Suspiciously she asked, “You do have the five dollars for the reading?”
“Of course.”
She extended a greedy hand for the bill, and when she had received it, gave me a lucky charm like the one Linnea had. “I guarantee my prayers will save you much pain, honey. I suggested I pray for your friend, but she said she would rather spend the money on liquor. She was very rude.”
“I’m sorry about that. Did you light candles often for Molly?”
“Oh, honey, I did. I planned to this last time, even though there seemed little hope of saving her.”
“Hmmm. Did you hear what happened to Gus?”
“Besides losing Molly, you mean?”
“Yes.” I explained what Sebastian had told me.
“Poor little man.” Anya shook her head. “Where will he go now?”
“Temporarily he can stay at Molly’s. But after the first of the month no one knows. I was talking to Herb Clemente earlier...”
“Clemente!” Anya’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes. He’s director of the Sunrise Blind Center.”
“I know who he is!”
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re not a friend of that swine?”
“I just met him tonight. What’s wrong?”
“Wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong! Look around this place. Do you see anyone?” She waved her arm violently.
I looked. “Just the bird.”
“That’s right.” She bobbed her head emphatically. “Just little Hugo and me. Jeffrey Neverman isn’t here and hasn’t been since that swine talked him into leaving home.”
“Wait a minute, Anya. Who’s Jeffrey? Your son?”
“My son?” Her voice rose an octave. “Jeffrey Neverman is my husband. At least he was until that Clemente lured him away from here.”
I remembered Clemente’s handyman, who had left his “dreadful old” wife. No wonder Clemente had smiled when Linnea mentioned Anya.
“How did Clemente lure him away?” I asked.
“By any number of vicious lies. That swine has an evil aura. He probably convinced Jeffrey he should run after younger, prettier women. Just because I’m ten years older than him is no reason to lust after young flesh.” Anya’s hand went to her face, and she rubbed it like a painful bruise.
I looked away from her anguish.
“He can’t have much luck with the ladies, though,” she muttered, more to herself than to me. “How could he, sleeping on the floor in the basement of that old church?”
“He lives in the old church at the Blind Center?”
She nodded. “And, after all he’s done, you must think I’m a fool to worry about him. But it’s damp and drafty there, and he catches cold so easily. Why he chooses to stay...” She paused, eyes swimming. “Yeah, I still love him. Dumb, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” I said, feeling uncomfortable in my new role of confidante.
“Well, I do, honey. I do.” She sighed heavily and blew her nose on a lace-bordered handkerchief.
I asked, “How did Jeffrey get his job at the Center?”
She sniffed disdainfully. “I don’t know as you can call it a job. He never does a lick of real work. Jeffrey met Herb Clemente when he got out of prison. Clemente gave him some counseling, but it didn’t take. Jeffrey still didn’t have a job when Clemente and the Blind Center moved in over there on Twenty-fourth Street, so he looked Clemente up. Clemente let him run some errands. Then, two months ago, Jeffrey up and informed me he was leaving, to go live there in the church.”
“Why was he in prison?”
Her long jaw became set. “Jeffrey used to be a trucker. He made good money, was even going to start his own company. But, no, he couldn’t be satisfied with that. He stole stuff from the loads he hauled, and they caught him. He went to prison for two years, and I stood by him the whole time. A lot of good it did me — look at the reward I got!”
I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, honey, that’s life. That’s life.” She rose heavily. “But it won’t go on much longer. I’m going to get him back soon. I have a plan. You just wait and see if I don’t get him back.” She held the door open for me. “You let me know about those candles on Friday, all right?”
I said I would and started downstairs.
On the dim third-floor landing, I remembered the lima beans in my purse. The package was wet and soggy, in spite of whatever insulation my thin macrame bag provided. I looked at my watch: nine-thirty, only three and a half hours since I had bought them. I hurried downstairs and outside.
The windows of the Albatross Superette were dark. Mr. Moe must have closed up early. I peered at the second story, where the grocer lived. No light showed there either.
My momentum fizzled out, and I stood still. What to do now? The night was relatively young.
Well, Mr. Moe wasn’t available, but maybe Sebastian could use some company. Even though the brush man was blind, I suspected he knew more of what went on in the neighborhood than those of us who could see. I dumped the soggy lima beans in a waste receptacle and started off for Twenty-fourth Street.
9
Even at nine-thirty, Twenty-fourth Street was well populated. People wandered along the sidewalks, in and out of the bars and hole-in-the-wall cafes. I walked along more purposefully.
The Sunrise Blind Center sat back from the sidewalk in shadow, its grounds surrounded by an iron fence. I was about to cross the street toward it when two figures came through the gate. Clemente and Linnea. They turned onto the sidewalk, walking close together, Clemente’s arm draped across Linnea’s shoulders. The Center’s director was a fast worker. For that matter, so was my friend.
I watched them walk away, then crossed and pushed through the creaking gate. A cement path led toward the floodlit front of the old church. All was quiet.
The church was adobe, its dark-timbered roof meeting in a peak over the front entry. The cross that had once adorned the peak was gone, and a brilliantly-hued, primitive mural of a sunrise spread across the triangular space below the roof line. Above the door, a crudely lettered inscription read:
“Sunrise, Beginning of New Life and Hope.”
Odd, for a blind center, I thought. None of the patients — or residents, as Clemente preferred to call them — would be able to see it.
The cement path continued around the building. There were lights in the former rectory and the convent, set far back on the deep lot. Another light spread across the path from a ground-level window of the church. On impulse, I pounded on a side door.
A tall, slender man with gray-flecked hair and a scraggly moustache answered. I recognized him as someone I’d seen around my apartment building. He stood in the doorway, swaying slightly, his pupils dilated as if he were high on something. His eyes focused on me, and he drew his bushy brows together in a laborious frown.
He said, “I didn’t order any pizza.”
“That’s good, because I didn’t bring any.”
The frown stayed in place. “Maybe not so good. Now that I think of it, I could use a pizza. Can’t remember when I ate last.” He pondered for a moment. “No, I really can’t remember. What do you want?”
“Are you Jeffrey Neverman?”
“Yes.” His tone was dubious, as if he weren’t really sure. “Who are you?”
“Sharon McCone. I live in Anya’s building.”
“Anya. Anya of the face like a foot.” Neverman swayed into the door frame, then recovered himself. “But I shouldn’t speak of Anya that way. She is my wedded wife. Come in.”
I stepped inside and almost toppled down a flight of stone steps. Neverman’s hand caught my shoulder. I felt its cold through my sweater.