How Like an Angel

Two

Quinn was awakened, while it was still dark, by someone shaking him vigorously by the shoulder. He opened his eyes.

A short fat man, carrying a lantern, was peering down at him through thick-lensed spectacles. “My goodness gracious, I was beginning to think you were dead. You must get up now, immediately.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter. It’s time to arise and greet the new day. I am Brother of the Steady Heart. Sister Blessing told me to give you a shave and some breakfast before the others get up.”

“What time is it?”

“We have no clocks at the Tower. I’ll be waiting for you in the washroom.”

Quinn soon found out how some of the Brothers had acquired the scars on their chins and scalps. The razor was dull, the light from the lantern feeble, and Brother of the Steady Heart near-sighted.

“My, you are a jumpy one,” Brother Heart said with amiable interest. “I guess you suffer from bad nerves, eh?”

“At times.”

“While I’m at it I could give your hair a bit of a trim.”

“No thanks. The shave’s plenty. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Sister Blessing said I was to make you look as much like a gentleman as possible. She’s taken quite a fancy to you, seems to me. It kind of rouses my curiosity.”

“It kind of rouses mine, too, Brother.”

Brother Heart looked as though he wanted to pursue the subject but didn’t dare pry into Sister Blessing’s affairs or state of mind. “Well, I’ll go now and make breakfast. I have the fire lit, won’t take a minute to boil some eggs for the two of us.”

“Why will there just be two of us?”

Brother Heart’s pudgy face turned pink. “It will be more peaceful without Sister Contrition around, she’s the regular cook. Oh, but that woman’s a devil in the morning. Sour, there’s nothing worse than a woman gone sour.”

By the time Quinn finished dressing and went over to the dining room, Brother of the Steady Heart had breakfast waiting on the table, boiled eggs and bread and jam. He continued the conversation as if it hadn’t been interrupted: “In my day, the ladies didn’t own such sharp tongues. They were quiet-spoken and fragile, and had small, delicate feet. Have you noticed what big feet the women have around here?”

“Not particularly.”

“Alas, they have. Very large, flat feet.”

For all his barber-shop chattiness, Brother Heart seemed nervous. He barely touched his food and he kept glancing over his shoulder as if he expected someone to sneak up on him.

Quinn said, “Why the big hurry to get rid of me before the others are up?”

“Well, now. Well, I wouldn’t exactly put it that way.”

“I would.”

“It has nothing to do with you personally, Mr. Quinn. It’s just, well, you might call it a precautionary measure.”

“I might, if I knew what you were talking about.”

Brother Heart hesitated for a moment, biting his underlip as though it itched to talk. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. It concerns Sister Contrition’s oldest child, Karma. Last time the truck was going to the city the girl hid in the back, under some burlap sacks. Brother Crown of Thorns drove halfway to San Felice before he discovered her. The burlap made her sneeze. Karma went to school for a while, it filled her head with bad ideas. She wants to leave here and find work in the city.”

“And that’s not possible?”

“Oh no, no. The child would be lost in the city. Here at least she is poor among poor.”

The sun was beginning to rise and a faint rosy glow filled the skylight. From the invisible Tower came the sound of the gong, and almost immediately Sister Blessing hurried in the door. “The truck is ready, Mr. Quinn. You mustn’t keep Brother Crown of Thorns waiting. Here, let me have your coat and I’ll give it a good brushing.”

Quinn had already brushed it but he gave it to her anyway. She took it outside and made a few swipes at it with her hand.

“Come along, Mr. Quinn. Brother Crown has a long day ahead of him.”

He put his coat back on and followed her down the path to the dirt road. She said nothing about either the money or O’Gorman. Quinn had an uneasy feeling that she’d forgotten what happened the previous night and that she was a little crazier than he’d thought at first.

An old Chevrolet truck, lights on and engine chugging, was parked in the middle of the road. Behind the wheel, wearing a straw hat over his shaved head, sat a man younger than the Brothers Quinn had met so far. Quinn guessed his age to be about forty. Brother Crown of Thorns acknowledged Sister Blessing’s introduction with a brief smile that revealed a front tooth missing.

“At San Felice, Brother Crown will let you off wherever you wish, Mr. Quinn.”

“Thanks,” Quinn said, getting into the truck. “But about O’Gor—”

Sister Blessing looked blank. “Have a good trip. And drive carefully, Brother Crown. And don’t forget, if there are temptations in the city, turn your back. If people stare, lower your eyes. If they make remarks, be deaf.”

“Amen, Sister.”

“As for you, Mr. Quinn, the most I can ask is that you behave with discretion.”

“Sister, listen—about the money—”

“Au revoir, Mr. Quinn.”

The truck started rolling down the road. Quinn turned to look back at Sister Blessing but she had already disappeared among the trees.

He thought, Maybe the whole thing never happened and I’m crazier than the bunch of them put together. Which is quite a bit crazy.

He said, shouting over the noise of the engine, “A fine woman, Sister Blessing.”

“What’s that? Can’t hear you.”

“Sister Blessing is a fine woman but she’s getting old. Maybe she forgets things now and then?”

“I wish she would.”

“Perhaps just little things, occasionally?”

“Not her,” Brother Crown of Thorns said, shaking his head in reluctant admiration. “Memory like an elephant. Turn down your window, will you? God’s air is fresh.”

It was also cold, but Quinn turned the window down and his collar up and put his hands in his pockets. His fingers touched the cool smoothness of money.

He looked back in the direction of the Tower and said silently, “Au revoir, Sister. I think.”

Because of the twisting roads and the age and temperament of the truck’s engine, it took more than two hours to reach San Felice, a narrow strip of land wedged between the mountains and the sea. It was an old, rich, and very conservative city which held itself aloof from the rest of Southern California. Its streets were filled with spry elderly ladies and tanned elderly men and athletic young people who looked as if they’d been born on tennis courts and beaches and golf courses. Seeing the city again Quinn realized that Doris, with her platinum hair and heavy make-up, would feel conspicuous in it, and feeling that way she would make it a point to look even more conspicuous and end up beaten. No, Doris would never fit in. She was a night person and San Felice was a city of day people. For them dawn was the beginning of a day, not the tail-end of a night, and Sister Blessing and Brother Crown, for all their strange attire, would look more at home among them than Doris. Or me, Quinn thought, and he felt his plans and resolutions dissolving inside himself. I don’t belong here. I’m too old for tennis and skin-diving, and too young for checkers and canasta.

His fingers curled around the money in his pocket. A hundred and twenty dollars plus the three hundred Tom Jurgensen owed him made four hundred and twenty. If he went back to Reno and played carefully, if his luck was good—

“Where do you want to get off at?” Brother Crown said. “I’m going to Sears myself.”

“Sears will be fine.”

“You got a friend in town?”

“I had one. Maybe I’ve still got him.”

Brother Crown pulled into the parking lot behind Sears and braked the truck to a noisy stop. “Here you are, safe and sound, like I promised Sister Blessing. You and the Sister ever meet before?”

“No.”

“She don’t always make such a how-de-do over strangers.”

“Maybe I remind her of somebody.”

“You don’t remind me of nobody.” Brother Crown climbed down from the truck and started shuffling across the parking lot toward the back door of Sears.

“Thanks for the ride, Brother,” Quinn called out after him.

“Amen.”

It was nine o’clock, eighteen hours since Sister Blessing had welcomed him to the Tower as a stranger and treated him like a friend. He touched the money in his pocket again. He could feel its strings pulling at him and he wished he hadn’t taken it. He thought of running after Brother Crown and giving it to him to return to Sister Blessing. Then he remembered that the possession of private money was not allowed at the Tower and handing it over now to Brother Crown would get Sister Blessing into trouble, perhaps of a very serious kind.

He turned and began walking quickly toward State Street.

Tom Jurgensen sold boats and marine insurance down at the foot of the breakwater. He had a tiny office whose windows were plastered with For Sale signs and pictures of yawls and sloops and ketches and cutters and schooners, most of them under sail.

When Quinn entered, Jurgensen was smoking a cigar and talking into the telephone which perched affectionately on his shoulder the way Brother Tongue’s little bird had perched on his. “Sails by Rattsey, so what. The thing’s a tub. I’m not bidding.”

He put the phone down and leaned over the desk to shake Quinn’s hand. “Well, Joe Quinn himself in person. How’s the old boy?”

“Older. Also broke.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that, Joe. Business has been lousy. This isn’t a rich man’s town any more. The penny-pinching middle class has moved in and they don’t care about teakwood or mahogany, all they want—” Jurgensen broke off with a sigh. “You’re absolutely flat?”

“Except for a little money that belongs to someone else.”

“Since when did you ever let that worry you, Joe? I’m being funny, of course, ha ha.”

“Ha ha, sure you are,” Quinn said. “I’ve got your I.O.U. for three hundred dollars. I want the money now.”

“I don’t have it. This is damned embarrassing, old boy, but I just don’t have it. If you’d settle for a boat, I’ve got a nice little sea mew, 300-pound keel, Watts sails, gaff rig—”

“Just what I need to get around Venice. Only I’m not going to Venice.”

“Keep your shirt on, it was just a suggestion. I suppose you already have a car?”

“Bad supposing, Tom.”

“Well, there’s this crate—this dandy little’ 54 Ford Victoria my wife’s been driving. She’ll put up a terrible squawk if I take it away from her but what can I do? It’s worth at least three hundred. Two-tone blue and cream, white-walls, heater, radio.”

“I could do better than that on a’ 54 Ford in Reno.”

“You’re not in Reno like you’re not in Venice,” Jurgensen said. “It’s the best I can do for you right now. Either take the car in full payment or use it until I can scrape up your money. It will suit me better if you just borrow it. That way Helen will be a little easier to handle.”

“It’s a deal. Where’s the car?”

“Parked in the garage behind my house, 631 Gaviota Road. It hasn’t been used for a week—Helen’s visiting her mother in Denver—so you might have a little trouble starting it. Here are the keys. You going to be in town for a while, Joe?”

“In and out, I expect.”

“Call me in a couple of weeks. I may have your money then. And take care of the crate or Helen will accuse me of losing it in a poker game. She may anyway, but—” Jurgensen spread his hands and shrugged. “You’re looking pretty good, Joe.”

“Early to bed and early to rise puts color in the cheeks and sparkle in the eyes. Like they say.”

“Like who says?”

“The Brothers and Sisters of the Tower of Heaven.”

Jurgensen raised his eyebrows. “You taken up religion or something?”

“Something,” Quinn said. “Thanks for the car and I’ll see you later.”

Quinn had no trouble starting the car. He drove to a gas station, filled up the tank, added a quart of oil and parted with the first of Sister Blessing’s twenty-dollar bills.

He asked the attendant the best way to get to Chicote.

“If it was me now, I’d follow 101 to Ventura, then cut over to 99. It’s longer that way but you don’t get stuck on 150, which hasn’t half a mile of straightaway from one end to the other. You save trading stamps, sir?”

“I guess I could start.”

As soon as he turned inland, at Ventura, he began to regret not waiting until night to make the trip. The bare hills, alternating with lemon and walnut groves, shimmered in the relentless sun, and the air was so dry that the cigarettes he’d bought in San Felice snapped in two in his fingers. He tried to cool off by thinking of San Felice, the breeze from the ocean and the harbor dotted with sails, but the contrast only made him more uncomfortable and he stopped thinking entirely for a while, surrendering himself to the heat.

He reached Chicote at noon. Since his last visit the small city had changed, grown bigger but not up and certainly not better. Fringed by oil wells and inhabited by the people who lived off them, it lay flat and brown and hard like something a cook had forgotten to take out of the oven. Underprivileged trees grew stunted along streets dividing new housing tracts from old slums. Small children played in the dust and weeds of vacant lots, looking just as contented as the children playing in the clean white sand of the San Felice beaches. It was in the teen-agers that Quinn saw the uneasiness caused by a too quick and easy prosperity. They cruised aimlessly up and down the streets in brand new convertibles and ranch wagons. They stopped only at drive-in movies and drive-in malt shops and restaurants, keeping to their cars the way soldiers in enemy territory kept to their tanks.

Quinn bought what he needed at a drugstore and checked in at a motel near the center of town. Then he ate lunch in an air-conditioned café that was so cold he had to turn up the collar of his tweed jacket while he ate.

When he had finished he went to the phone booth at the rear of the café. Patrick O’Gorman was listed in the directory as living at 702 Olive Street.

So that’s all there is to it, Quinn thought with a mixture of pleasure and disappointment. O’Gorman’s still in Chicote and I’ve made a quick hundred and twenty dollars. I’ll drive back to the Tower in the morning, give Sister Blessing the information, and then head for Reno.

It seemed very simple, and yet the simplicity of it worried Quinn. If this was all there was to it, why had Sister Blessing played it so close to the chest? Why hadn’t she just asked Brother Crown to call O’Gorman from San Felice or look up his address in the out-of-town phone books stocked both by the public library and the main telephone office? Quinn couldn’t believe that she hadn’t thought of both these possibilities. She was, in her own words and by Quinn’s own observation, no fool. Yet she had paid a hundred and twenty dollars for information she could have got from a two-dollar phone call.

He put a dime in the slot and dialed O’Gorman’s number.

A girl answered, breathlessly, as if she had raced somebody else to the phone. “This is the O’Gorman residence.”

“Is Mr. O’Gorman there, please?”

“Richard’s not a mister,” the girl said with a giggle. “He’s only twelve.”

“I meant your father.”

“My fath—? Just a minute.”

There was a scurry at the other end of the line, then a woman’s voice, stilted and self-conscious: “To whom did you wish to speak?”

“Mr. Patrick O’Gorman.”

“I’m sorry, he’s not—not here.”

“When do you expect him back?”

“I don’t expect him back at all.”

“Perhaps you could tell me where I can reach him?”

“Mr. O’Gorman died five years ago,” the woman said and hung up.