Chapter 2
The suit was completely ruined. Fletcher, sensing her wrath, spent a split second sorting through the million and one possibilities programmed into his large cerebellum before selecting a single response which manifested itself in Fletcher's disappearing in an eye blink under the bed.
She did not scold the cat, resisting the temptation to poke at the creature with a broom handle. No, she'd let him wait under there. Forever, if he wanted to. She found herself wondering if it had been a mistake moving to the San Fernando Valley. Perhaps the move had upset Fletcher. The night before, when she'd sat with a purring Fletcher on her lap on her fourth floor apartment balcony, the full moon had appeared from the south, wreathed in a roseate ring of smog, the disk appearing desiccated and tired, lacking the energy to cast the hard bright beams of which Donica, only recently arrived from the less tainted higher elevations of Bel Air, knew it was capable. It was as though the blast furnace heat of the Valley had risen into the heavens and cooked the thing dry. Maybe Fletcher was trying to tell her he didn't like it in his new home. His dry, lifeless apartment. Was her own life to be the same? Dry, lifeless, lacking in light?
An hour later, Donica crested Mulholland at Laurel Canyon in the new Jaguar, the vehicle having been her singular reward from her share of the profits on the posh downtown condo, it's metal, plastic and glass fantasy now playing its sublime role as carriage to the future player she was to become. The Jag's sleek steel body at present was bumper to bumper with a primer gray Ford Pinto in front and a Chevy Cavalier in back, the lot of them but a minuscule part of a slow moving caravan of thousands of such as their kind linked together on the canyon road like a gigantic sectional steel snake, the entire multimillion dollar lot of them burning enough fossil fuels and other additives to power a small village. The Pinto had a Jesus bumper sticker somewhat the worse for wear. She wondered what kind of person still drove around in a Ford Pinto. Then checked herself for her pride. There was certainly nothing wrong in God's eyes with someone who drove a Ford Pinto. In spite of the fact that Pintos, in their day, had often exploded upon impact.
As a result of Fletcher's impropriety, Donica was wearing her only other viable option--the red power suit. Which was too tight in all the wrong places owing to a recent habit, a bad one, of enjoying potato chips and chocolate covered cherries alongside a large bowl of ice cream on her patio prior to calling it a night. Problem. It was a pants suit. Not the image she wanted to convey. Especially since H. Rodham Clinton was out of the spotlight and it was no longer in vogue to hide one's depressingly dumpy apple shape with the pants and smock approach H. Rodham had fooled nobody with. The red slacks had been primitively altered to adapt to her new, larger self, held in place by a chain of safety pins jury-rigged at the waist. The red jacket, fortunately, was short-waisted and cut square enough to have about it something of an aura of power under control. Except it didn't fit. The blasted thing, embroidered with her initials, designed to button smartly, hung open in the front, it being now impossible to button.
It would have to do. Forget about it and drive on. At which point she realized with a start she'd forgotten her makeup. Not simply forgotten to bring it with her, but forgotten to apply it. A quick glance in the visor mirror confirmed the worst. Her face, lacking even the simplest enhancements of foundation, eyeliner, or blush, had simply failed to appear in the harsh morning sunlight, and seemed to be nothing more than a blank disk punctuated with a couple of pale blue circles which served as peepholes through the mask.
A problem which could be fixed. There would be just enough time to stop at the Rite-Aid on Santa Monica Boulevard and purchase an emergency make-up fix. Did she have enough cash? She looked at her purse.
It was missing. Supposed to be on the seat beside her and wasn't. She could see it in her mind's eye, still sitting on the kitchen table. She'd simply walked out without it. Breathing deeply, she willed herself to relax. Turned up the KKGO. The jazz station. Acoustic Alchemy, Mr. Chow, one of her very favorites. Nothing for it but to simply relax. And pray. An answer would present itself. There was still plenty of time. An idea. Call Liz and have her pick up the makeup. Not. Cell phone was in the purse back at the apartment. Not a problem. She'd meet Liz at ten in the conference room. Liz would front her the cash. She'd have an hour to locate the makeup and get her face together. She could pick it up at one of the shops in the Century Plaza hotel, where they were sure to have a plentiful, but expensive supply the stuff. A deep breath. Everything was going according to plan. This was the day the Lord had made. She was more than a Conqueror. She was the righteousness of God. The affirmation firmed her up, began pulling together all the disparate and rebellious pieces. There was nothing now but to execute the plan she and Liz had carefully mapped out, bag the Mark Carson Law Firm account, and scream with delight all the way to the bank.
At which point all the warning lights lit up on the dash and the Jag went dead. It was the worst of all possible places, a narrow curve, about halfway down the mountain, a curve barely wide enough for two cars, a piece of road designed back in the 30's, when maybe ten cars a day used the thing. Not a place to stall and strand thousands of angry motorists. She almost felt the entire weight of them behind her, crushing her. The cars in front of her, including the Pinto, heading down the mountain, disappeared around the curve. The line of cars heading past her in the opposite lane up the mountain contained faces quick to stare and judge, each of them regarding her status with something akin to horror and relief that it was not they with the crippled vehicle.
With the air conditioning off, the interior became instantly claustrophobic in the sultry, bright heat. She instinctively pressed the button but the window did not go down. The horns began, and the anger and frustration of the angry drivers behind her could be felt. Fighting panic, she came up with a brainstorm. Easing her foot off the brake, she decided to coast the Jag down the hill. Not an easy task with the power steering out. In fact much harder than she anticipated. The wheel refused to crank fast enough and she missed the curve, her front end protruding into the oncoming lane. A screech of brakes from the approaching uphill vehicle seeking to avoid the collision. A red Camaro, with a thin young Hispanic girl with great hair and mean sunglasses driving, the kind of woman who wore tattoos proudly, her face already set in angry lines at having to slam on the brakes, staring killing bolts in Donica's direction. The rest of the uphill traffic tightened up. There was now no way the car in front of her could back out and let her wrestle the Jag back into her lane. Sweating bullets, she gave the wheel a heroic tug. Which responded by locking tight. Donica stared with horror at the scenario. In a single instant, on a day when the San Diego Freeway had closed, and alternate routes were more important than oxygen to the harried commuters, she had managed to paralyze an entire canyon full of autos. To choke off a major route. She had to get out of the car. Perhaps if she stood helplessly by, looking properly penitential in her red martyr's garb, someone would help her.
But for some reason, the door would not open. It, too, had failed to function, along with the rest of the car. There was a noise. Something strange and yet familiar. With a start she realized it was coming from her own throat. A whine, which, if left unchecked, would almost certainly become a scream. And if it did that, if it did become a scream, where would it end? She wasn't entirely sure.
Then she saw it. Backing uphill toward her. The primer gray Ford Pinto with the Jesus bumper sticker which had been her front bumper companion. The Pinto stopped just short of exploding upon contact with her bumper, and out stepped what could easily be described as a very large man, of the sort who perhaps enjoyed a starting spot on the Raiders front four, or was the brother of someone who'd medaled at weightlifting in the Olympics, and in whose family the men generally ran to bigness. She wondered what his mother looked like. An Alaskan Kodiak, perhaps.
God had not been overly kind to the man's
face, it being large and square, with more than a little scar tissue around the eyes. But except for a nose like a smashed bratwurst, the man's face was not unhandsome.
The man was dressed for some sort of employment which required he not care if he got dirty--a loose fitting yellow tent of a T-shirt draped over faded blue jeans and heavy work boots. He stood peering in at Donica for a moment. She guessed his weight at maybe three hundred, three fifteen, not much of it fat. Their eyes met, and for a brief instant, she felt as though she had just become the man's prey. Perhaps because of the unblinking nature of his gaze. His eyes were a deep, chocolate brown, almost muddy, lacking completely in expression and hard to read. Without breaking eye contact, the man squatted down, grabbed the Jag by the nose and with a shout lifted and walked the nose of the car a good four feet to his left, clearing the uphill lane, which began to flow immediately and gratefully toward the summit, albeit not without a rude gesture from the girl in the red Camaro.
In the excitement of the encounter, at being lifted and dropped by the giant, Donica's foot slipped off the break and the Jag pressed down on the man, forcing him backwards into the Pinto. She'd never seen a big man jump the way he did, straight up, lightning quick, clearing the hood of the Jag in the split second remaining before she plowed into the back of the Pinto. Now she'd done it. She had a giant crouched on the hood of her car. In seconds, the Pinto would be exploding and the two of them would be engulfed with a loud noise and a rush of heat. This was how it was going to end. She sealed in her silent sedan, he a human torch on the hood.
He laughed. The Pinto didn't explode. All was right with the world.
"Out of gas?"
What? She heard a voice. Deep. Like that, perhaps of Robert Goulet in full congregational throat. Or Chuck Heston, telling the Pharaoh where it was at. It was him. The giant. He was speaking.
"C'mon out, lady, you can't just sit in your car. The rest of the world is trying to get to work."
"I'm trapped. The door won't open. And it's hot. I can hardly breathe."
He slid off the hood and pulled on the door handle. No result.
"You can open it," he said.
"No I can't. There's something wrong."
"Do you want me to open it?"
"Yes."
"I can open it, but it means breaking a window," he said.
Donica nodded.
"You sure?"
She nodded again. And witnessed something new. The stranger did not return to his car to retrieve a hammer or a rock or other object for breaking her window. He simply drove one gigantic fist straight through the rear window. And reached one long arm in, brushing past her frightened, hunched up form, and unlocked her door. The incoming air carried with it hope, and promise.
"I could have done it," she said.
"You could have, but you panicked. It's okay. You got a cell phone?"
"No."
At which his eyes widened. "No cell phone? That's a first."
"I forgot it this morning after the cat threw up on my dress. This entire mess is because I moved to a new apartment and my cat hates it, and he's retaliating, and I can't move back home because Bel Air is burning. Now I'm going to be late for a clown show with my mother. If the safety pins hold and I can find some makeup, I should be closing the deal of a lifetime in about three hours from now."
"Oh. Now I understand. How'd you lose control?"
"The power steering is out. I couldn't turn the wheel fast enough to make the curve."
"Yeh. I can see how that could happen. Tell you what. You drive the Pinto, and I'll coast the Jag down to the first turnout. Or we can just hop in the Pinto and leave the Jag where it is, strangling the road."
"What?"
"That's a joke."
"We've got to get out of here. Did you say I could drive your Pinto?"
"Yeh. All you have to do is shove it into Drive and ease on down the hill. I'll follow in the Jag."
"Yes."
"Just to the first turnout. It's only another mile."
She stepped onto the road.
"I'm Donica Kelly," she said. "I--"
"--I'm John Knock. We'll do the introductions later. Why don't we give everybody a break and get the show on the road?"
John Knock. An Irishman. Of somewhat legendary strength. Was there a connection? Her ancestors hailed from County Knock. A coincidence? She filed this fact for further reflection and climbed into the Pinto. She had no idea what year the thing was, but it was clearly from an era when nobody minded a lot of exposed metal and nuts and bolts. This spirit of the design was along the order of a large bucket of shrapnel waiting for an accident to release it en masse into the bodies of the unfortunate driver and any luckless passengers who might chance to be aboard. The sort of car Ralph Nader undoubtedly once loudly proclaimed against in many a newsletter. A real death trap.
To make matters worse, the seat was too far back. And the blasted thing wouldn't adjust forward, the adjustment lever itself loose, unattached to any sort of cabling mechanism or spring which might be helpful. She extended forth her foot, but it did not reach either the gas pedal or the brake. Apparently, John Knock's legs were a good 12 inches longer than her own. She glanced in the rear mirror, seeking perhaps some sign he might be sympathetic to her plight, but he was already signaling her to hurry up from where he sat in her car, the back of his hand flicking in her direction, as though she was an insect in urgent need of shooing away. So she sat herself forward and upright on the edge of the seat, which allowed her foot to reach the pedals but did not allow any support for her back.
Holding onto the steering wheel of the gray Pinto, both hands gripping it tightly at the top, Donica felt as though it was the pommel of a particularly dangerous horse. Which perhaps it was, this sorry steed of steel, plastic and glass. Although certainly an unlikely version of the white Charger a Knight was generally believed to employ in the urgent rescuing of damsels. The horns behind her were beginning again. Her indecision was causing the wastage of those precious minutes of other people's time, time which could never be regained, time which for the moment, the collective consensus of the stalled gaggle of persons had decided was best spent being angry and festooning the air with klaxon decibels which echoed down the canyon and out into the universe. Perhaps picked up from there by the ear of an angel or two and carried all the way to the Third Heaven. At which point Divine retribution might even be forthcoming. Headline--Lightning Bolt From God Strikes Pinto. She put the car in Drive. Which began for her the unfamiliar process of navigating the most dangerous car ever built down the steeply curving canyon road, behind her a giant in a dead Jaguar, following close.
He'd forgotten to tell her the steering assembly was loose. There was a sound of chains rattling. And before she could correct for the obscene amount of play, the car ran straight up the sharply banked hill, revved crazily for a split second as the rear tires hung in the air before the carcass of the vehicle rolled swiftly over more than a couple of times down the hill. No seatbelt. Tumbling, sometimes weightless, with occasional incredible grinding sounds, and whumping, accompanied by a shrieking noise issuing from her throat which Donica understood in some remote part of her brain was a noise made only once or twice in a lifetime, and only by those who were absolutely certain they were about to die.