then: “You may not know it, son, but preachers have troubles like psychiatrists or even,” (self-deprecatory smile) “movie stars. Young ladies get sorta... funny on ‘em.”

  “Crushes.”

  “Uh huh. Sometimes they make things up.”

  “And Lee was doing this about you?”

  “She told other gals in the office that we, uh... “He broke off with a significant look.

  I decided to play it his way: “Oh my!”

  “Now don’t you be shocked, son. She meant no harm.”

  “Golly, Reverend, I hope not.”

  “Not a mite. But you can see I had to nip it in the bud. I offered her a different job, but...” He appended an actory shrug.

  “I’m sorry she caused you trouble.”

  Hammond radiated benign concern. “No trouble atall.”

  Nahan had been hovering nearby. Now, clearly, his ten-second supply of patience was exhausted and he stepped up to us.

  “Isaiah, the clock is running and you have six more spots to tape.”

  “It’s my money.” Hammond was suddenly snappish.

  “But I dislike spending it on unnecessary overtime.”

  “I spend it like I want.”

  “How true.” They sounded like a bickering couple. Nahan ignored me, but Hammond glanced in my direction, then made a visible effort to control himself.

  He smiled at Nahan. “Okay then, let’s get to it.” He beamed at me. “Stay an’ watch if you want. Make yourself to home.”

  Nahan jerked his head toward the empty audience seats: “Up there.”

  But the loudspeaker second-guessed him: “That’s lunch, folks. Hey Winston! How’s the boy?”

  Whoever the director was, he’d recognized me.

  * * * *

  Trailing the same director to our lunch table in a typical Valley watering hole: over-scale flagstone walls, pin-lit plastic banquettes, droning soft rock Muzak.

  Jerry Galiker made a royal progress among the tables: “Hey good to see ya how’s it going we gotta take a lunch gimme a call.” Jerry’s regal indeed at six-four and 260 pounds, with bristling beard and gray curls cascading to his collar from a taco-sized bald crown. He always behaves like a mogul, but in fact, he’s a genial whore who started out directing local TV kiddie shows back in the fifties. To this day, he takes what he can get and is seldom paid much over scale. Just like me.

  But out here in the shadow of Warner Brothers, his friends are all in the same situation, and they play the Industry Game with a touch of dour self-satire.

  We slid crabwise into our booth and confronted the ancient waitress, who seemed to be made of beef jerky.

  Jerry saluted her: “Hi! You’re Helen; you’ll be our waitress.”

  “Wasn’t funny the first time, Jerry.” Obviously, he was a regular.

  Elaborate dialogue about the fish special, the soup du jour, the salad dressings; then Jerry ordered a double cheeseburger.

  Helen nodded: “The usual.”

  “Hey Helen, I’d pat your ass, but it might fall off.” Helen returned a patient look, collected the giant plastic menus, and plodded off in her micro-miniskirt, a museum piece now seen only on waitresses.

  Jerry did a twenty minute monologue on his dynamite career prospects before I could get to my own agenda, but when his mouth was finally full of cheeseburger, I had at least a fighting chance.

  “I thought Hammond broadcast worship services. How come you’re taping spots today?”

  “Mmmh. Look, he’s on three hours a night. That’s a lotta air time. So we pre-tape promos, choir numbers, shit like that.”

  “But he does hold services?”

  Jerry’s smile numbered me among the terminally dim. “Hammond’s not a preacher; he’s a TV evangelist. No church, no congregation, no nothing. He gets his audience like a game show.” Jerry attacked French fries the size of fish sticks.

  “What about the donations people send in?”

  “Whaddya think: he socks them away.”

  “Aren’t there laws about that?”

  “Well the state got their pee in a froth about him, but what can they do? He’s a legal church.”

  “What’s he use the money for?”

  “Bimbos.” Helen shambled up with Jerry’s third Michelob. “Biggest ass man I ever saw - and I seen some
big ones.”

  “As the actress said to the bishop.”

  “Hm?”

  “Ancient British wheeze. Never mind.”

  “Oh. Well that guy must of founded the Piece of the Month Club. New ‘secretary’ every four weeks. That kinda hobby takes money. You gonna finish that salad?”

  “No.”

  Jerry engulfed it. “Makes a lotta friction between him and Nahan.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Nahan’s your classic anal retentive: squeezes the shit outta the buffalo nickel. Boy do we fight over budget. Good salad.”

  “Does Nahan object to spending money on girls?”

  “He’s afraid about Hammond’s reputation. If people find out what a chaser he is, it won’t do much for his image.”

  “And his image is the church.”

  “You got it. Nahan’s scared shitless of the attorney general’s office. They’d do anything to prove Hammond’s a phony.”

  Catching Helen’s rheumy eye, I summoned another beer for Jerry. “What’s Nahan’s actual role?”

  “There, you got me. Personally, I think he’s stashing away more’n Hammond’s spending on gash. But Nahan’s so close to the vest, you can’t tell. Bring a clean glass, honey.”

  “I think I know one of Hammond’s girls.”

  “Yeah? Well it’s a statistical probability. Which one?”

  “Lee Tolman: redheaded kid with a faraway look.”

  “I know her; she lasted longer than usual. Funny quality about that kid. Want some dessert? I’m gonna have some dessert.”

  After another ritual consultation, Helen trudged off with an order of chocolate cake, double a la mode.

  Jerry drained his glass. “Y’know, Lee was different. I think she really got to Hammond. Since she left, I haven’t seen any new stuff around.” He carved out a mountain of cake and dispatched it ruminatively.

  “When did she leave?”

  “Maybe six weeks ago. If she left.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Think about it: the state is sniffing around. If they find out about Hammond’s little hobby, it’s bye-bye church. On the other hand, maybe Hammond’s really hooked on this kid.”

  “So?”

  “So Hammond gets her outta the spotlight - finds someplace to stash her. That’s what I think.”

  “But love nests went out fifty years ago.”

  “There’s other places.” An idea dawned: “For instance, Hammond’s got a boat - a big sucker too. He could put her there.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I’m not supposed to know it exists. Man of God with a hundred thousand dollar yacht; doesn’t look good.”

  “To the attorney general.”

  “And the faithful. But that’s where she’s at; I’d lay you money.”

  “Does Nahan know anything about this?”

  “That bastard knows everything. If she’s there, I mean.”

  “I thought you’d lay money on it.”

  Jerry turned suddenly cagey, as if realizing that he’d gone too far. “What I mean is, I don’t know. It just stands to reason. Hey! I gotta get back.”

  He looked briefly distressed when I asked for separate checks, and when he saw my seventy-five-cent tip, he upped his to fifty. “Right, well, glad to hear all about what you’re doing, Stoney. And listen, keep in touch. I gotta big special coming up and I just might need an assistant director.”

  The restaurant was mostly empty now, so Jerry gave only two audiences on the way out.

  * * * *

  Retracing my route through the hot afternoon back to Hollywood, I was plagued by an odd memory: that hymn Hammond’s choir was singing; I knew it from someplace.

  I hummed the tune as I risked life and limb at the Highland “venue offbramp. The memory surfaced as the Rabbit clattered downhill past the Hollywood Bowl. Turning right on Hollywood, I dredged up the words from way back in my past:

  Her beauty he hymned to the morning,

  Her virtues extolled through the day-ay,

  Her praises he sang

  As the Angelus rang,

  And at Vespers, they jumped in the hay-ay,

  At Vespers, they jumped in the hay!

  Chapter 7

  My first calls to local yacht clubs had been useless, except to polish the Wally Wimple voice I’d assumed for the walk on role of diffident bookkeeper. Now the fourth call was ringing.

  “Reina del Rey Yacht Club.”

  “Accounting department please.”

  On hold, then: “This is Sandy Fujita.” Soft young voice.

  I did my Milquetoast impression: “Um, yes, Miss Fujita? Yes, my name is Wimple - with the Universal Burbank Church Accounting department?”

  “Yes?”

  “Frankly, I’m in just an awful mess. We were supposed to renew Reverend Hammond’s club membership, but I seem to have lost the file. Can you help me?”

  “Just a minute; I’ll pull our file.”

  On hold again, then: “Mr. Wimple? Yes, I have it. What did you want?”

  “Everything, I’m afraid. I’ll have to start a whole new file. Such a nuisance. I don’t even know the ship’s name.”

  “Boat.”

  “Hm?”

  “They’re called ‘boats.’ Reverend Hammond’s is the Mixed Blessing. Thirty-six-foot cutter.”

  “Well that’s a start. Should I know where it’s parked or something?”

  “Berthed. Dock H.”

  “Oh dear, that means nothing to me.”

  “The end of Dock H. Slip 48. Hm: this membership’s good for another six months.”

  “It is? Oh my goodness. Well, we accountants like to keep ahead of things, don’t we? Thank you so much, Miss Fujita.”

  “Not at all.”

  If I could only live my life by phone, I could change my personality to suit anyone. What a convenience.

  Mixed Blessing. Reina del Rey Yacht Club, Dock H, Slip 48. Everything but the ZIP code.

  Exit Wally Wimple screen right. Enter live-aboard marina bum: sockless sneakers, T-shirt and Levis, shapeless cotton cap, and shades. A banner day for character parts.

  * * * *

  Down to the marina and my first stop: a ship chandler to buy a convincing prop. I hunted vainly for something both nautical and cheap - a contradiction in terms - then reluctantly paid for a 200-foot coil of half-inch line.

  Parking the Rabbit in a public lot, I hoofed down a street apparently cut through a thicket of black, white, and silver masts. Everybody’s rich but me.

  The Reina del Rey Yacht Club was Shopping Mall Spanish: raked tile roof and “adobe” walls faked with slump stone concrete. I crossed a grass divider to an asphalt path that was separated by a chain link fence from the long dock fingers floating at right angles to the shore.

  Ten docks times 48 slips: almost five hundred boats on this side alone: racers, cruisers, trawler yachts, sport fishers - even a high-class houseboat moored out at the end. No one around this close to supper; just the gulls wheeling in the yellow light and the tink, tink, tink of sloppy cables smacking metal masts. The nearest gate said J so H was two doors down.

  No way to open the gate without a special card key; I just had to look legitimate and wait my chance. I lounged along with my coil of line, imagining security guards tracking me from behind the smoke glass yacht club windows: Potential felon loitering with intent, Fred. Check him out. Too fast; take smaller steps; look purposeful. The club doors were still closed. How long until they saw through me?

  A tiny figure climbed off a white ketch and struggled up the dock with two blue sail bags. Dock H! Match his pace: slower - no, faster. Speed it up; he was at the gate.

  Covering ground in a sort of hasty saunter, I reached the gate as he dropped a bag and turned the handle.

  “Here.” I held the gate open, trying to look pleasant for this Fellow Yachtsman.

  “Thanks.” He hoisted the bags and puffed away without a glance. For all he noticed, I could have
been wearing prison stripes. I carefully closed the gate - behind me.

  Down the steep ramp to the foot of the dock. Slips marked with painted numbers: 2, 4, 6. Slip 48 would be the last one on the right, sorry, starboard side. I ambled out on the dock, looking nowhere special, peripheral vision alert for movement.

  Ah, boats. My old Dad and I sailed our twenty-four-foot tub up every estuary on the south coast of England, parking on twin keels when the long British tides left us stranded on the mud. Dear, dead days. Wonder where the old man is now.

  At about slip 36, I spotted Mixed Blessing up ahead: a racy yellow bow with lots of overhang. Funny, the bow dock lines were untied. The Reverend Hammond couldn’t be much of a sailor. She had a modern-looking trunk cabin, its forward face pierced by a big Lexan hatch. Pretty wet, going to windward in a blow. Above the hatch, the staysail boom scraped gently back and forth across the deck. More sloppiness. This skipper wasn’t safe past the breakwater, let alone offshore.

  I was alongside now, still sizing things up. The stern lines were very short and taut, to keep the bow from smashing the dock ahead. Cockpit lifelines unclipped, as if someone was aboard. Yes, the big canvas tea cosy was off the wheel and lying on the cockpit sole.

  And yet the hatch was closed and the mainsail furled and covered. Time for the straightforward approach: “Hello!”

  Nothing.

  “Hey, Mixed Blessing!”

  Silence.

  I climbed over the rail and knuckled the hatch boards. No response.

  The hatch cover wasn’t padlocked, so I slid it back four inches and peered below. A light burned over a chart table to starboard.

  “Anybody home?” Long pause, empty except for the rigging clacking away in the background.

  Now or never: I pulled out two hatch boards, slipped the cover another foot, and stepped over the remaining board onto the companionway ladder, replacing the boards and hatch cover behind me.

  Standard cabin layout: galley to port, table and settee beyond, forward bulkhead walling off the head and V-berths in the bow. All teak-trimmed Formica and plastic cushions, and not a living soul aboard.

  Ducking in the scant headroom, I searched the cabin: galley shelves bulging with cans and freeze-dried food packs. Block ice in the ice box only slightly melted - a centerpiece for several frosty wine bottles.

  Hanging locker: full of pricey male leisure clothes, none of them too seaworthy.

  I opened the louvered head door and risked another light on: fragrant soap the same shape as the tiny oval sink. Party-style paper guest towels with toilet paper to match. Wonder what that does to a marine toilet?

  All in all, a floating condo, fitted out for weekend booze and bed.