“You haven’t seen her since?”
“Has something happened, Maggie? Your father?”
“No. Everything’s okay,” I said. People always seem to be waiting for my father’s obituary; when it comes, it will be a lulu. “Emily called. We talked about our brother, Marc. She said she had a surprise, said I had to meet her at four. But she didn’t show.”
“You know Emily,” she said, smiling as she shook her head. “She resides in that space between this world and her own. Sooner or later, she’ll remember your date.”
“Where is Dr. Emily?” Agnes Peter’s hairy companion demanded. “That woman’s not doing nothing about my new teeth. I told her the County won’t give me any new ones. What’s she gonna do about it?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Emily can only help you if your problem is contagious.”
“Yeah? Well, first one tooth fell out, then another. You tell me that ain’t contagious?”
“Will you settle for new socks, Mr. Barnard?” Agnes Peter took a pair of clean, but used, cotton socks from her jeans pocket. “Better hurry. Time to queue up for dinner.”
Mollified by the socks, Mr. Barnard tucked this boon inside his coat and hustled toward the line forming for soup.
“Where might you find Emily?” Agnes Peter mused as she unfolded the last of her chairs. “She’s been working on the measles epidemic for the last month or so. Have you tried County Health?”
“Yes,” I said. “And the Free Clinic, Harbor General, and the Clinico de la Raza. I have called or visited every place I could think of. I would have called you, if you’d had a telephone.”
“Maggie, we don’t even have a permanent zip code.” She touched my arm. “Are you worried about Emily?”
I shook my head. “No. It’s the date. Makes us all a little crazy. Emily sounded so happy when she called me. I need to know why.”
“Stay put,” Agnes Peter said. “The Elks are here.”
The Elks, five of them, in ties and raincoats, came in struggling under enormous plastic salad bowls. Agnes Peter was effusive with them, but they seemed ill-at-ease, eager to deposit their salad and leave. Perhaps they had been snared by Agnes Peter before.
With a skill that was half Fred Astaire and half Rambo, she somehow maneuvered the Elks toward the poor box at the end of the serving table. She gave them plenty of time to grope for their wallets before she shook each hand and allowed their exit.
Outside, it had started to rain again, harder now. The latecomers, androgynous in their plastic drapings, surged in and filled what space was left in the small shop.
I was keenly aware of the smell, of wet clothes and infrequent showers, the remnants of bait shop stench that even the onions in the sisters’ soup couldn’t cover.
It was time for prayers and the room fell still. Agnes Peter fingered her beads. She’ll always be a puzzle to me; a notorious rabble-rouser, she still closed her eyes for prayers. I read the familiar litany of grace on her lips but didn’t recite along with her. I had put all of that away a long time ago, at about the same time I packed away my bobby socks and blue plaid jumpers.
The diners looked more hungry than prayerful, but they waited patiently-the price to pay. Some of them kept their eyes open, like me. I always loved the secret feeling of spying on people during prayers, hoping to catch someone unawares, find out something useful. For my benefit, my older brother, Marc, used to pick his nose and pretend to eat it. He did this with his eyes closed to protect his place in heaven. For his sake, I hope it worked.
I gazed up, not toward heaven, but at the posters tacked to the walls. The messages were an odd mix. Obviously, some had moved in with Grace House, while others had been left by the previous tenant. A butcher-paper banner on one side wall promised JESUS LOVES YOU, its opposite offered FRESH NIGHTCRAWLERS. Both seemed appropriate.
When I looked down again, I found I was being stared at. A tiny little girl with enormous brown eyes peeked out at me through a curtain of ponchos. When I smiled, she only stared.
She looked pitiful, shrouded in an adult’s cheap plastic raincoat. But her hair was carefully combed back into a tight ponytail and her face was clean. She never took her eyes off my face, as if I was some sort of oddity, an interloper in the world she knew.
Agnes Peter crossed herself and came back to this mortal sphere. She followed my line of sight to the little girl.
“How’s your daughter, Maggie?” she asked.
“Casey’s fine. She’s spending the holidays in Denver with her dad. You know Scotty remarried?” I asked.
“Did he?” she asked, watching me closely. “How old is Casey now?”
“Twelve,” I said. “She’s already as tall as me.”
“Good nutrition,” she said knowingly.
I looked again at the little girl in the line. “Does she have a home?”
“Now and then. We got her and her aunt into a family shelter last week, but the aunt got into some problem there. Tonight they’ll probably go on the Salvation Army bus to the downtown mission.”
“On Skid Row?”
“Unless you have a better idea.” There was no challenge in the way she said this.
“You’re busy,” I said. “I’ll call tomorrow at the church. If you hear from Emily, I’ll be at her apartment.”
“Do you have a car?”
“Emily’s. She always leaves the key under the front seat. It’s hardly worth stealing, is it?”
“The VA hospital is pretty lenient about admissions when it’s raining. Don’t suppose you’d be able to drop a few of our vets off there on your way.”
“The VA isn’t on the way to Chinatown.”
“Worth a try, though, wasn’t it?”
I noticed Agnes Peter had walked me toward the poor box as she talked. I peeled off my last five and said a little prayer that the Volvo made it back to Chinatown.
Agnes Peter gave me a hug that smelled equally of onions and Zest.
“Don’t worry about Emily,” she said. “She’s somewhere, trying to keep busy. This morning, she asked me to light a candle at mass for your brother.”
“Did you?”
“Yes,” Agnes Peter said. “Twenty-two of them.”
Chapter Two
I HAD no idea what Chinatown did about Christmas, but votive candles in little jars pasted with decals of a blond Virgin Mary seemed an unlikely part of local tradition. I counted a dozen candles flickering on the covered stoop of Emily’s apartment building.
There hadn’t been any candles or pots of flowers on Emily’s stoop when I had arrived there straight from the airport at four o’clock. At four, it wasn’t dark enough for candles. Agnes Peter told me that Emily had spoken to her about lighting candles for Marc. That’s what I was thinking about when I saw them. Maybe Emily had set out the candles, I thought, as either a gesture toward custom or, more likely, some sort of nose-thumbing at Establishment rituals.
Whatever the reason for the candles, I was encouraged: if Emily had set them out, she couldn’t be too far away.
It was almost seven. I tried Emily’s apartment, and when there was no answer, buzzed her landlady, Mrs. Lim. Still no response. I pulled the collar of my sodden wool coat higher on my neck and went to the edge of the stoop to watch the rain and try to decide what to do next. If Em didn’t show soon, I had friends in L.A. I could impose upon for at least a ride back to the airport.
Across the street there was an eight-foot plaster Buddha with a line of Christmas lights strung between his hands. He grinned malevolently on traffic flowing north out of Downtown toward the Pasadena Freeway, traffic that was still heavy long after rush hour. I watched the cars, and the people trudging along the sidewalk, looking for Emily in everyone who passed.
I was beyond cranky. Except for a few doughnuts during filming breaks, I hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before. I thought there might be funds enough available on one of my MasterCards to cover moo shu pork and a few drinks at Hop Louie’s, a restaurant a block over on Gin Ling Way. The company of people who had homes to return to would be a nice change. What I really wanted was a hot bath and a warm bed. I had put in a long day even before I got on the plane from San Francisco.