Domino Page 11

  “Yes, I’m sure. Oh, and call that agency we have a stake in. Have them send over someone Monday morning. Paralegal skills and some accounting background are a must. Under 30, a redhead this time. Tell them they’ll be the usual employee benefits.”

  When Morgan looked from the window to where Marco had been sitting only a second ago, the chair was empty. The chief of security had made no sound as the deepening shadows swallowed him. Morgan chewed on the end of the pipe and watched the dark gray clouds drift slowly overhead. There was a slight tightening of his gut as he reached for the phone.

  Clarissa sat on the steel frame bed, her back against the wall, the thin bed pillow clutched tightly in her arms. One lamp burned dimly on a green metal, legless table bolted to the cracked yellowed plaster wall. On a green steel night stand, bolted to the floor, was a Bible. She had picked it up briefly to swat at two cockroaches crawling across the bare green and white tile floor. Otherwise, Clarissa and the Bible had not moved all day.

  A round old black framed clock mounted high on the wall in a mesh cage read four thirty. There had been no word from Virginia and Clarissa's stomach tightened from anxiety, gnawing hunger, and the putrid odor of strong antiseptic. There had been a hundred and fifty dollars in her purse. It was enough to get some presentable clothes and purchase at least a bus ticket out of the city. Virginia had to come soon. The waiting was agony. Clarissa would have given anything for that money in her purse. Yesterday it was pin money, today it was a coveted fortune.

  The room darkened slowly around her as the storm clouds gathered and rain spattered the one grime-streaked window. The tiny lamp struggled to burn away the darkness and still there was no knock on the door, no Virginia with the hundred and fifty dollars that was Clarissa's only means of escape. The clock slowly crept toward five-thirty. She rubbed at the emptiness in her stomach and let tears fall off and on.

  At a quarter to six she watched detached as a cockroach crawled over a black square of the floor where a tile was missing, toward Clarissa, and disappeared under the bed. A woman cackled at two small children in an unfamiliar language on the other side of the wall. Someone, unsteady on his feet, had fallen against Clarissa's door and jolted her out of a light sleep.

  Seven-fifteen and the downpour outside had turned to a light drizzle. The hotel, which had been quiet during the day, had come alive with aching discord. Heavy metal rock music vibrated the floor from the room beneath her, babies wailed, and laughter mixed with heated anger flowed through the building, an endless underground river of noise. It flowed and ebbed, taking Clarissa's tortured nerves with it until the skin on her arms prickled painfully with irritation.

  When the light tapping on the door finally did come, Clarissa thought that it was her imagination playing a cruel trick. She listened again, this time there was nothing. She was about give in again to the incessant tears when the tapping sounded a little louder. Clarissa leaped off the bed, unbolted the door, and flung it wide.

  "Thank God, Virginia! I thought you'd......"

  The sudden disappointment deflated her joy like a pin in a balloon. Doc Rowland stood in the hallway, his fedora held against his chest with both hands. He tried to smile, not sure about the intensity with which the door to three ten had flown open, nor the sudden tears that sprang into the young woman's eyes.

  "I'm sorry, child," he stammered. "I didn't mean to scare you. You okay?"

  When she just stared at him wide eyed and immobile he struggled to go on. "I thought you might be hungry. Streets aren't safe around here and I go down the street to the Kitchen 'bout this time for dinner. Thought you'd like to walk with me bein' the rain has let up and all."

  "No," Clarissa blurted and slammed the door in his face.

  "You got to eat something, child," she heard him say through the closed door. "You're all skin and bones. There ain't no food in this hotel. Can't cook in your room. Closest place is the Kitchen."

  She wanted him to go away, to leave her alone. Yet, she could hardly bear to be alone. She sagged against the door and hated Virginia for not coming like she promised. There was that ever present sinking feeling that she been used. Virginia was not coming. The litany of excuses had grown all day, from Morgan finding out about Virginia helping her, to a car accident in the rain, or Virginia really wanted Clarissa out of the way. There had been those ugly suspicions that Virginia wanted Morgan for herself but they had always been dispelled by the fact that if there was something between Morgan and his secretary, it would not have waited ten years to happen. Clarissa never saw Morgan look at Virginia with anything but professional respect. But there had been those fleeting moments when Clarissa had caught a look in Virginia's eyes that was more than admiration for her employer. It was these unguarded glances that fueled Clarissa's mistrust of Virginia.

  Virginia wasn't coming. The reality was swift and stark, piercing like a knife in the gut. Clarissa's first reaction was indignation and outrage, then guilt and stupidity. She had been used and robbed, trusted the worst possible person. It was little consolation that Virginia had been her only option at the time. Clarissa's instincts had warned her not to trust Morgan's secretary. Those instincts had saved her life more than once during the past twenty-four hours. Ignoring them just this one time had made her condition almost unbearable.

  Morgan would find her. This time she had no means of escape. She was sitting in a trap that Virginia had devised and had led her to like a lamb to the slaughter. Clarissa cursed herself over and over, pounding her fists against her thighs as she paced the tiny cell-like room. Anger slowly replaced fear, driving out the self-punishing terror and filling her with cold clear thought.

  Morgan Wolfe had shattered her dream, Virginia Essex had stripped away the remaining fragments. Clarissa stared down at the once manicured red acrylic nails. One by one she peeled them off and tossed each one in the toilet. She flushed them down, watching the broken dreams swirl and finally disappear.

  The image in the cracked bathroom mirror was a blend of mother and daughter, strength and beauty. Both had had their dreams taken away so swiftly by a single bullet. Both had known the top of the world and the deepest pit of poverty. Clarissa ran her finger over the mirror, tracing the lines of her face, seeing only the strength in Myra's eyes, the radiance in her mother's high cheek bones, the determination in the will to survive in the set of her lips.

  Clarissa had never been good at survival, not consciously. She had somehow made it through her mother's death, but then there had been the alley. Clarissa shuddered at the memory. There had been a bit of strength then, a will to live. She had pulled it up from her soul when the three young men had her cornered and were beating her and tearing at her clothes, a knife held to her throat, the repeated rapes. Her screams had brought Hugo out of the back door of his hair salon. In his arms she was safe. Screaming would not bring Hugo now. He was a hundred miles away and had no idea where she was or that she needed him.

  Clarissa turned away from the mirror and felt light headed and dizzy. She clutched the bathroom doorknob to steady herself. The old black man had been right. It did her no good to sit and starve when it was strength she needed desperately if she was to remain alive.

  She ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it as best she could. The hallway was empty as she eased her door closed behind her. The door was ajar in the room directly across the hall, throwing a sliver of orange light onto the black tiled floor. As Clarissa locked the door and tucked the key in the pocket of her faded jeans, the door across the hall opened and a dark haired man with broom, pail and mop, stepped into the hallway and locked the door.

  "Evening," he said and smiled.

  Clarissa turned sharply away from him without saying anything. She ran down the two flights of stairs into the lobby and was surprised to find Rowland seated on the faded gray velvet sofa talking to Dusty. Rowland stood up with a great deal of effort when she approached him, smiled, and offered her his arm.

  "I'd be honored, Miss Dugan, to
take you to dinner," he said. "Kitchen's only just down the street."

  Clarissa took the offered arm hesitantly and Rowland led her out into the humid evening.

  "You're shaking like a leaf, child," Rowland said as he patted the thin hand on his arm.

  "I don't like to be out on the street at night," Clarissa replied. "Especially here." She wrapped her arm tighter around the comforting warmth of Rowland's tweed jacket.

  "They ain't safe, for sure. Kitchen is only a block away. Nobody will mess with a poor eighty year old man. They know I ain't got nothing."

  "It doesn't matter if you have nothing," Clarissa whispered. "They'll take whatever they can."

  "You been on the streets, child?"

  "A long time ago. Not too far north from here. East part of Hollywood, up near the hills. I was fifteen. I ran away rather than live with my brother overseas after my mother was killed."

  Rowland glanced up into the grim set of Clarissa's face.

  "It was dark and raining. I went through an alley to the back of this restaurant I knew gave out some food. I thought it was safe. It was Beverly Hills. I was raped."

  There was silence between them for a long moment. Rowland patted the thin hand that tightened on his arm. He led her into the parking lot of a church. The sign on the front lawn read "Mount of Olives Baptist Church, Rev. Marlin Stone, Pastor."

  "Short cut?" Clarissa asked.

  "No, we's here."

  Clarissa had never been religious. Myra had not taken either of her children to church, never mentioned God or prayer in their home, yet she knew her mother had come from a Christian family. What knowledge Clarissa had of any religion was during the two years that Andy managed to pay for her tuition to St. Hector's parochial school up on Los Feliz Ave, just up the street from the tenement apartment she and Myra shared. It was not to give her any particular religious background but was just another of Myra Hayden's efforts to isolate Clarissa from their life of crushing poverty. The church grounds of Mount of Olives Baptist Church reminded Clarissa of St. Hector's. There was a warm comfort and a peaceful feeling that calmed her, making her realize the toll the last twenty-four hours had taken on her. She leaned more heavily on Doc Rowland's arm and he nodded slightly and smiled.

  "Ham and green beans tonight," he told her. "Bread pudding and mashed potatoes, 'Course they got mashed potatoes every night except Friday, when they got Mexican rice."

  Clarissa stopped and stared at the large hall with the banner stretched across the entrance that read "God's Kitchen.

  "This is a bread line," she snapped indignantly. "A soup kitchen!"

  "What did you think it was?"

  "Not this. I thought a little diner or....not charity. I can't go in there, Rowland. I can't go back to that. Not after all I've been through. I can't let this happen to me."

  Rowland glared at her, his eyes suddenly hard. "They do God's work, Miss Dugan. No shame in feeding the poor folk who ain't got milk for their babies, or cereal for their young 'uns."

  "Take me back to the hotel," Clarissa demanded.

  "Ain't no shame in letting God bless you with hot meal if your stomach's empty and you ain't got no money."

  "Take me back, Rowland."

  "Or with a bed in a shelter if you ain't got no wheres else to go. God takes care of you and me. Someday we just might get the chance to give some back. Right now I'm gonna accept His blessing. I'm hungry and that food smells almighty good."

  "I have money. I'm not a charity case. How dare you call me poor folk, Rowland? I'm not like you. I made a good living. I have diamonds and a Mercedes and I live in....oh, God."

  She stared in horror at the pity on Rowland's face. It mirrored the image of herself in Virginia's rags.

  "Come inside, child," Rowland reached out for her arm. She swatted him away with a vengeance.

  "I'm not one of you. I don't belong here. I'm not poor. I'm not. Damn it, Rowland, get me out of here! Help me!"

  She fell into the old man's arms and he held her, patting her hair, trying to think of something soothing to say, but he was just not good at those kinds of words.

  "Oh, God, Rowland, they've taken everything from me. They're together. They're probably laying in each other’s arms right now and laughing at me. Damn you Morgan Wolfe. Damn you Virginia Essex. Both of you rot in hell."

  "Come inside now, child."

  "No. Just leave me alone."

  Rowland went inside without her after her repeated refusals. She stood outside the hall and watched the people come and go, her hate for Morgan and Virginia welling up again. They had brought her here, to the brink of her abyss and shoved her over the edge. The mental image of Virginia in Morgan's bed, her bed, ignited her bitterness. The endless procession of ragged poverty in and out of the mission, sickened and repulsed her. She rebelled against accepting that tonight she was one of them. Her animosity reached out to include every tattered soul that came and went from God's Kitchen.

  Clarissa screamed obscenities and hurled insults at them, railing and crying until her voice was hoarse and her energy spent. They ignored her ravings, giving her only a cursory glance. They had seen too many crazy people, drug induced hysterics, and mental illness in their neighborhood to care about one more of the lost that had taken the plunge and escaped the desperate reality.

  The church parking lot grew dark and the florescent lights were reflected in the rain puddles. Clouds gathered again, drifting across the evening sky, and intermittent rain drops rippled in the puddles. Clarissa leaned against the side of the building, the heaving sobs subsiding. The dark, gnarled fingers closed about her wrist and she tried to pull away.

  "It's starting to rain, child," Rowland spoke softly in his raspy whisper. She put her arms around his neck and buried her face in the rough tweed of his coat. "Alright, now. Alright. Come on, child. Get some warm food into your belly, you'll feel a whole lot better."

  She let him lead her into the noisy, brightly lit hall. She glared with contempt at the rows of long tables as Rowland gently ushered her into the line and pushed a red plastic tray in her hands. Clarissa paid little attention as he placed napkin wrapped plastic utensils on the tray and reached for a glass of milk for her. He eased her forward toward a server, a rotund Latino woman with a round face that smiled broadly.

  "She alright, Senor Rowland?" the woman asked as she put a plate of food on Clarissa's tray. "That was her outside bellowing at everybody?"

  "She'll be fine, Louisa" Rowland assured the server. "She's scared as all. Be alright."

  "Well, you look out for her, now," the woman said.

  "I got my eye on her," the old man replied. "She's stayin' at the Hempstead down the hall from me."

  Clarissa eyed the server contemptuously without saying anything and accepted a small dish of bread pudding. The smell of the food make her sick to her stomach and she felt as if she were going to pass out. She felt Rowland steady her and guide her toward a table where an old woman wrapped in a purple crocheted shawl sat alone at the far end. The Oriental woman eyed Clarissa as she passed, then pulled a wire cart filled with old clothing protectively closer to her. The woman went back to eating her dinner, occasionally watching Clarissa, and smiling with an empty grin tinged with madness.

  "I'm not hungry," Clarissa protested as she shoved the tray away.

  Rowland unwrapped the plastic fork and knife and began to cut the slice of ham. "Drink some of that milk," he said. "Get something into your stomach. Go ahead now, child. Go on."

  He kept urging her, turning her attention from the crowded hall to the food on her plate. She ate slowly at first, but it tasted so good and melted away the hunger pangs and the headache. When Clarissa looked up and wiped her mouth on the thin paper napkin, Rowland was grinning at her.

  "Now that feels a lot better, don't it, child?" he said.

  Clarissa gazed around at the banners hanging on the walls. Some read "Jesus Loves", others cited quotations from the Bible.

  "If Jesus loves us,"
Clarissa asked sarcastically, "then why are these people here, Rowland? Why are they hungry and homeless? If God cares at all, about any of us, he wouldn't let poverty happen. He wouldn't lock the doors of his churches at night, or keep his servants huddled behind their doors when someone needs help. He can't have much compassion, can he, if that baby over there is going hungry."

  "What, that baby over at that table?" Rowland pointed to a mother breast feeding and rocking a newborn wrapped in a blue blanket. "Looks like he's getting his dinner to me. God provided his mama with a good meal, she make him milk, he's gonna be just fine."

  "That mother wouldn't be here if she had the money to buy her family proper food," Clarissa countered.

  "The Lord ain't no bank, Miss Dugan," said Rowland. "He has His will and His ways. That woman needed food. The Lord provided nourishing food through the good people of this church. You got to look to the need. Let the Lord see to the means. God don't promise everybody eating off fine china in formal dining rooms, now does He?"

  "What about the homeless?" Clarissa persisted. "Why do people have to sleep in the streets? Why do they have to live in rat holes like the Hempstead Hotel? Where is God for them? Where is God for me?"

  "Where you put Him, child," said Rowland. "He's right where you put him. Lots of folks shut him out of their lives. They got bitter because they didn't get out of life what they expected. Blamed God for it. God ain't gonna force his way in. You got to invite Him. You look around you. You see God in this room and you see the results of the work of the devil. Takes time to heal, takes time to open your heart. Meantime, God sees to their needs."

  "What if I can't open my heart?" said Clarissa.

  "You can, child," Rowland smiled. "A little faith, a little patience. God's faithful. He knows. He's gonna carry you when you can't walk on your own. Just that sometimes you don't know that He's the one seeing you through them rough spots. Startin' to rain again." Rowland put the fedora back on his head. "We'd best be gettin' back."

  Rowland offered Clarissa his arm and they walked back to the Hempstead Hotel in the light rain.