Continuing down Slauson, she angled southwest toward the Mother's church. Frank recognized her vintage, cherry-red Cadillac parked at the curb. Admiring the finned drop-top's showroom condition, Frank wondered what she was doing here.
She'd come as if on autopilot. She had nothing to confront the Mother with and the woman was far too savvy for Frank to run any type of bluff on. Bludgeonings, poisonings, drownings, shootings, shovings, shakings; electrocutions, defenestrations, exsanguinations, eviscerations, disarticulations, immolations—there wasn't an "ing" or a "tion" Frank hadn't seen. The Mother's alleged homicide was only slightly artful, yet Frank had to admit that after almost two decades of dealing with mentalities that natural selection had somehow overlooked, she was intrigued by the Mother's guile and ability. Was she really that good a con? Did she have connections in the system?
Maybe she put good luck spells on herself, Frank mused. Curiosity drew her from the car. The engine ticked behind her as she stepped across dead, yellow grass. The lawn was dried out, but neatly trimmed. Beds of flowers flanked the entrance to the simple, white-washed building. There was no graffiti on it and the church's name was high above the door where taggers would really have to work to get it.
The large, double door was locked. Frank stepped around the side where a smaller door stood open. Pushing her RayBans onto her head, she peered inside. She quickly noted a rectangular, windowless room, painted scarlet and banana-yellow. Plants splayed from clay pots. Fronds and vines were trained over a sky-blue ceiling. Rows of white benches were lined symmetrically on both sides of the center aisle. They stopped a respectful distance from a small pulpit.
One of the Mother's twins was watering plants and the Mother was adding greenery to the pulpit. She paused, turning toward Frank, even though Frank had entered without a sound.
"You said to drop by."
"Well, here you are, then," the older woman replied with a sweep of her bangled arm. "Welcome to my church."
Frank walked to the pulpit, while the Mother eyed her from soles to crown. Frank was aware of the twin cautiously returning to his work. She took in a life-size black Jesus crucified on the front wall and two child-sized plaster saints at its feet.
"Who are they?" she asked, more to make conversation than out of curiosity.
The Mother looked at the statues, appearing amused.
"They are Saint Michael and Saint Barbara."
"So this is a Catholic church?"
"Not quite," the Mother flashed a bright grin. "But some of the saints are associated with the gods of my faith."
"Which faith is that?"
With the same air of bemusement, the Mother replied, "You have a lot of questions, child."
"That's 'cause I don't have a lot of answers." Frank took in the room, asking, "So what do you do here? Save souls or something?"
Now the Mother laughed outright. It was a high, clear sound, like a bell tinkling, and Frank smiled, willing to be the rube.
"I can't save anybody's soul for them. We save our own souls."
"You don't wash them in the blood of the lamb and all that jazz?"
The Mother stared as if Frank was teasing her.
"No, I'm serious. How do you run this place? What do you do for the people that come here?"
"I am a bridge between the people and their gods. The people are here, the gods are here. Sometimes they just need help coming together."
"So you're like a spiritual matchmaker?"
"I guess you could call me that."
Mother Love hit Frank with a dazzling smile, her intensity mesmerizing. Frank searched the keen amber eyes, understanding how the Mother could had such loyal followers. She broke from the Mother's charismatic tug to examine a framed document on the back wall. A stamped and sealed certificate ordained the Mother as a spiritual minister. Three other frames showed a business license, the church's articles of incorporation, and another ordination certificate recognizing Crystal Love Jones as a priestess of the Church of Lukumi.
"This Church of the Lukumi," Frank said. "That's santeria, isn't it?"
The Mother scoffed, "Santeria is a Latin corruption of the ancient African religion. What we practice in the Church of the Lukumi are our ancestral beliefs."
"So santeria's Latin and Lukumi's African?" Frank pressed.
"Lukumi is pure. It doesn't have the mix of Catholicism that santeria does."
Waving at the saints, Frank contended, "Seems like you got some taint going on here."
The Mother's eyes lit up and Frank realized the Mother wouldn't brook challenge.
"It's for them," the Mother said with a finger toward the door. "The ones who don't accept the true faith. I don't need these false gods, they do. Many of my worshippers have been with me since I started the spiritual church. I didn't want to alienate them when my faith turned down a new road. The saints are easier for them to understand than the African deities, and because the deities correspond to the saints, I use them here. This satisfies all my worshippers."
"I see. They make your brand of paganism easier to swallow."
"I'm assuming"—the Mother etched her words with acid—"that you didn't mean to offend me but are simply showing your ignorance."
"Please assume that," Frank said with a show of humility. "I just meant paganism as opposed to conventional Christianity."
"The Church of the Lukumi is based on African beliefs older than any white belief system. If anything is pagan here, it's Christianity."
"You don't have to preach to me," Frank protested. "I don't care one way or the other."
"Child, of what faith are you?"
"Lapsed Catholic," Frank lied, uncomfortable admitting she was of no faith. "You wear quite a few hats. Minister. Priestess. Fortuneteller."
The Mother surprised Frank by laughing, "Oh, I wish I could tell the future. I have a gift, child, that's all. Sometimes I can see things before they happen and I often make accurate predictions using the diloggun. Those are cowry shells," she explained patronizingly. "The deities speak to me through them."
Though the offenders Frank dealt with rarely considered anything more complex than how to get laid and where to score, Frank nonetheless enjoyed seeing how a criminal mind worked. The Mother was giving her a toy store to play in. The woman was obviously bright, but short on humor; wary, yet boastful. Frank quickly pegged pride as a major gap in her defenses. Especially after such a long run of consistently defying the odds.
"Are you like a channeler or something?"
"A channeler, a priest, a psychiatrist, a doctor. Child, I'm all of those things."
"A doctor?"
"I heal people. Sometimes all they need is someone to listen; unburdening their souls is half the cure. Other times they require teas or balms. When their ailments are more serious, I call on the gods to intervene on my clients' behalf."
"And how much do you charge for these services?"
"It depends." The Mother lifted her shoulders.
"On?"
"The severity of the problem. How much time it will take to effect a cure. The materials I use."
"What materials do you use?"
She shrugged again.
"It depends."
Frank monitored the Mother's reaction as she asked, "Do you sacrifice animals?"
"Sometimes," was the offhand reply. "Again. It depends on the nature of the problem."
"Give me an example."
"All right. A client comes to me—"
"—are your clients the members of your congregation?"
"Sometimes. Not always," the Mother answered, annoyed at the interruption. "They come to me with a problem. It could be something as simple as a client's lost her wedding ring to a case as serious as someone's boy got shot in the heart four times. Sometimes I can find the ring using the diloggun. The gods suggest where to look for the lost item. To thank them we offer their favorite food and drink. For something as complicated as saving a life, larger sacrifices are required. A life for a life."