Beating Kings and Burning Angels

Beating Kings and Burning Angels By Lewis James

DigitalPulp Publishing 121 S Palm Canyon Drive #225 Palm Springs, CA 92262 www.DigitalPulpPublishing.com Copyright © Lewis James, 2005 Published by arrangement with the author All Rights reserved, Including the right of reproduction, in whole or part, in any form. This publication may not Be stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in Any form or by any means, Electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise Without prior written permission for the publisher ISBN 0-9763083-4-7 Lewis James Beating Kings and Burning Angels Los Angeles, Rodney King Riots, Mortgage Banking

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This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. A resemblance to actual events, locales, organization or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

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Dedicated to those that taught me the mortgage ropes: Walter Thurman, Larry Hoffman, and Janel Glover.

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Wednesday Harry Sherman Virginia Tim Tyranda

Beating Kings and Burning Angels

Harry A headless man appeared to be standing in the darkness of Harry’s backyard. Artificial light from Harry’s living room streamed through glass patio doors, illuminating the wicker chair he sat on and slashing across the neck of the man in his backyard. The shafting light left the man’s head in shadow, creating the illusion of decapitation. A raw rope burn encircled the man’s neck. Harry knew by the rope burn that the man was Hank. In the years after the long and humid night of his murder, Hank had visited Harry’s dreams a lot. Now it seemed that Hank only came into Harry’s dreams when Harry sailed with Wade or drank whiskey with Daniel of the Bear Republic Militia. In his dream, Harry took a cassette tape from his pocket and rose from his wicker chair. As he walked towards Hank, a priest from Harry’s teenage past in Minnesota suddenly materialized. Father Collins held a pair of leather boxing gloves in his left hand, blood dripping from their white ends. Before Hank could take the offered tape, consciousness overtook Harry’s nightmare and he awoke drenched in sweat. The bedroom clock on the nightstand next to his sleeping wife read 4:55am. After a quick shower to remove the sweat of his nightmare, Harry toweled, put on a bathrobe, and headed for his basement. Harry’s house, originally built in 1923, was one of the few in Palos Verdes to have a basement, and it was certainly the only one to have a basement with 57 guns and 82 different brands of wine. Harry turned on just one bank of lights so as not to wake Daniel who had passed out from too much whiskey. Harry could hear Daniel’s raspy snores as he walked through the center of his wine collection. The basement contained eight sixby-six foot wine racks. Harry paused to select a bottle of Argentine Pinot. Harry smiled at Daniel as he placed the wine bottle down on a desk beneath a huge Bear Republic Militia flag pinned to the wall. Daniel slept on a synthetic leather couch next to the desk, covered in a thick white blanket Harry had placed over him. Ten guns were showcased lengthwise on the wall above him, with small gold plaques specifying make, model, year constructed, and caliber of bullet. The latest addition to Harry’s gun collection, an Enfield dating back to the Civil War, was directly above Daniel’s head. Harry had attached it to the wall earlier in the night, explaining its historical significance as they drank whiskey. Enfield talk lead to stories of Harry’s years with the newly formed U.S. Special Forces during the Korean War. When they’d drunk half a bottle of Jack Daniels, Daniel talked as Harry listened. Whiskey and the smell of well-oiled guns loosened Daniel’s tongue, and Harry heard the anger in Daniel’s voice as he talked about the assassination Carl had ordered via the Brotherhood. It wasn’t that Daniel cared about The Stone, he had explained, it was that Carl’s personal dislike threatened to interfere with the deeper agenda of their movement. Harry sat down at his desk and uncorked the bottle of Pinot. He looked at Daniel’s genteel sleeping face. After a few minutes, Harry poured himself a glass of wine. He drank slowly, letting his mind diffuse into inner uncharted depths, into murky seas of conflicting motives and divided loyalties. On Harry’s desk, a stack of Bear Republic pamphlets rested against a cigar box. He reached for the cigar box and opened it. The box was filled with mediocre Nicaraguan cigars that Carl, founder of the Bear Republic Militia, had given him a few weeks back. With any luck he would receive some high quality Havanas from Kenji during their noon refinance.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Harry turned the wooden box over and dumped the cigars out onto his desk before working out the box’s false bottom with a Swiss Army knife. The secret compartment contained a black and white photo of Harry and Hank. They were arm in arm, laughing and drinking beer. Harry held the picture up for a long time and thought about Hank, reminding himself why he was meeting with Wade, of what Friday’s sail to Catalina was all about. Harry put the picture and all but one of the cigars back into the box. He poured himself another glass of wine as he got up from his desk and headed out of the basement, turning the lights off as he left. Harry walked out to a wicker chair on his redwood deck. No headless Hank was in his backyard as he sat down and lit a cigar, there was no Father Collins holding boxing gloves oozing Harry’s blood. The deck stretched across the backyard and overlooked an immaculate lawn. The lawn gave way to an extensive vegetable garden that was slowly coming into focus as dawn ate away the night. Harry watched the exhaust of his cigar contort in the slight dawn breeze, moving like a ghost jellyfish out over his backyard. He scratched his brown and white chest hair as he watched dawn reveal the items he would have to go and gather for tonight’s gumbo. He scratched beneath a medallion that hung by a gold chain around his neck. That gold anchor and silver crucifix medallion, a sailor’s medallion, had hung around Harry’s neck for over thirty years. At 58, Harry was white-bearded and semi-balding, with priorities centered on gardening, cooking, gun collecting, and his 35-foot Ericson. Natalie, Harry’s wife, used to be the center of his universe, but a drift had begun years ago, a slow and steady separation into private spheres. The tension between Natalie’s abhorrence of the Bear Republic Militia and her acceptance of Harry being a member, seemed to have numbed her, to have caused her to retreat further into her math professor isolation of infinite integers and unsolved equations. A part of Harry missed the passionate closeness he and Natalie once shared. Work, to Harry, was a necessary evil, something to tolerate as long as it didn’t interfere with cooking or sailing. Only three years separated him from retirement with a full California Gold Mortgage Company pension. Fifteen receptionists, twenty-three processors, two office managers, six branch managers, and thirty-three loan officers had all come and gone during Harry’s twenty-seven years at the Lawndale branch of California Gold Mortgage Company. Long ago Harry had been a top producer, had made office calls, had milked real estate agents for contacts, had given seminars for first-time homebuyers. But now Harry is content to cruise, do the few VA purchases that real estate agents still throw his way and surf the latest refinance wave to the shores of his retirement. Harry stubbed out his cigar in a Bear Republic ashtray and headed to his bedroom. Taking off his bathrobe, he dressed in loose fitting jeans and headed to his garden to pick the onions, tomatoes, chives, and garlic needed for tonight’s gumbo. While picking a tomato, he glanced at his watch. It was fourteen hours until his dinner party. Harry lived for his Wednesday dinner parties, for his masterpieces of wine and high cuisine. Almost every alternating Wednesday over the last twenty-five years, he’d been inviting a few select guests to his Palos Verdes home. He prided himself on his excellent cooking and ability to blend the right chemistry of food and people. Usually he invited people with opposing moral, philosophical, and/or religious positions, letting them duke out their opinions while he refereed and poured wine. But with Daniel Brown down from Sacramento on Bear Republic business, Harry couldn’t invite anyone to his party that was too politically correct or wearing the wrong skin color. Harry mentally went over the guest list for the night’s dinner party as he carried a sack of garden fresh vegetables to the kitchen. Daniel shouldn’t have a

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels problem with any of the guests. Harry had invited Tim from work and his girlfriend Janet. Janet could be excused of her racial tolerance due to her naïve age and Daniel had met Tim at a previous dinner. The DeVincis, Randy and Cecilia, were fairly moderate but wouldn’t offend Daniel, and the Farmers were openly racist. Harry washed the vegetables and began chopping them into appropriate gumbo size. After creating little mounds of onions, garlic, chives, and tomatoes on his kitchen counter, Harry opened his refrigerator. After taking additional gumbo supplies out of the refrigerator, he switched on a tiny color TV sitting next to a pile of onions on the kitchen counter. Harry listened to the morning news as he looked at the salmon, Dungeness crabs, shrimps, oysters, squid, octopus, and clams he had laid on the counter. He’d gutted the salmon last night when Eric Farmer brought them over. Eric had fresh-packed the Sockeye salmon out of Bristol Bay Alaska. When the seafood was all prepared, Harry got out the chili peppers that Randy DeVinci had purchased in a small field outside of Oaxaca a few weeks back. Upon returning from Mexico, Randy had called to brag about the culinary trophies and Harry had immediately driven to his house in Pasadena, emptying a bottle of Jose Cuervo while acquiring some of the wondrous peppers. Harry stopped cutting peppers when Miriam Stone appeared on his mini TV. “Black people seek justice, an end to the white plague of systematic prejudice symbolized by the brutal beating of a black citizen by the L.A.P.D. Nazis under the Gates Gestapo.” Daniel came into the kitchen as Harry was listening. Harry pointed to Miriam on the tiny color TV sandwiched between onion pile and crab leg mound. “White America is on trial here, and if white America condones beating blacks by acquitting four racist officers, LA will explode from the pent-up anger in the hearts of a people forced to endure 400 years of racial persecution." “L.A.P.D. Nazis,” chuckled Harry as he scooped up a handful of chopped peppers and dropped them into a large black pot on his stove. "Miriam’s going to put hornets up the ass of every nigger between here and Barstow.” “The Stone does have a talent for stirring up her race,” replied Daniel, a softspoken man with inquisitive blue eyes. He was in his mid-thirties, lean, with a wellgroomed mustache. Gold wire-rimmed glasses sat in front of inquisitive blue eyes. “Coffee?” asked Harry. "Please." "Javanese? Brazilian with hazelnut? Colombian?" asked Harry as he opened a kitchen cabinet containing various bags of coffee beans. "Just a cup of Truck-Stop Joe." "Exxon, Shell, or Big-rig Blend?" asked Harry, taking out a bag of beans and tossing a handful into a small electric grinder. Daniel watched Miriam Stone on the small TV, her words lost in the high decibel whirl of the coffee grinder. Harry saw Daniel looking at Miriam and, after putting the coffee grounds into his automatic drip Braun, said, "Going to miss The Stone. You know Daniel, you’re right about what you said about Miriam last night." “What was it that I said? I don’t remember much after we half killed Jack.” “That The Stone alive and verbally vomiting is a hell of a lot more valuable to us than dead. That her ability to piss of whites with all her nigger talk is priceless.” “If that is what I said, I’d have to agree with myself. The Stone does piss off the racially unaware.” "Why the bullet then?" Daniel shrugged and said, "The Stone got under Carl’s skin. I told him she should be left alone to cause friction and piss off moderate whites but Carl wouldn't listen and ordered me to go through channels to set up the hit with the Brotherhood. You know how Carl gets."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Using those albino niggers could be a mistake. The Aryan Brotherhood is about as successful an organization as Watts Planned Parenthood." "The plan's good. There's no way Bear Republic can be implicated. Every movement needs its muscle. I agree that the Brotherhood is comprised mainly of fuck-ups, but fuck-ups have their uses." "We'll see," said Harry, handing Daniel a steaming mug of coffee. "But I say those brain-dead gorillas will find some way of monkeying things up." They talked until both had drained two cups of coffee. As Daniel prepared to leave, Harry said, "Best take a Bible with you." "What?" "One of them black books containing stories about dead Jews," said Harry with a grin, pointing to two Bibles on his kitchen counter. Miriam Stone had been replaced on the counter-top TV by an aging weatherman standing on a computergenerated map of LA County and pointing to the temperatures of various cities. "I know what a Bible is." "Then take one and slowly turn to the books of Judges." Daniel took one of the leather-bound Bibles and opened it. It was hollowed out, containing a Pocket Walther and six bullets. "With the verdicts possibly being announced today, best be driving around armed with the word of the Lord. If you feel more comfortable with a Lady Smith, take the Revised Standard Version. Both guns are unmarked." "I think I'll stick with the Walther," said Daniel. "I've always been a King James man." With Daniel gone, Harry returned to his gumbo. By 8:30 everything, except the crab legs and salmon, was cut up and simmering in a big black pot on his stove. These he would add later, having already cut them into bite-size chunks that he put into plastic bags and stored back in the refrigerator. He didn’t have to be at the office until his noon refinance with Kenji Yakomoto, an old client he had done five previous mortgages for. He promised Bernie Baluchistani, a nervous Pakistani engineer refinancing for the first time, that he’d go to Lawndale Escrow with him at two o’clock and supervise his doc signing. Harry never went to a client's doc signing, but Bernie had demanded it. And since Bernie was cousin to Frank Baluchistani, one of the few real estate contacts he had left, Harry had agreed to go. The signing wouldn't take more than thirty minutes, giving Harry plenty of time to get back to his gumbo before the dinner party. In order to make sure his sailboat was ready for the upcoming sail to Catalina, Harry decided to drive by Pacific Pride prior to his noon Yakomoto refinance. It was a little past ten when he backed his Ford Explorer out of his garage. The usual summer morning fog of the South Bay was mostly burned away and Harry decided to take Palos Verdes Drive to the San Pedro Harbor. While it took a little longer than other routes, he enjoyed the scenic coastal road of dramatic cliffs and Pacific Ocean vistas. It took twenty minutes to drive to the marina at San Pedro. He drove past the stone and glass Wayfarer's Chapel designed by the son of Frank Lloyd Wright, past the lonesome steel tower of the abandoned Marine World complex. Driving along the crumbling hillsides of Portuguese Bend, Harry could see Catalina Island. A few random clouds roamed in the blue vastness of morning sky, drifting like lazy cotton cows between Catalina and South Bay. In the glare of ocean reflected light, he reached for the sunglasses lying on the dashboard next to his hollowed-out Revised Standard Bible. At the Marina, Harry parked his Explorer and walked to his boat. He waved to Ned, owner of Ned's Hull Cleaning, as he unlocked Pacific Pride's recently varnished hatch. Ned was getting suited up in his scuba gear to clean the hull of Mighty Mary, a

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels 45 foot Bayfield, located in the large boat slip directly across from Pacific Pride. Ned's brother Nick, owner of Nick's Marine Inspection and Repair, had done work on Pacific Pride's starboard winch earlier in the week. Harry hunched down by the winch, spinning its new drum and listening to its replaced and lubricated internal bearings and spindle. He ran his finger along the base of the winch, examining where Ned had repaired some minor stress fractures by reinforcing the coaming from below with layers of CSM and epoxy resin. Completing his inspection, Harry locked the wooden hatch and climbed off Pacific Pride, satisfied that all was mechanically sound for the Catalina excursion beginning on Friday. Harry walked back to his Explorer and drove to work, taking the 110 freeway to Lawndale. As with their five previous mortgage applications, Kenji showed up at the office five minutes early with a cigar box tucked under his right arm. Harry refused Kenji’s gift a number or times before reluctantly accepting it. When the application paperwork was completed a half-hour later, Harry reached into his desk and pulled out a bottle of aged sake. Kenji declined the porcelain container of rice wine for nearly five minutes before finally accepting it. Following Harry’s gift presentation, their conversation turned to gardening. Harry sympathized with Kenji as he listened to his asparagus difficulties. Asparagus prefers the foggy dampness of Monterey Bay to the arid summers and harsh winter rains of LA. Talk of asparagus led to a debate over the best way to care for artichokes. It was nearly one when Kenji left the office with his porcelain container of sake. Harry took off his suit coat and tie, unbuttoning his shirt and scratching the hairs beneath his sailor's medallion. He only wore a suit and tie when meeting clients. All other times the offensive objects were sentenced to hang by a peg in a far corner of his office. He left his ties knotted, having purposely never bothered to learn to tie the disgusting silk ribbons. His wife had to do the dirty deed, her precise fingers folding the silk to the right dimensions. Harry pretended not to notice Tim staring at him as he walked away from the coat rack. Ty, a young black loan officer, was talking desperately into his headset as Harry walked past him. The whole time that Harry had discussed vegetables with Kenji, Ty had been trying to convince some clients not to rescind their refinance. A few minutes after Harry sat back down at his desk, Tim unclipped his headset from its phone control box and approached him. Tim had the thin headset around his neck, the long black cord that plugged into the control box dangling below his waist. “You and Janet ready for tonight’s gumbo?” asked Harry. “I don’t know about Janet,” said Tim, “but I hear it is the preferred food of Necrophile Officers.” "Necrophile Officers?" asked Harry, outwardly puzzled but inwardly curious as to the results of his latest offensive in their never-ending practical joke war, wondering what trouble his secret replacement of Tim’s business cards with specially made Counterfeit Gold Mortuary cards had caused the kid. “A certain elderly black lady asked me that today after I handed her my card,” said Tim as he dropped a wad of business cards on Harry’s desk. Harry picked up a card and looked at. “Well Tim, you of all people must know what a Necrophile Officer is. It says right on the card, ‘Tim Daniels, Necrophile Officer’. I didn’t know you had a night job. Sounds to die for.” “I’ll get you Harry, I don’t know how but I’ll get you.” "Shit guys, I'm losing them," said Ty from the desk behind them. Harry and Tim turned to Ty. Ty leaned back in his chair, his headset phone lost in Geri-curled hair. "Mrs. Smits I appreciate your (exquisite breasts) situation, I…"

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels “Someday I’m taking apart Ty's headset control box and deactivating its mute button,” thought Harry as he listened to Ty weave in the extra bits of dialogue into his conversation with Mrs. Smits by hitting the mute button when he didn’t want her to hear him. That would top the fake business cards he had printed out for Tim. Practical jokes were just another way Harry paid homage to the trinity he believes governs man in his brief blink between oblivion and oblivion. The omnipotent deities ruling the universe were not the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost taught to him at Catholic school but the triple fates of absurdity, irony, and illusion. Harry interrupted Ty during one of his mute button sessions, asking, "Tim, what do you think? Sounds hopeless to me, time to call in The Wig?" "Bring in The Wig," said Tim. Ty fingered his mute button. "You bastards leave The Wig out of it, let me die in peace." "It's Wig time," said Harry. "Harry don't," commanded Ty. "Hang in there buddy, I'll have The Wig in here shortly," said Harry, walking out of the loan officer's room and heading to the branch manager's office. While walking out he noticed Ty’s camelhair blazer hanging next to his jacket. He smiled to himself, wondering when Ty’s Geri-curl would go. When Ty first started, he looked like a second-rate pimp to Harry. During his year at Cal. Gold, Harry had watched Ty metamorphose from a ghetto caterpillar to an Oxford button-down, camelhair-suited, penny-loafing butterfly. Only the Geri-curled mop made it through his transformation, crowning Ty’s head like a dewy crown, looking down in scorn at the Ivy League creature below. Harry knocked on Sherman's opened door. Branch Manager Sherman Peters looked up and grunted, "What's up Harry?" "Still behind Encino?” asked Harry, knowing the answer, knowing that trailing Encino Branch Manager Bobby Beckman in the quarter’s funding contest was gnawing at Sherman’s heart like a frenzied rat. "It's close, too damn close." "Ty's losing Smits." "Shit!" barked Sherman at the news of losing a loan, at falling yet another funding behind Bobby Beckman. "Why?" "Something about being told yesterday of an upcoming job transfer. Ty can't convince them that spending five thousand dollars for a lower interest rate is in their best interest when they'll be moving out of the house in seven months." "Fuck their best interests, this branch has a funding contest to win,” said Sherman getting up from his desk. He was a monstrously powerful man with brutal hands and grim unyielding eyes that bored into Harry. A wig of straight black hair hung fearfully from his scalp in an early Beatles-like fashion. Harry thought of him as a demonic John Lennon on steroids. "Ty's going down in flames as we speak." "He's got Smits on the phone?" "Mrs. Smits." "This is not a problem," said Sherman, leaving his desk and heading for the loan officer's room. Harry would have followed Sherman to Ty's desk to enjoy the spectacle of The Wig in action but needed to prepare for the Baluchistani doc signing. He turned away from the loan officer’s room and walked down the hall to the processor and reception area. "I think that’s Samuels," said Nicole, the black processor that The Wig had hired eight months ago.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Already?" asked Harry, walking over to the fax machine to analyze the report being faxed down from corporate. "Holy shit, it looks like an approval with no conditions. Wow Jackson, I'm beginning to think you're more than a great pair of tits." "Yea, my ass ain't too bad either. Now bring that approval over here." Harry walked the Samuels approval over to Nicole and placed it on her desk. "Thirty-five days from application to approval on a VA loan. Not bad, Jackson. Maybe I'll stop telling The Wig to fire you." "Was that a compliment?" "Let’s not get carried away.” "Better be careful Haroldson, or you might just sober up and realize you've got a hell of a processor on your hands." "I guess I'd better start drinking before lunch then.” "I never knew that you waited that long. Samuels gets us pretty damn close to Encino. You ready to draw docs?" "Eight and a half at four." "Eight and a half at four," repeated Nicole. "I'll call Susan to see if she can set up signing for tomorrow. Samuels has to fund Monday if we’re going to beat Bobby." "Anything I can do?" Nicole looked up from the approval sheet that she held in her long feline fingers, her smooth chocolate hands silhouetted against the stark white of the fragile fax paper. "You could take the Baluchistani docs over to Shirley." "Sure, where are they?" "On Tina's desk. She was going to walk them over but Sherman's got her doing something." "I'll take them." "Thanks." "Good job, Jackson. I mean it, good job." "Thanks Haroldson.” Harry grabbed the Baluchistani docs off Tina's desk and walked back down the hall, passing the windows of the loan officer's room. Sherman stood at Ty's desk, Ty's phone headset strapped to his black wig. Harry walked past Virgina and Sherman’s offices and out a small door. It opened to a courtyard containing six other businesses: Lawndale Escrow, South Bay Dental, Ted's Travel, All-State Insurance, Olson and Olson Accounting, and A.P. Mathas, attorney. Lawndale Escrow was in the back of the two-story, rectangular office complex. Cal. Gold and Ted's Travel had the front two offices. They faced Hawthorne Boulevard and were separated by a hallway that gave access to the other businesses. Harry passed stone plant-boxes containing miniature palms towering above harems of sweet smelling ferns. He passed the courtyard's small center fountain and fishpond. Shirley was with clients so he left the docs with the receptionist after verifying that Shirley would be ready for the Baluchistani doc signing in twenty minutes. He walked out of Lawndale Escrow, backtracking through a hundred feet of shady plant-box jungle. Harry entered Cal. Gold and walked back to Nicole. She looked up from her desk and said, "Samuels is set for signing tomorrow at two. I'm working on their docs right now. Think you could run them over to Susan on your way home?" "Sure Jackson. Can you have them done by three? I've got a pot of gumbo that needs looking at." "I should, 3:30 for sure. You could always drop them off tomorrow on your way in to work. Just take them home with you."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "All right," said Harry, pausing as a car pulled into the front parking lot. Through the office window behind Nicole he could see that it was Bernie Baluchistani. "Shit, the paranoid Pakistani is early. Got to go." "Good luck," said Nicole. "Thanks," said Harry, heading to the loan officer's room. He took his suit jacket off its peg and threw the gold and red silk loop of his pre-knotted tie over his head. The tie hung a foot below his belt after Harry tightened it. “God damn Tim!” cursed Harry. He walked backed to Lawndale Escrow without wearing a tie. In the escrow’s foyer, Bernie Baluchistani stood nervously fingering the white and light blue knot of a clip-on tie. "Good afternoon Harry, good to see you," said Bernie Baluchistani, returning his hand to the polyester knot after shaking Harry's hand. The hand massaged a rapidly moving Adam's apple behind the tie. Roaming eyes blinked and twitched above a long gaunt nose. "Good to see you Bernie," returned Harry. Turning to the receptionist he asked, "Margie, is Shirley ready for us?” “Let me check,” said Margie, as she rung Shirley’s office. Shirley was ready and they walked to her office. After brief introductions, Harry said, “Let’s get Mr. Baluchistani signed up and on his way back to Ventura before he has to fight any traffic." "Not so fast Harry. I want everything explained." "Well, Shirley is the one for that. I'm just here for moral support," said Harry, rolling his eyes to Shirley. "Let's begin by the two of you sitting down," said Shirley. "We’ll start by signing the typed ten-o-three. Sign exactly as your name appears and put today's date, April 29th, on all signed papers." "Is this loan assumable?" asked Bernie in a quick high-pitch squeak. "Bernie, we are here to sign docs, not discuss loan programs,” said Harry. “No this loan is not assumable. No Fannie Mae fixed rate is. We went over all this when we started this loan six weeks ago. "So you're saying that this loan isn't assumable?" asked Bernie. "Bernie, you know it isn't,” replied Harry. "You're saying it's impossible to get an assumable fixed rate mortgage?" asked Bernie. Harry felt his jaw muscles tightening. He scratched the hairs under his medallion as he paused. His voice sounded calm and controlled when he continued. "Bernie, to get the best fixed rate at the best costs, we go Fannie Mae. Now there are other ways to go if you want an assumable fixed rate. You can join the army and come back in two years and we can get you a VA loan that is assumable to other qualified veterans. You cannot take cash out, lowering your loan amount and qualifying for a FHA loan that will cost you more money to obtain and run at a higher interest rate. There's probably even some hard-money assumable fixed rates out there if we look. But Bernie, if you want the lowest rate in town, if you want the best loan for you, if you want to pay $15 less per month after pulling out $25,000 in equity, sign these documents." "So you're saying Fannie Mae doesn't do assumable loans?" "Assumable fixed rate loans Bernie, assumable fixed rate loans." "So Fannie Mae does assumable loans, just not assumable fixed rate loans?" "Yes." "Do you think maybe an assumable adjustable loan would be better for me?" "No Bernie, no I don't. And neither did you when we spent over two hours going over this at the time of the loan application. Look, you have Thursday, Friday and Saturday to rescind if you want to suddenly switch to an adjustable. Shirley has

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels other things to do than listen to us go over loan programs that we have already discussed. Let's just sign all the papers and get this thing over with." "So I can rescind and switch over to an adjustable after all the papers have been signed?" "Yes." "Do you think I should?" "Bernie, I think you should sign the papers. We've already been here ten minutes without signing anything. At this rate, it will be Tuesday before we finish signing." "So you think a fixed rate is best?" "Yes, Bernie, yes I do. Now Shirley, where does Bernie put his John Hancock on that ten-o-three?" "John Hancock?" asked Bernie. "Your signature Mr. Baluchistani," said Shirley. "Ten-o-three?" asked Bernie. "The loan application," said Shirley, pointing to the back page of a green typed 1003. "Now sign here. Today's date, name exactly as it is typed." "Why am I signing another application?" asked Bernie. "Isn't one enough?" "One at time of application," said Harry, "another typed one with more exact information in order to fund." "So the information on this form needs to be exact?" asked Bernie. "Yes," said Harry and Shirley together. "Then, shouldn't I read it to make sure it is correct?" asked Bernie "Bernie, I'll tell you what..." began Harry, "…photocopying is cheap, time is not. We have about thirty or so pieces of paper needing your Bernie Baluchistani. If every client read every piece of paper while Shirley and I waited, we wouldn't get anything done. Remember, you still have three days to cancel. For now, just sign the documents. We'll have Margie photocopy the whole lot for you and you can study them all night at your leisure." "But I'll be studying things I've already signed,” said Bernie. “Doesn't it make more sense to read things first, then sign them?" "Bernie, it's 2:20 and we've accomplished nothing. I'm not telling you to blindly sign. Look at the papers, study them, get a general sense of what they are about. Then sign them, O.K.?" "O.K.," said Bernie, "give me a couple of minutes to run through this application. One hundred and twenty five thousand dollars is a lot of money, I want to know what I'm signing." Bernie studied the typed 1003 for ten minutes, analyzing every typed word and number, blinking his eyes intently behind his long gaunt nose. Harry sighed audibly when Bernie finally signed. By 3:20, only half of the needed documents had been signed. Bernie was scrutinizing the loan's Deed of Trust when Harry interrupted his analysis by saying, "Sorry Bernie, it's going on 3:30. Shirley can answer any questions that you might have. I've got a loan application at four to prepare for." "Harry, we still have a lot of papers to go through. You can't leave now." "Bernie, you'll be fine with Shirley, she knows this shit a lot better than me." "Shit?" questioned Bernie in a shrieking octave. "Sorry Bernie. Shirley knows this end of the business, the document end, much, much, better than I do. You're in good hands." Bernie grabbed Harry's suit-jacketed arm and said, "Harry, my bother isn’t going to like you running out on me." "Bernie, let go of my arm!" "Frank's not going to like this," said Bernie, still holding Harry's arm.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Harry breathed heavily, anger seething through his body as he said, "Bernie I can't take this bullshit any longer. Now, let go of my fucking arm!” Bernie let go of Harry's arm, shock apparent in his eyes. As Harry left Shirley's office, the shock in Bernie’s eyes hardened into rage. Harry glanced at his watch as he left Lawndale Escrow and began walking across the courtyard to his office. It was 3:25, just enough time to get to his gumbo and turn down the stove’s heat before adding crab and salmon into the mix. Halfway to the courtyard’s small fish pond and fountain Harry heard Bernie screaming behind him, high-pitched shrieks echoing around the rectangle courtyard, shrill decibels bouncing between fern and palm plant-boxes. Upon reaching the fishpond with its small fountain of a woman emptying water out of a stone jar, Bernie began screaming at Harry, bits of foamy spit escaping with each word. "You say fuck, you say bullshit." People began to file out of their offices to see what the commotion in the courtyard was all about. Lisa Fernandez, the receptionist for A.P. Mathas, leaned over the complex’s second story railing with Jerry Olson, the skinny husband of Jenny Olson. A few patients had come out of the foyer of South Bay Dental. Bernie's long gaunt nose nearly touched Harry's semi-balding forehead as he followed Harry around the circular pond, repeating at the top of his lungs, "You say fuck, you say bullshit." After three minutes of non-stop Baluchistani screaming, Arnie Mathas had joined his receptionist and Jenny Olson was leaning over the balcony with her skinny husband. All three Cal. Gold processors, Nicole Jackson, Cheryl Stewart, and Tina Gonzales, stood ten feet from the fishpond, watching Harry walk backwards around the stone pond with Bernie Baluchistani screaming in his face. Within four minutes the majority of the office complex, nearly forty people, had gathered around the fishpond fountain. During the first minute of walking backward around the fountain Harry had made the decision to call Bill, his retired neighbor, as soon as possible. Bill knew about the spare key under the stone next to his backyard cherry tree. Bill could turn down the stove's heat and mix the crab and salmon into his gumbo. After five minutes of walking backward around the center fountain, Harry suddenly remembered that his next-door neighbor had flown off to a lepidopterist convention in Houston. With the realization, Harry suddenly stopped his backward walk. The abrupt halt caused Bernie's nose to stab into Harry's perspiring, semibalding forehead. With the bump to Harry’s nose, Bernie abruptly halted his verbal torrent. A brief, tense silence froze the courtyard. Even the faint breeze filtering through the hallways seemed to pause, waiting for time to catch its breath. Harry's face reddened in the silence.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels

Sherman Sherman glanced at his dashboard clock as he switched on his right blinker and exited the 91. He had plenty of time to meet with Manuel Martinez at American Steelworks in Gardena before heading to Carson Greens to install a smoke detector in Unit 65 and check to see if a shut-off valve had been properly installed on the condo’s water-heater. Teddy Simmons, a half senile, nearly blind, and totally incompetent FHA fee-panel appraiser was to meet him at 10:30 to sign a compliance agreement and verify that the work required to bring Unit 65 up to FHA code had indeed been done. Jerry Jones was scheduled to fund by one if he could fax the signed compliance agreement to corporate by noon. Sherman lit a Pall Mall and picked up the morning’s funding report lying on the passenger seat next to him. The funding report was a statistical ranking for the current quarter, ending noon Monday, of all eighteen California Gold branch managers. As usual, Sherman trailed The King. The King. Bobby-Fucking-Beckman's nickname was a constant reminder of coming in second, of being bested by a weak runt with the gall and poor taste of actually being an honest man. Beckman was christened The King after winning a fishing derby during a Cal. Gold retreat for managers in the summer of ‘88. With ten minutes to go in the derby, Beckman had pulled out a miracle by hooking a fortypound king salmon. At eighteen pounds, Sherman’s was the second largest fish of the derby. After the trip they mounted Beckman’s damn fish on a plaque with the words "King for the King". Every time Sherman goes to Encino, he has to physically stop himself from ripping the salmon off the wall and shoving it up Beckman's ass. Sherman put down the funding report and fished out the mini-cassette recorder nestled in the right side pocket of his blue pinstriped suit. The suit was on a wooden hanger behind him. While reaching back and retrieving the recorder, his hand brushed against the leather upholstery on the seats of the 500SEL he had purchased less than a month ago. The leather felt of wealth and power, bringing a smile to Sherman's granite face. "Wednesday, April 29th, 8:40 a.m.,” Sherman barked into his recorder after pushing its red ‘record’ button. "Going to beat Bobby-Fucking-Beckman yet. Should hit 30.1 and it looks like Bobby will max out at 29.9. Need my loans - Jones, Martinez, and Nebesky - to all go. Smits and Burns should fly for Ty. Spitzer, Adams, and Cole all look like sure things for Tim. Harry has Baluchistani and maybe Samuels. As long-shots for the quarter, we have Lee's two investment properties." Sherman put down his tape recorder and turned on his Blaupunkt. He listened with annoyance to the radio as he drove, cursing the cops for their involvement in the current deterioration of talk radio. The only thing on talk radio lately was endless debate concerning the soon-to-be-announced Rodney King verdicts. Sherman was sick of the whole damn thing and still found it hard to believe that so-called professional cops had been stupid enough to beat the idiot where some wanna-be Spielberg with a camcorder could capture it all on tape. After all, he paid taxes to build police stations so that scum could be beaten in private. Now, due to their overly public application of the law, morning radio had become repetitious and boring. Sherman turned off his radio as he neared American Steelworks. Manuel was waiting for him near the front office, his right thumb picking at a scar on his left hand, eyes going from his steel-toed work-boots to Sherman's new Mercedes and back again. In a manila envelope, Manuel had seven of the eleven items that

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Sherman had demanded over the phone last night, and had cursed in bad Spanish about. Sherman took the envelope, studying its contents, mute to Manuel's stuttering apologies. He was four items away. Four items away from funding a FHA four-plex with eight principal borrowers and four co-signers. Four items away from funding a loan that had been in process for nearly five months. Four items away from three points of overage. Overage, the lucrative practice of charging borrowers a rate over and above those set by Cal. Gold, was something Bobby rarely made because he would actually show Cal. Gold's internal rate sheet directly to his borrowers. Bobby would show them the rate sheet and actually explain in simple terms about getting a home loan. He would explain that a bank gathers information on borrowers and homes in a logical and precise way, using standardized forms and procedures required by large financial institutions that work in conjunction with banks. He would explain that the forms include a credit report to analyze past paying habits and current amount of monthly debts, a V.O.E. (Verification of Employment) sent to the employer to analyze job stability and current income, and a V.O.D. (Verification of Deposit) sent to banks to look at borrowers’ cash reserves. Bobby would then explain about title insurance and the need for an appraisal to see if the bank's collateral, the home, was structurally sound and worth the stated price. Sometimes he would even explain about securitizing loans, about how Fannie Mae, Freddie Mac, and Ginnie Mae take loans from banks in huge pools of millions and millions of dollars and turn them into investment instruments. Bobby's habit of showing borrowers Cal. Gold's internal rate sheet completely baffles Sherman, Bobby’s honesty repels him, his genuine sincerity makes Sherman’s skin crawl. His hatred of Bobby goes deeper than philosophical differences, reaching into tangled parts of his soul that seethe with rage at Bobby's affable demeanor, his warm smile and gentle eyes, his jockeylike stature and full head of hair. "We're four items away," said Sherman. "I'm sorry Mr. Peters, but…" "Only four items away," repeated Sherman, his voice gentle, a father forgiving a wayward boy. "Yes, Mr. Peters, only four," said Manuel, his right thumb stopping its nervous picking, his eyes looking up from steel-toed work boots. "You will have those items tomorrow?" "I should. Javier went down to pay his medical collection today. Tomorrow Maria will get a paycheck stub. Tony says he has found all but two cancelled checks and Raul says he will bring me his green card tomorrow night." "Manuel, I will be at your place between eight and nine tomorrow night. Have those things for me." "I should." "Manuel listen to me. I'm getting very tired of all this. Your loan has been the longest I've ever done." Sherman paused, giving silence to his lie. "Manuel, if we don't fund Friday your rate-lock expires. You get hit with a half a point relocking fee. That's one thousand dollars." Manuel's face paled at the lie and his eyes went back to his steel-toed boots. "Eight to nine, Manuel. Have the items." Sherman hit a button that rolled up his tinted window as he drove away. Now that was being a loan officer! You don’t explain the business to your clients like Bobby. Real loan officers are the high priests of the mystical mortgage world, wizards that dazzle borrowers with complexity while holding their bewildered hands and raping them for serious overage. It took twenty minutes for Sherman to drive from American Steelworks to the Carson Greens condominiums. Carson Greens had once been painted pea green, but

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels this had changed a few years ago to an earthy tan that tended to blend in better with the ever-present bouts of graffiti that grew in illiterate vines along stucco walls. A high barbwire fence circled Carson Greens, with a gate requiring a passkey for entrance stationed every five hundred feet or so along its length. Sherman parked next to the gate closest to Unit 65. After putting on his pinstriped suit-jacket and taking two smoke detectors out of the trunk, he entered Carson Greens. The units in Carson Greens were spartan. Most were set in rectangular blocks containing three or four attached condos. Some were detached little cubes. All had thick black bars on their windows and the majority were owner- occupied. The few rental units were mostly ill-kept, paint peeling at places to the old pea green, cracked windows lined with duct tape, weedy lawns with barren patches. Sherman passed a badly peeling unit where a shirtless man smoking a filtered cigarette leaned over the carcass of a gutted Harley. Tools lay on the sidewalk leading to his unit and motorcycle parts were scattered about his porch. On a brown bald spot in the lawn lay a blue gas tank with a painting of a naked woman wrapped seductively around a fire-breathing dragon. As Sherman walked past, the man croaked "Good Morning" through his cigarette and massive beard. Sherman nodded in reply as he walked up the sidewalk leading to Unit 65. Unit 65 was directly across from the shirtless man, who had a tattoo on his chest matching the painting on his motorcycle tank. Sherman took out the condo's key and inserted it into the door's silver knob. Removing his aviator glasses, he took a step away from the door without opening it. The glare of the mid-morning sun reflected off his glasses as Sherman pocketed them in his white cotton shirt. A faint wind rustled the leaves on a hibiscus hedge at his feet but wasn't strong enough to upset the hairs of his wig. "Shit!" muttered Sherman, "Shit, shit, shit!" He took out his mini-cassette recorder, fingered the red ‘record’ button and began barking, "Jones, April 29th, 9:40a.m. Looks like a break-in. Going to assess the damage." He flicked the recorder off and stepped up to the living room window. Through the bars and a slight opening in the curtain, he could see through to the window on the far living-room wall. The window was broken and two of its safety bars were twisted back to allow entry. Sherman backed away from Unit 65 and walked over to the shirtless man who spat out his cigarette, stomping it under the sole of his cowboy boot. Sherman towered above the man, who looked away when he realized he was staring just a little too hard at Sherman’s wig. Sherman had begun wearing the wig three days after his forty-first birthday. Prior to the last five months, he had no real or artificial hair on his head. He’d adopted the wig to soften the barren harshness of his scalp, to dampen the illusion that a massively erect and savagely angry penis had erupted from his shoulder blades. "Mind if I borrow that crowbar for a few minutes?” asked Sherman. The man shrugged and said, "Suit yourself. Say, haven't I seen you around here before?" "Maybe," said Sherman, picking up the crowbar with his right hand, whacking his open left palm with it, enjoying the feel of cold iron against the meat and bone of his hands, hoping he could find someone still inside number 65 to use it on. "Yeah, you're the one that got Joey and his brother the loan for 33. Yeah, I know you. Seen you around here with that rich black lady. The real-estate chick that wears all them fancy hats and drives around in that pink Jag. That car would make a pimp blush. Rumor is that she owns most of the rental units around here. Bet my hard-earned rent dollars go to buying new hats for that nigger bitch." "Personally, I'm not too fond of pink, but what my friend Miss Fitzgerald drives, or what she puts on her head, or what she owns, ain't none of my damn

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels business. And yes, Miss Fitzgerald and I did put Joey and his brother into 33 and maybe someday we could help make you into a homeowner as well." "Miss Fitzgerald!" whooped the bearded man, "I'll be God-damned but that nig…" Sherman cut off the bearded man with a voice harder than the cold iron he swung against his palm. "The name of my friend, the black real-estate lady, is Miss Fitzgerald." "You think I might be able to become a homeowner? Shit, but the old lady would get a kick out of that!" "We'll talk about that later. Did you see or hear anything going on with 65 last night?" "Lots of things going on around here last night. Nothing but noise, noise, noise. Old nigger Toby was beating on the wife again, the Gonzaleses had half the drunks in Mexico over to their house, and the cops were called in to break up some teenager party over in 52. Sure 65 could have got broken into. Fuck if I know." "Thanks," said Sherman, heading back to 65. He walked past the Carson Homes’ "For Sale" sign with its big "Sold" sticker in bright red. He undid the lock on a wooden gate leading to a twelve by twenty-foot backyard of recently killed weeds. The condo's backdoor rocked drunkenly in the faint morning breeze, its bottom hinge no longer attached to the doorframe. "Shit!" muttered Sherman, "shit, shit, shit!" After five minutes of examining 65 inside and out, Sherman spoke into his recorder. "April 29th, 9:59 a.m. Jerry Jones in deep shit. Side and back windows broken, water-heater torn out. Damage to walls in kitchen, bathroom, and master bedroom. Phones ripped out, as well as sinks in both bathrooms. Impossible to fund as is. Have idea. Must call Win." Clicking off the recorder, he dropped it into the right side pocket of his suit jacket and undid the phone clipped to his belt. He punched Winnie Fitzgerald's number without looking. "Winnie Fitzgerald," came Winnie's voice over the phone. "Win, we got a problem." "Jones?" "Jones." "How we going to fix it?" "Tell you later. Need to know if you still want the place. It was trashed last night. You're looking at $2000 easy." "Shit!" "Shit is right. It's your call, do we fund or not?" "How the hell you going to fund?" "Leave that to me." "Fund!" came Winnie's reply after a brief pause. "After it's done, call me and tell me how you pulled it off." "Right," said Sherman, shutting off the phone and returning it to his belt. Jerry Jones was a straw-buyer for Winnie Fitzgerald, who owned fourteen of Carson Green's 192 units. From the beginning Jones had been a loan from hell. They had to use Jerry Jones Senior's social security number after learning of Junior's recent bankruptcy, which meant having to cut-and-paste all of Junior's W2s, tax returns, and paycheck stubs so that they matched the numbers on the credit report. Sherman was a good cut-and-paste man, but having to change 463-41-1383 to 51523-7174 was time consuming. Then the V.O.E. came back with mention of his termination in two months. A doctored Verification Of Employment was required. And now this. Sherman walked back to the tattooed man and returned his crowbar saying, "So you think the old lady might want a house of her own?"

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Beats renting." "Sure does. Your place here got smoke detectors in the kitchen and master bedroom?" "I think so, why?" "How about a shut-off valve on the water heater?" "A what on the water heater? Say, what's this all about, anyway?" "It's about a hundred dollars," said Sherman with a smile. Sherman had done a FHA loan on the place three years ago, another straw-buyer for Win. Back then it had smoke detectors and a shut-off valve. "A hundred dollars?" "Yeah, a hundred dollars. Just let me show your house at 10:30 to a friend for a few minutes. Now let's take a look at your water heater and smoke detectors." "A hundred dollars eh?" "Yeah, 100 bucks for letting me show your place to a friend for five minutes. Now what's your name?" "Bob." "O.K. Bob, let's first take a look at those smoke detectors." Preparing Bob's place for Teddy took a frantic fifteen minutes. One of Bob's smoke detectors was faulty and had to be replaced, the Carson Homes’ "For Sale" sign had to be placed in Bob's yard, Bob's number 64 had to be switched to number 65, and all the motorcycle bits and pieces and tools had to be moved. The inspection with Teddy Simmons should have taken five minutes but Teddy misplaced his thick coke-bottle glasses in Bob's living room and it took over twenty minutes to find them. It was past eleven when Sherman walked back to his 500SEL and drove out of Carson Greens with a signed FHA compliance agreement. Plugging his phone's power adapter into his car's cigarette lighter Sherman push-buttoned his home number. After listening to five rings and his own recorded voice saying to leave a message, Sherman asked, "Has the dam broken yet?" "Oh, hi baby," came a voice through the sound of a cordless phone being picked up and its antennae pulled out for better reception. "Just calling to see if you let my first-born out of her womb." "Not yet, but by the way she's kicking, it won't be long." "Sweetheart, tell my little girl to stay inside Mommy just a little bit longer. Daddy's got work to do in order to beat Bobby-Fucking-Beckman. Besides, honey, the more of you there is, the more there is to love." "Thanks. I plan to stay fat after baby Jane is born just to please you." "Got to go. Call if something happens." Sherman turned off the phone and dropped it into the opened briefcase on the passenger's seat. The phone lay on top of Teddy Simmons' signed inspection report. Looking at the report, Sherman's thin lips curled into a wolfish grin. Yeah, he thought, he was going to beat Bobby-Fucking-Beckman. Upon reaching the office, Sherman faxed Jones' compliance agreement to corporate and ran a status report. "Shit!" barked Sherman as he analyzed the recently laser-printed status report. "Damn you Bobby-Fucking-Beckman, damn you! Three into four, two more into five, and seven funded today." Various types of status reports can be pulled out of the computer. The one Sherman had printed ranked Cal. Gold branches by A.F.L. number and gave the status of all loans in their pipelines. The Average Loan Funding number for Encino had inched up to 27.8 for the quarter. Lawndale was in second place with an A.L.F. of 27.2. Sherman worked his HP calculator with his big meaty fingers, cursing the numbers on the gold liquid-crystal display. If Bobby got all his status fours (loans

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels approved with documents out) and status fives (loans with docs signed and scheduled to fund), Sherman would lose the quarter. The branch that won the quarter was rewarded with a hefty bonus. Cal. Gold gives no reward for second place. The branch to win was the one with the highest number of loans per employee. Since Sherman, including himself, has a total of eight employees at his branch, whatever number of loans the Lawndale office funds over the quarter gets divided by eight. Sherman's target was 241 loans for the quarter or 30.1 loans per employee. Working the numbers around in his head, he came to a personal bonus for the three-month period of nearly $15,000. His bonus amounts to five basis points on all loan volume for the quarter. Loan officers get a five basis point bonus on their individual fundings and office staff get a clean and simple thousand bucks each. Holding the status report in his hand, he marched into his office manager's office and said, "Time to rally the troops." "Strategy meeting," said Virgina into her phone's intercom. "Lord save us, Sherman's got that possessed look in his eyes," said Nicole as she came into Virgina's office. "Encino must be ahead because you got that ‘screwThe King-at-any-costs’ look in your eyes. I haven't seen you this intense since working the Blackmont file." Sherman felt himself hardening at the sight of Nicole's firm ass and ripe breasts straining against the thin white fabric of her dress, felt the awakening of a dark and hungry need, felt the urge for animal violence and savage release. He coughed to keep the beast of his libido from overwhelming his speech. "Nicole guessed it," said Sherman to the gathered processors. "Encino is pulling away. Time to pull out all the stops. As an extra incentive, I'll give each of you $500 dollars - five non-taxed Franklins - if we win." "How far away is Encino?" asked Nicole. "As it stands now, if they fund all their fours and fives, they win. Our only chance is to push Lee's two rental units and the Martinez brothers." "How do you plan on funding Lee's rentals without such minor things as appraisals, tax returns, P&Ls, and V.O.D.s?" asked Virgina. "Gang, we can do it. Nicole, you work up docs on Lee's condo. Cheryl, take their duplex. Somehow I'll get conditional approvals from Jerry. Meanwhile I'll ride the Pony Express, picking up appraisals, dropping off docs, lighting a fire under Manuel, getting Lee's V.O.D.s. Looks like overtime and the weekend. Encino isn't winning this quarter." "Have you counted Samuels?" asked Nicole. "No, it still shows on the computer as a three," said Sherman. "It should be changed to a four. We just got a clean approval and I'm setting up signing for tomorrow." "Thirty odd days on a VA purchase. Nicole, that's a certifiable miracle," said Sherman. "I guess it's my day for miracles. Harry and I are beginning to actually communicate." "That's no miracle. I knew when I put you two together that it would be a match made in heaven," smiled Sherman, inwardly cursing this unexpected event in his campaign to fire Harry. "Nicole, Cheryl, I'll handle the Lees," said Virgina. "Nicole, concentrate on Samuels and Baluchistani. Cheryl, get Adams and Cole set up for funding. Now let's get back to beating Bobby Beckman." After the processors had left her office, Virgina turned to Sherman and said, "Explain your Lee voodoo." Virgina took off her reading glasses as she listened to Sherman, letting them fall down to her chest, a silver chain around her neck supporting the gold half-

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels frames. When Sherman was done explaining, she rubbed her eyes and said, "A crippled wing and a prayer. Lee's primary was a snap, not too hard to do a 60% LTV easy-qualifier. But two full-doc investment properties are a whole different ball game. You’re trying to do over a month's work in three days." "It can be done. With you at the helm of my processing ship it can be done." Sherman walked back to his office and sat down at his desk. He’d been at his desk for a half-hour when Harry came in. He listened with alarm as Harry relayed the Smits situation, and his mind rapidly scanned options, discarding a host of possibilities before settling upon a workable solution to save Ty's re-fi. "Fuck their best interest, we have a contest to win!" barked Sherman, in reply to Harry's explanation as to why the Smits were rescinding their re-fi. "Ty's going down in flames as we speak." "He's got the Smits on the phone?" asked Sherman, hating Harry for enjoying the situation, hating his apathy and lack of respect, but mostly hating him for the sin of being a low producer. "Mrs. Smits." "This is not a problem," said Sherman, leaving his desk and heading for the loan officer's room. Soon Harry wouldn't be around to lower his funding numbers, soon his plan to rid the Lawndale branch of its burned-out weak link could be implemented. Sherman took a crisp $100 bill out of his snakeskin wallet as he neared Ty's desk. Tim stood next to the desk. Despite his high numbers, Sherman saw the flaws in Tim - lack of true selling grit, over-reliance on re-fi’s fed to him by "The Post", core of civility within a soft caring heart. "You on Daniels?" asked Sherman as he set the green bill down on Ty's desk. "Odds?" asked Tim. "From what Harry tells me, you should be giving me odds." "Not on your life boss. I know your sucker bets." Ty punched his mute button and said, "Sherman, not even you could resurrect Smits." "Two hundred says it ain't casket closing time," said Sherman, taking another bill out of his snakeskin wallet. "Shit Sherman, Smits is dead, the casket is six feet under and the worms are knocking on the lid." "Two hundred says I've got the ace of spades up my sleeve to dig them up with." "You’re on! I don't care if you got a backhoe hidden up your ass, you're not saving Smits. We're talking 72 inches of concrete here." "Then let's go with 600, half of the Smits commission that I'm going to salvage for your rookie ass." "Let's keep it at two. You ready to roll?" "Slide them over, greenhorn," said Sherman. "Tell them that your boss, hearing of their job transfer to Kentucky, would like to have a few words with them before going ahead and canceling their loan." "Ohio. They're moving to Ohio," said Ty, taking his phone off mute and repeating the instructions. Ty handed the headset to Sherman, who enlarged it to fit his monstrous cranium. Bits of sticky Geri-curl left a faint mucous film over the hairs of his wig as he adjusted the headset. "Mrs. Smits," Sherman's voice was poignant with concern, gentle with shared anxiety. "I heard about your husband's transfer. Do you have any family in Ohio?" "Outside of Bob's sister in Atlanta we're strictly West Coast people." "Never lived back East?" "Never."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "I was raised in Ohio," lied Sherman. "Family moved there from Kentucky when I was three. I can remember fishing on the Muskingum with my father. Great catfish. Mrs. Smits, I think you're going to like Ohio. Wish I could be the one escaping LA. You and your husband are lucky people." "We'll see." "Truly Mrs. Smits, lucky people. You're going to have to send me a catfish when you get there. Now, looking at your file, it looks like tomorrow is the last day to exercise your right of recession. I'll go ahead and stop things at this end. Do you have access to a fax?" "I can get to one." "Good. Sign and date the recession and fax it over. Keep a copy for your records but we'll need the original for our files." "Thank you Mr. Peters." "Thank you Mrs. Smits. Be sure and call us up if you move back to California and need a mortgage. And don't worry about a thing, you'll love Ohio, especially this time of the year. May is just magical." "We're not moving out until December. Bob's new job doesn't start until the first of next year." "What? Not for another seven months?" Sherman's voice trailed off into silence as he thought over this new piece of information. He muttered to himself, pausing, thinking. "Buy up the margin, lower the costs... hum... if we... then. Hum, let's see, we're looking at a Jumbo. Two hundred and twenty thousand, lower to 215,000. Wow, that's a lot of money!" "What's a lot of money?" "Over $10,000, plus it could help in selling your house, adjustables being assumable and the seller not having to pay any loan fees." "What are you talking about?" "Oh, excuse me Mrs. Smits. Afraid I was thinking out loud," said Sherman, reeling in the fish. "I thought you were leaving immediately for Ohio, in which case paying $6,000 dollars to secure a lower fixed rate wouldn't make any sense. Sure you would be saving $350 dollars per month, but your time to recoup the $6,000 would be too long. Seven months is just not enough time for the loan to make any sense." "My feelings exactly." "Now listen Mrs. Smits, listen to what happens when we approach things from a different angle. If we go at it with an adjustable we accomplish three things. First, we go with a loan that has a super-super low-low initial interest rate. Secondly, we bump up the margin and decrease the total cost of the loan to zero, nothing, zilch. Thirdly, when you sell the house, the seller can assume your loan, something that can't be done with the fixed rate you have now." "Well, I don't know." "Now listen Mrs. Smits, listen real hard. We get you into an adjustable, you save over a 600 bucks a month, and the cost to set up the loan is nothing." "What's the hitch?" Sherman smiled his wolfish grin and Ty got his checkbook out of his briefcase. It took another five minutes to thoroughly convince Mrs. Smits and set up a time for them to sign the new adjustable documents. Sherman traded Ty his headset for a $200 check. "Don't be nailing the lid on the coffin when the fat lady hasn't even coughed. Shit Ty, don't be burying live clients." "Thanks for saving my commission, but aren't you screwing the Smits?" "How?"

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Don't all our Jumbo adjustables have a nasty first year pre-payment penalty? Something like a full year's worth of payments?" Tim added from his desk, "I've heard through the grapevine that the guidelines have been changed on Jumbo adjustables to a first year pre-payment penalty of twelve months payments plus one percent of the loan amount. And I think they've now made it so that our Jumbo adjustables are non-assumable for the first year." "Screw the guidelines!" barked Sherman. "If the Smits are stupid enough to sign docs without reading them, then they deserve a nasty pre-payment penalty. Ty, you'd better make sure that any papers mentioning pre-payment penalties are towards the end of the docs. Most people are so burned-out by their last ten signatures that they would sign away their mothers. We need Smits to beat Beckman." "Still behind The King?" asked Ty. "It's close, too damn close to tell," said Sherman, leaving the loan officer's room to call Paul Lee and confirm their appointment. After calling Paul Lee, Sherman walked to Ted's Travel and bought a package trip to Cabo San Lucas. He then drove to Wright Appraisal to see Larry, who ran Wright Appraisal from a garage-converted office in nearby Redondo Beach. Larry Wright, like all appraisers on Cal. Gold's approved appraisers list, was buried under an avalanche of orders cascading into his garage from the latest re-fi boom. His turnaround time had mushroomed to between three and four weeks. Lee's two investment appraisals had been ordered Monday and, under constant pressure from Sherman, Larry had actually visited the properties that morning. Larry still needed to find comps, do a rental survey, develop the photos he had taken, and log everything into the computer. Sherman slid open the sliding glass door to Larry's office, walking inside with a case of Corona balanced on one shoulder, comps faxed to him from Lincoln Title in his left hand, and an envelope sticking out of his shirt pocket. Sherman put the Corona case on top of Larry's cluttered desk. Larry didn't say a word, didn't move from his computer terminal, didn't stop inputting data. Sherman put the Lincoln comps on top of the computer. Larry still didn't acknowledge his presence, didn't stop inputting data. From the envelope in his shirt pocket, Sherman took out a three-day itinerary for a fishing trip to Cabo and placed it in front of the computer screen. Larry removed the itinerary and continued typing. Sherman began to describe his gift, his three-day elixir, the therapeutic restoration of a Mexican sunset, the simple curative power of wrestling a marlin out of the Pacific. Larry finally grabbed the comps and asked, "When?" "Friday." "Saturday,” said Larry as he studied the comps. "Noon." "Two." "I need two-thirty on the condo, two-seventy on Green St." "Maybe two-twenty on the condo. Comp two is bullshit and three is too old. Green St. you'll be lucky to get two-forty." "I need 70%. Two-twenty is O.K. but I need you to push Green St. to twofifty." "I'll try." "No Larry, trying won't cut it. Give me two-fifty." "O.K. Two-fifty, two-twenty," said Larry, returning to data inputting. "See you at two on Saturday. I hope you remember this day when the re-fi wave is over and you're at my office whining for business."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels On the drive from Wright Appraisal to the Lee’s 23rd Street Convenience Store, Sherman called Jerry, the underwriter on Lee's primary residence. He explained that they had to fund Paul's two investment properties on Monday because Paul Lee was leaving for Korea to attend to family business after the sudden death of his father. Sherman felt the lie rather hollow but knew Jerry was appallingly gullible for an underwriter. He assured Jerry that the appraisals were complete and value was not a problem. They just needed a conditional approval so that docs could be signed Thursday. Jerry gave the conditional approval on the promise that Sherman would drop off the loan packages to corporate Saturday night for him to review. It was a little past 2:30 when he picked up Paul Lee and his two brothers at the 23rd Street Convenience Store and drove to the Korean Community Bank on 8th Street. Sherman needed V.O.D.s from Korean Community Bank and Bank of America. The amount of money in the accounts had to be close to what he had put on their primary residence application. The problem was that Paul Lee didn't have a tenth of what Sherman had put down. He could get away with this on an easy-qualifier, where sterling credit and large equity made a V.O.D. unnecessary. But Cal. Gold required both V.O.D.s and three month bank statements on their fixedrate Fannie Mae investment loans. The bank statements had been doctored for the easy-qualifier. All Sherman had to do was photocopy the already cut-and- pasted papers that had taken hours to perfect. The V.O.D.s, however, would take a bit more work. Things went smoothly at the Korean Community Bank, the bank that held the Lee's personal savings and checking accounts. First Sherman had Paul's two bothers transfer all their money into Paul's accounts. He then handed a V.O.D. to a thin Korean clerk with a fat face. The thin Korean clerk got her short Korean supervisor to come to the counter. The short Korean supervisor got his tall Korean manager. The tall Korean manager signed the V.O.D.s after having the Korean clerk with the fat face fill them out. Except for a few commands from Sherman, the whole four-minute transaction had been conducted in Korean. Once Sherman had the V.O.D.s, he instructed Paul and his bothers to withdraw their money. They then headed to Bank of America. Things did not go smoothly at Bank of America, where Paul had one personal savings account and two business accounts in the name of the 23rd Street Convenience Store. After the money from Korean Community Bank had been deposited among Paul's various accounts, Sherman slid two V.O.D.s, one for each investment property, across the counter. A bored young black woman looked uncomprehendingly at the V.O.D.s, before taking them to her supervisor. Her supervisor, an over-dressed young white man with condescending eyes, told Sherman that the V.O.D.s could only be filled out by mailing the forms to Bank of America's central office. Sherman demanded to see the supervisor's supervisor. When the supervisor said that this would be impossible, Sherman repeated himself in a loud voice that spread across the bank like a detonation. The supervisor paled, briefly toying with his silk Nordstrom’s tie before fetching his manager. His manager, a plump Mexican woman trying unsuccessfully to retain the slender sexuality of her youth, repeated what the over-dressed young white man had said. She added that it was against Fannie Mae regulations to fill out V.O.D.s over the counter. After a few failed attempts at appealing to reason, Sherman erupted, sounds exploding out of his throat like shrapnel, fists raining down on the counter like brimstone. Awed bank customers looked at Sherman like a church congregation witnessing a preacher gripped in holy seizure. Sherman walked away from the counter, filled with the power of words. Holding a V.O.D. above his head, he explained to the bank customers how the callous machine of Bank of America was

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels wronging his client - how the evil minions of America's banking industry were indifferent to the plight of Mr. Lee. Miss Lopez, the plump Mexican manager, filled out the V.O.D.s herself and handed them to Sherman. Paul then withdrew most of the money out of his accounts and they headed back to the Korean Community Bank where he returned his brothers' monies. They then drove to the 23rd Street Convenience Store. Sherman parked in an alley behind Paul's store. A yellow and orange striped cat looked up from its inspection of a garbage bin as Paul opened the passenger door of Sherman's new Mercedes 500SEL. The cat hesitated on the rim of the bin, jumping off and scurrying away when the Mercedes’ back doors opened and Paul's brothers got out. Paul unlocked his store's iron-barred backdoor and Sherman followed him in. Once his two brothers were inside, Paul locked the door. Sherman placed his briefcase onto a small wooden table in a corner of the store's backroom. He took out a stack of blank tax returns. "Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one. Three for each year in case we make any mistakes. For your signatures, use black ink but different pens for each year. Leave everything blank, we'll fill them in and bang out P&Ls tomorrow. You're sure Mrs. Lee can't make it?" “Her father's sick. She is needed there," said Paul. "All right, but make damn sure she gets down to escrow and signs all the documents. You'll bring back the documents from City View?" "They'll be here Mr. Peters." "Good, see you tomorrow night at seven then." "Tomorrow at seven," said Paul, leaving the table and reopening the backdoor. Sherman walked to his car with his briefcase in his right hand. Driving out of the alley he fingered the red ‘record’ button on his mini-cassette recorder. "Lee will fly. Larry says the value's there and he'll have the appraisals done by Saturday. Manuel is down to four items - paycheck stub on Maria, cancelled checks on Tony, paid collection on Javier, green card on Raul." Sherman clicked off his recorder and drove in silence back to the office. Pulling into Cal. Gold, he parked next to Harry's Ford Explorer. Stepping out of his Mercedes, Sherman was greeted by shrill Bernie Baluchistani screams echoing out of the courtyard. The narrow hallway between Ted's Travel and Cal. Gold channeled and amplified the sounds. Sherman stopped before entering the hallway. He noticed that no processors were present in Cal. Gold and no travel agents were to be found inside Ted's Travel. He grinned and headed to Lawndale Escrow via its alley entrance. Sherman pushed the red ‘record’ button on his mini-cassette recorder as he entered Lawndale Escrow. The recorder taped Sherman asking Shirley to please explain the pandemonium at the center fountain. It taped her explanation. It taped Sherman leaving Lawndale Escrow. It taped Bernie's verbal torrent and the brief silence that followed Bernie's nose stabbing Harry's semi-balding forehead. The recorder taped the words Harry finally spoke, words uttered in a hard monotone riddled with violence. "Bernie, I'm through waltzing with you. No carpetflying sand nigger is going to ruin my gumbo, no camel-sodomizing raghead is going to destroy my dinner party, no…" "Baluchistani," interrupted Sherman, stepping out of the crowd ringing the fountain, "Your family from Baluchistan?" "Ah yes, yes they are," squeaked a bewildered Bernie Baluchistani. "Always wanted to visit South Pakistan. The Silk Road, all that sand, stars, and romance." Sherman clapped a hand on Bernie's shoulder and steered him back

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels towards Lawndale Escrow. "Excuse us Harry. Now, Mr. Baluchistani, tell me, does it really top 120 degrees in the summer in Baluchistan?" "Yes it gets hot, now exactly who…?" "Wow, a regular Death Valley! " "Who are you?" "Sherman Peters, Mr. Baluchistani, Sherman Peters. Got a call from Shirley on my car phone. Seems Harry cracked. I'm the branch manager and I won't stand for anyone not treating a client with respect and the utmost professionalism. Now, Shirley has given us her office for you to tell me in private just exactly what happened." In Shirley's office, Sherman listened to Bernie vent his anger, expertly channeling him into avenues that focused his ire on Harry and away from Cal. Gold. When he felt he had enough on tape to crucify Harry, he moved the conversation towards doc signing and deftly clicked off the recorder in his suit-jacket pocket. "Mr. Baluchistani, it's late, perhaps we should start fresh tomorrow. Why don't we redraw docs at tomorrow's rate and we can go over any and every question you might have." "Tomorrow? Will the rate be the same?" "It sure should be, the bond market didn't do much today. What rate is on the docs now?" asked Sherman, knowing the answer already. "Eight and five eights." "Eight and five eights? How many points you paying?" "Two." "Two? Harry must have really cracked. I'm sorry, but at that rate and costs my branch loses way too much money." "Harry was giving me a special deal because of some funding contest." "Funding contest?" "He said that if I signed today, he would give me a special rate." "I'm sorry Mr. Baluchistani, but I'm afraid Harry was giving you a rate he wasn't authorized to give." "I want this rate." "Impossible." "That's your problem. Harry made the mistake. Either give me the rate or I'm suing." "Suing?" "If not for false representation, then for racial slander." "I hope you realize that to give you such a below market rate, my branch loses thousands and thousands of dollars," lied Sherman. "I'll tell you what. I'll go through with it if we add one more piece of paper to these documents." "What's that?" "A document stating that the public waltz that you and Harry were performing was a personal disagreement that in no way involved Cal. Gold." "I don't know." "I'll have Shirley type it up and you will sign it." "I don't know." "Look Mr. Baluchistani, you have no choice. You will sign if you want the loan. Do you want this loan?" "Yes." "Sign the fucking paper." Sherman called Shirley into her office and explained what he wanted typed up. Bernie signed the fucking paper and the rest of the documents in less than five minutes.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels

Virgina Virgina sat at her desk listening to an unending stream of babble. Through her gold half-framed reading glasses she stared at Lillian Woodsworth, wondering if the withered, cosmetically reconditioned woman would ever shut up. For five minutes Lillian had kept Virgina from starting work on the Spitzer docs. Pushing her chair back, Virgina stood up and said, "Mrs. Woodsworth, thank you so much for dropping off Brian's documents. I will review them and set up funding for tomorrow." "Wonderful, isn't it just wonderful for Brian? He can move into his duplex over the weekend. How perfect for him. It feels so good to share my success with other people, people like Brian. You know he and Tim will both be speaking at my Positive Wealth Breakfast Seminar this Saturday." "Yes I know. Again thanks and goodday Mrs. Woodsworth," said Virgina, leaning towards Lillian, towering over the tiny babbling creature who stared up at her with beady uncomprehending eyes. "You know this is just the start for Brian. A duplex in Long Beach today, a four-plex in San Pedro tomorrow. Who knows, maybe someday he'll own apartment complexes in Redondo Beach like me. It’s all possible if you have goals. Do you have goals Virgina?" "Just one," replied Virgina, moving from behind her desk and using her bulk to steer Lillian towards her office door. "Just one? Oh my, but that won't do. I have written down a list of a hundred goals. I've accomplished forty-two of them and tomorrow I'll accomplish number forty-three, which was to become a real estate agent and sell homes to those less fortunate than me, and help them along the path to positive wealth." "Very good. I'm happy for you. Now, if you'll ex…" "Can you imagine that Virgina? I'll have gotten my real estate license and sold my first home at the age of 62. Isn't it wonderful? Now, what was that one goal of yours?" "To get back to work," said Virgina. "Oh my," said Lillian Woodsworth. Under her short boyish hair, silver hoop earrings fluttered. "Well, have a good day then." With a sigh, Virgina sat down. She decided to have lunch before reviewing the documents that Lillian had brought over from Ocean Escrow in Long Beach. She got her sack lunch out of a desk drawer and was about to turn on her radio when Sherman came into her office for a strategy meeting. It was 12:30 when Sherman left and she was able to turn on her radio and start eating her lunch. "Virgina," came Tina’s voice over the phone intercom. “I know you’re at lunch but Tad is on line three." "Send him over." Virgina let the phone ring a few times while she put the sandwich to one side of her desk. "Tad?" "Virgina, I hear you’re singing this Sunday.” "Now who told you a fool thing like that?" "Come on Virgina. You haven't sung with the choir since the Christmas pageant disaster of ‘87. You singing is big news. In fact, if it’s true, the event is big enough to lure a sinner like myself back into the house of the Lord." "Tad, you haven't been to church in five years." "Tell me it's true and I'll be there this Sunday." "It's true."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "I guess I'll be seeing you twice this Sunday then." "Twice it is." "How's the kid? You know I'm seeing him tomorrow." "He told me. He has a lot on his mind, something is eating at him but I don't know exactly what." “He’s a good boy, that kid.” “Yes he is.” “See you Sunday then. Bye Virgina.” “Bye Tad.” Virgina put the phone back in its cradle and turned up the radio. Miriam Stone was on. Virgina smiled at the wounded indignation and repressed fury crackling through the static. “I give flight to words trapped within, to emotions choking the spirit and crippling the soul. I sing the song of the caged bird. I seek to open the skies of freedom to ebony wings tied by ivory chains. Harsh chains formed of bitter links. Links of racism and social inequality, links of governmental persecution and economic slavery.” Virgina knew Miriam from church, knew her before she became a congresswoman. She’d always been an annoying but necessary itch, a dedicated gadfly refusing to accept the reality of South Central and the normalcy of drive-by shootings and police corruption. Years before becoming a congresswoman, Miriam had been using hyperbole and relentless anger to wage battle against the status quo. “Ebony wings tied by ivory chains,” chuckled Virgina as she returned to the Spitzer docs. “You get ‘em girl!” She looked up from the Spitzer docs and turned down her radio when a bigeared black man with a small head knocked at her door. Big sad eyes peered out from the small head that sat atop stooped shoulders. A utility belt containing an orange diagnostic phone, along with many large and small tools, was clasped around the man’s waist. “Windell Cunningham,” began Virgina, “I’m afraid that no gadget in that Alexander Graham Bell belt of yours is going to fix my communication problem.” “Hello Virgina” said Windell Cunningham, with confusion in his big sad eyes. “I believe my job’s rather simple. I just need to fiddle for a while with the phone panel here in your office in order to re-route a few things on your voicemail system before adding an 800 prefix to your number. It should take no more than an hour tops.” “My communication problem has nothing to do with phone panels. Something leaked that shouldn’t.” “Virgina,” asked Windell in his rich disc-jockey baritone, “what exactly are we talking about?” “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” “Virgina, I haven’t a clue how this conversation started or where it’s heading.” “It’s heading to phone calls I’ve been getting of late. Phone calls along the lines of, ‘Virgina, I hear you’re singing the Saints this Sunday.’ Now, Windell Cunningham Jr., husband of the director of the Hawthorne Baptist Gospel Choir, how do you figure a rumor like that got started?” “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” “There isn’t much mystery about it. Besides the Lord, two people knew last Monday that I had agreed to sing this Sunday. One of the two people is known to have a rather looser lip than his wife. Are you starting to understand where this conversation is heading?” “You mean to tell me that you suspect divine intervention. I know this is a big event, but don’t you think blaming the Lord for revealing the secret is a little vain?” “It’s not the Lord, but the devil I blame. Now, didn’t you agree last Sunday to a vow of silence?”

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels “Virgina, I’m insulted. My tongue has been stilled and my lips sealed.” “Well then you must be one hell of a ventriloquist, because the cat got out the bag before I had a chance to talk to Estelle. And I don’t think it was the Lord or Lois that let it out.” “Are you saying I’m responsible?” “Anybody else you could suggest?” “Virgina, a vow is a vow and I’ve been more silent than a dead priest in a confessional.” “So you in no way, written, spoken, or otherwise, relayed to anybody that I would be singing with the choir this Sunday?” “I kept my vow.” “Black men shouldn’t tell white lies. Perhaps you somehow kept the vow in the literal sense, but you certainly violated the intent of it. The intent was to give me time to iron things out with Estelle. You know how many years it took us to get over Christmas Pageant ‘87. I just wish your big ears hadn’t overheard that conversation Lois and I were having in your kitchen last Sunday.” “Did you tell Estelle?” “I never got the chance. She found out on her own.” “How did she take it?” “Windell Cunningham, I think it’s time you start your phone fiddling.” “Was it Christmas Pageant ‘87 all over again?” “Windell, I’m ignoring you.” “Did she throw another hymnal at you?” “Windell, I’m working now.” “Come on Virgina, I swear I won’t tell anyone.” Virgina looked up from the Spitzer docs and glared at Windell, twin ebony daggers shielded behind gold half-framed reading glasses. Windell’s head retreated into his stooped shoulders like a sea turtle confronting an angry shark. He scratched behind a big ear before silently opening a metal phone panel that gave access to a profusion of colored wires. Virgina resumed her work. For thirty minutes nothing was said. Then a verbal bomb exploded Baluchistani decibels moving in shrill shock waves through Virgina’s office. “What in God’s name is that?” asked Windell. “Bernie Baluchistani,” replied Virgina. “What’s a Bernie Baluchistani?” Before Virgina could reply, Nicole stuck her head into the office and said, “It sounds like Bernie’s gone completely psycho. Should we call in Sherman or the Marines?” “Don’t call anybody just yet,” said Virgina. “Maybe he’ll calm down and this whole thing will blow over.” “Maybe, but I doubt it. I’m going out to the courtyard to see if I can do anything to stop the madman.” Nicole headed towards the back door with Tina and Cheryl in her wake. Virgina took off her glasses and massaged her forehead; gently kneading blood vessels, pressing fingernails into the bridge of her delicate nose, rubbing knuckles into eyes. Finishing her massage, she reached for the glasses perched on her chest. They hesitated in their journey from large breasts to nose, as Virgina just managed to catch a news bulletin through the static of the cheap Panasonic radio and Bernie Baluchistani screaming. She turned up the radio’s volume with her left hand. Glasses dropped unnoticed from her right hand, sliding down her dress until halted by a small silver chain. The police officers had been acquitted.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Virgina stared at the radio, deaf to the universe, her mind struggling to grasp what her soul rejected. She opened her mouth to speak but could find nothing to say. Time stumbled. “How?” Asked Virgina. The question was not directed at Windell. It was the only word that could force its way through the unreality that paralyzed time. The word was said softly, sadly. “Damn!” said Windell, hooking his thumbs into his utility belt and looking uncomprehendingly towards the radio. After a few moments he unhooked his thumbs, took a pair of needle-nose pliers out of his utility belt, and returned to his work. Virgina watched him bend and cut and tape and insert colored wires into various circuits. “Virgina,” said Nicole, returning from the courtyard. “Yes?” said Virgina, pulling her eyes away from the colored wires. “The Sherman cavalry saved the day. Is everything O.K. in here? You look a little funny.” “They acquitted.” “Figures,” said Nicole. “If a jury can think shooting Latasha Harling in the back for stealing a Snickers is justifiable homicide, then a jury can think the officers practicing their piñata techniques on Rodney were using reasonable force.” “I expected better,” said Windell. “All anybody got to do is look at the video to know they’re guilty.” “Grow up phone man,” snapped Nicole. “Don’t you know that this is America, where you’re innocent until proven black?” Windell and Virgina watched Nicole leave the room. He closed the phone panel and said, “Well I’m pretty much done here. I guess I’ll see you tonight at choir practice.” “See you tonight.” “Bye Virgina.” Windell hesitated in front of Virgina’s desk, his hand nervously tugging at his right ear. He repeated, “See you tonight.” She gave him a silent inquiring stare. He scratched under his chin, gave his ear an alarming final yank, set his hands firmly around his utility belt, and asked, “Virgina, do you believe that people are capable of change?” “Yes,” said Virgina slowly. “You really believe it?” “Everyone has the capacity, few have the will.” “Do you believe in forgiveness?” “Windell, I don’t have time to play twenty questions. Whatever it is you’re trying to say, say it.” “Virgina, we’ve been friends for a long time. Because of the value I place on our friendship, I must tell you something that I’m very ashamed of. Something I did long ago that affects you today. Something I did back when I was a different kind of person. Back before I put my trust fully in the Lord and let him guide my life.” Windell fell silent, the big eyes in his small head had become sadder, his stooped shoulders more stooped. Virgina turned her radio back down and said, “Close the door, sit down and say what it is that you have to say.” Windell closed the door, sat down, and asked, “You’re still not going to Chuck’s wedding in two Sundays?” Virgina chewed at the insides of her mouth for a few moments before saying, “No.” “Lois and I got them a fancy crystal salad bowl. I would have rather given them Laker tickets but I couldn’t find it listed in their registry. You know Leslie is

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels nearly as nuts about basketball as Chuck. She’s a good Christian girl, that Leslie. Have you met her?” Virgina didn’t reply. Windell continued, “Since I have the utmost respect for both you and Chuck, I feel that I must relay certain events that happened back when Chuck had his dark period, back before he came to know the Lord. As I’m sure you’ll remember, I used to have something of a gambling problem, an obsession for the horses, a talent for losing large sums of money that I couldn’t afford to be losing. To put it mildly, this caused certain marital difficulties. More accurately, Lois and I were less than a gnat’s kneecap from divorce and financial ruin. In June of ‘81, Lois gave me an ultimatum. If I continued to be a horse’s ass by betting on horses’ asses, I would be out on my ass.” “I lasted until July, until finding a secret stash of cash that Lois had tucked away. Eighteen hundred dollars stuck into the base of an antique lamp that had been a wedding present from her grandmother. At first I wanted to run from the money, get away from the temptation that would surely ruin my marriage. But a gambling fool is the worst fool of them all, and I took the money down to Hollywood Park, mesmerized by visions of fortune, hooked on the thrill of daring disaster.” “I lost it all in a four hour Thursday afternoon. Then came Friday, July 17th, a night I think we’ll all never forget. At least Chuck and I will never forget it. That night choir practice coincided with the tallying of the robe drive to raise money to replace our stolen choir robes in time for the Baptist Choir Convention in Sacramento. As you know, Estelle’s daughter was in charge of counting up all the money so that a report of it could be made during Sunday service.” “Washingtons, Lincolns, and even a few Jacksons were all floating around in that big, stupid, plastic, see-through piggy bank that we’d been using to raise money. ‘Harold’, we called the pig. It was Lois, to my shame, that came up with the slogans, ‘Don’t be a ham, support your Hawthorne Baptist Gospel Choir’, and ‘Feed Harold his buck wheat’. I can still see that big sign proclaiming Lois’s slogan taped next to Harold in the church foyer. The sign by itself would’ve made Harold one skinny pig, but with Estelle standing next to him, extorting cash from everyone passing by, Harold got all the ‘buck’ wheat he could stomach. The swine was stuffed with a little over two thousand dollars.” “When I came to choir practice and saw Harold standing in the front of the choir loft, I saw the savior of my marriage. All through practice I rationalized that to take the money wouldn’t be stealing if I secretly replaced every dime by adding a special pork tithe to my normal Sunday service offering. I knew that Estelle would find some way of getting us up to Sacramento in new choir robes. ‘What harm could de-buck wheating Harold really do?’ Satan argued in my ear.” “Lois and I had taken separate vehicles to choir practice that night because I was down in Long Beach on a phone job and didn’t want to be late. Estelle was almost as abusive to the tardy then as my Lois is now. Sometimes I swear I’m married to Hitler without the mustache. I bet he started out as a choir director.” “Now where was I? Ah yes. My utility van came in handy in kidnapping Harold. It would have been the perfect crime if it hadn’t been pinned on Chuck, an innocent victim of my gambling addiction and Janis Williams’ lie. At the end of practice, rather than waiting around to find out the final Harold tally, I said that I needed to leave in order to swing by Radio Shack and pick up some parts for our broken television set. I never went to Radio Shack. I parked my van next to the side door that leads to the baptistry and on to Tyus’s office via a back door. Janis had taken Harold to be counted in Tyus’s office and I figured that maybe a chance would arise to make off with the bacon when Janis returned to give the results of the tally.” “Imagine my surprise when I found the office empty except for Harold. Janis was outside in the courtyard listening to Chuck saying he wanted to break things off

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels with her. Evidently he was there because they’d planned to go out to a club after practice. Instead of going out he was giving Janis a Dear John speech. It wasn’t a bad speech but Janis would have none of it, accusing Chuck of wanting to go out with Beth Montgomery. With typical Cooper honesty, Chuck bluntly admitted that it was true. Janis went ballistic, ripped off that red beret Chuck was always wearing, jumped all over it, and said many unspeakable things.” “At this point, caution won over curiosity, and I made off through the back door with Harold. Down the narrow hall leading away from Tyus’s office I went, past the baptistry and out the side door. I threw the pig into my van and drove off. Ten minutes later I butchered Harold and threw the plastic carcass into a garbage bin in an alley behind Vons. It wasn’t until Lois came home with the news of the theft that I learned how my crime had been compounded by Janis’s lie.” “You know the story. Janis left Harold briefly alone in Tyus’s office to go and use the restroom. When she returned, the front door was wide open and Harold was missing. She returned just in time to see a man in the church courtyard running off with a plastic pig. She gave chase, running after the man who sprinted out to a waiting Mustang convertible. The man threw the pig into the back seat of the car and jumped into the front without opening the door. As he jumped, a red beret tumbled out of his coat pocket and Janis recognized the thief clearly as Chuck. The red beret was the smoking gun.” “Most everyone but you believed the story. Because you stood by Chuck when he proclaimed his innocence, Estelle Williams thought you were branding her daughter a liar. This was the beginning of the war between you and Estelle that culminated in the disaster of ‘87. So, in a way, I’m responsible for that as well.” “My crime saved a marriage but destroyed a friendship, and perhaps contributed to forces rupturing your family. I know that Chuck got involved in many destructive things before turning his life around. But Virgina, Chuck is not the man he was, he is truly reformed. Let the past be the past. Now is the time for forgiveness. Go to Chuck’s wedding.” Windell stopped talking and began fidgeting with the clasp on his utility belt. After some time, Virgina said, “What is between Chuck and me has nothing to do with plastic pigs. Despite your big ears, literally and figuratively, you’ve been a good husband to Lois. The past is where I’ll leave your story. And, just so you’ll know, I never once doubted Chuck’s innocence, not once.” “Thanks for listening, and I still hope you can find some way to get to the wedding.” “Thank you Windell. I respect both the reason why you said what you said and the courage it took to say it.” “See you at choir practice.” “See you tonight. Hard to believe it’s been nearly five years since my last practice.” “Time marches on,” said Windell as he stood up. “Do those phone tricks you taught me still work after all the fiddling you did?” “That they do. You can still play Big Sister and listen to other people’s conversations or tap into their voicemail. But don’t let playing God go too far or someday you might wake up and find yourself a choir director.” “Bye Windell.” “Bye Virgina,” said Windell leaving the office. As Windell left, Sherman entered and placed a folder on Virgina’s desk. “Virgina, it looks like, between your prayers and my crippled wings, we’re going to beat Bobby Beelzebub yet. In the folder on your desk are the Lees’ V.O.D.s. I’ll have their appraisals in at value by two on Saturday. Two-twenty on the condo, two-fifty

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels on Green Street. Tomorrow night I pick up P&Ls and tax returns. The numbers will match exactly what I’ve jotted down on a paper inside the folder.” “If we’re going to fund Monday, when are the files going to be underwritten?” asked Virgina. “Sunday my dear, Sunday. As of now, we’ve got conditional approval. Sunday Jerry will underwrite. Monday Bobby gets beat.” “You are the king of voodoo.” “And you’re my queen, the brains behind my beauty.” Before turning back to her work, Virgina switched off the cheap Panasonic with its barely audible news program. In order to focus on work, and beat King Bobby, the emotions stirred up by the acquittal would have to be put on hold. Virgina didn’t get out of the office until past six. She barely had time to drive home, eat, and get ready for 7:30 choir practice at the Hawthorne Baptist Church. It was strange getting into her Thunderbird and heading for practice like she had done on countless Wednesday evenings before the Christmas Pageant of 1987. Strange that a gap of nearly five years seemed like only a matter of days. Strange how time had tumbled by so quickly since she and Estelle had almost come to blows while singing ‘Silent Night’. The Sunday night of December 20th had not been a silent one at the Hawthorne Baptist Church’s 1987 Christmas Pageant. Upwards of five hundred people had packed into the church for the annual event. Estelle had stepped aside as choir director for the evening so that Nathaniel Jefferson, famed visiting director of the Atlanta Baptist Gospel Singers, could take the rostrum. It was his ill-fated decision to have Estelle and Virgina sing alternating lead parts of “Silent Night”. The piece turned into a duel, each alternating stanza becoming an opportunity to outperform the other. Vocal chords became locked in an epic struggle. Upward of a thousand ears heard the majestic contest - the exquisitely precise and awesomely powerful songbursts. The battle was a poem, a thing of transcending beauty, a hint of heaven. Then it all began to go wrong. Who stepped on whose vocal chords first is still hotly debated, but somewhere between “round young virgins” and “holy infants” things began to fuse. Somewhere in the middle of “Silent Night” Virgina and Estelle went from alternating leads to a duet. At first the transition sounded planned harmonious and celestial. Then the escalation began and increased and increased and increased. At first the two sets of lungs seemed evenly matched. But slowly, surely, and steadily, Virgina pulled away and began to dominate the duet. Her voice was raised to heights that threatened to burst upwards of a thousand eardrums and seemed to rattle the very pink bricks of the Hawthorn Baptist Church. Estelle was reduced to a mere footnote in the wondrous scroll of Virgina’s song. During “sleep in heavenly peace” Estelle suddenly stopped singing. She stopped and glared at Virgina. The two stood at opposite ends of the front row like massive bookends. When Virgina brought her musical masterpiece to a close, a silence as absolute as death followed. Estelle left her position and began walking towards Virgina. Upwards of a thousand ears could hear the tread of her shoes on carpet and the rapid rasp of her breath. Nathaniel Jefferson made another ill-fated decision. The tiny bald man with wire-rimmed glasses tried to come between the massive bookends. Estelle swatted him aside as easily as an unwary fly. Hurling accusations from her defeated lungs, she neared Virgina and threw her hymnal. Virgina stoically watched the hymnal fly past her head. Five male choir members managed to cart Estelle off the stage amid exclamations of outrage and much ripping of blue silk choir robes. After the chaos of the melee had subsided, they discovered just how strongly Estelle had swatted the famed director of the Atlanta Baptist Gospel Singers. The

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels tiny bald man had gone flying off the raised choir platform. He suffered a mild concussion and the right lens of his prescription glasses was fractured beyond repair. The Christmas Pageant of 1987 came to an abrupt halt. Virgina had planned to drive to Estelle’s house and tell her personally that she was returning to the choir, but decided against it after Windell leaked the news. As Virgina drove, she said a silent prayer to God for strength and wisdom in dealing with Estelle during practice. TV news vans came into view as Virgina made a left onto Yukon and drove towards the pink-bricked church. Pastor Tyus Montgomery, thought Virgina, might be the only human alive more addicted to the limelight than Congresswoman Miriam Stone. She parked her car and walked into the church. In the foyer, Tyus and Miriam were speaking before an array of TV cameras, imploring the community to not answer the injustice of the King verdicts with violence. Isaac Masters greeted Virgina as she walked into the sanctuary from a side foyer door. Isaac was a big man despite the shrinking of old age. He was in his late eighties and lived a block down from Virgina “Give me a heart attack right now,” said Isaac. “Good to see you too Isaac,” returned Virgina. “I just won’t be able to stand it. My old heart can’t be handling the worry.” “What worry?” “You know the worry. God is a busy man. What with keeping the world all aspinning and the sun a-shining and the moon a-waxing and a-waning.” “What are you talking about this time old man?” “Your celestial windpipes scare me to death. Beauty like that they don’t even got in heaven. With you singing this Sunday, the good Lord is apt to be forgetting his other duties. Woman, I got a heart condition. Couldn’t you sing a little less divine?” “Sure Isaac,” laughed Virgina, “anything for you. Are Craig and Kent anywhere around?” “Sure are. I saw them together in fact. Your son was filling Kent’s head with some silly notion about how he and Kent’s father used to play for the Lakers. I think Kent knew his leg was being pulled. Your grandson’s nobody’s fool.” “That he isn’t.” “Speaking of Kent’s father, you come to your senses yet?” “Isaac, you know better than to start with me. One more sermon or story from you regarding Chuck and you won’t have to worry about a heart attack because I’m gonna choke you to death with my own bare hands.” “You are a stubborn, stubborn, stubborn woman. What’s it been now Virgina? Eight years? Eight years since disowning your own son? Wake up girl. Life is short damn short. You’ve already lost Clark and Eddie. Go and shed a few tears at your son’s hitching. What possible reason could you have for not patching things up?” Isaac had been pestering Virgina about Chuck for over a month. She knew that nothing other than the truth would shut Isaac up during the two weeks leading up to Chuck’s wedding. Virgina wanted to scream the reason at Isaac, wanted to go out to the foyer and proclaim the reason before the TV cameras. “Isaac, I know your heart’s in the right place, but it’s time you shut up about Chuck’s wedding.” “Virgina, the whole thing is foolish and sometimes it’s a friend’s duty to let another friend know when they’re being a fool.” Virgina was saved from having to reply to Isaac by seven year-old Kent who appeared from the foyer yelling, “Grandmama, Grandmama.” Virgina picked Kent up, gave him a big hug, and asked, “Does my main little man know where Uncle Craig is?”

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Kent pointed to one side of the choir loft where Craig was talking to Windell. Virgina walked over to her son. After hugging her son, Virgina asked, “Why is everyone wearing choir robes? It’s only practice.” Craig replied, “It’s a Tyus and Miriam thing.” “Got to look good for CNN,” added Windell. “Just hope all of LA doesn’t go Watts,” said Virgina. “Why did they have to go and acquit?” asked Craig. “I’m surprised they let you off tonight,” said Virgina, changing the subject. “I’m not off,” said Craig, a paramedic at the local fire station. “I’m on call and have to go straight to the station after practice.” “You be careful out there tonight.” “Yes Mama.” They talked until Lois, Windell’s wife and the choir director, came up to Virgina and gave her a choir robe. As Virgina went to go change, she and Estelle made eye contact. Estelle, already dressed in a blue and gold robe, looked at the robe in Virgina’s hands before turning back to the group of people she was talking with. Estelle had resigned as choir director after the Christmas Pageant disaster. During the rehearsal Estelle and Virgina kept their distance, unconsciously returning to their bookend positions. While their powerful lungs and mighty voices added depth and soul to the Hawthorne Baptist Choir, the undercurrents of tension underlining their truce produced a sense of anxiety among the lesser volumes squeezed between the bookends. The rehearsal lasted until nine. A few of the forty-four choir members left the church immediately. Most gathered in informal knots and discussed the verdicts and rioting. Prior to dispersing, they had bowed their heads to pray. Pastor Tyus Montgomery gave the prayer, an impassioned plea to the Lord for guidance, a humble request to lead the city out of its valley of darkness. TV cameras recorded Tyus and the many “Amen”s and “Yes Lord”s that accompanied the long and poignant prayer. Kent’s mother, Beth Montgomery, approached Virgina as she was hanging up her choir robe. “Good to see you got over your fear of flying hymnals and are back in the choir.” “Good to be back,” chuckled Virgina. She liked Beth’s sarcasm most of the time. “Do you have some time right now? I’ve got something I need to discuss with you,” said Beth nervously. “I meant to talk to you when I dropped off Kent last Friday night. It’s about Chuck’s wedding.” “Sure,” said Virgina. By Beth’s anxious and uncertain look, Virgina guessed she was finally ready to unburden her past and reveal the secret Virgina had already known about for the last eight years. “Do you mind if we go to my Dad’s office? This is rather serious.” “I don’t mind,” said Virgina, wondering if Isaac, Windell, and Beth were just the tip of the wedding-hassle and confession-telling iceberg. It would be interesting meeting Chuck’s fiancée tomorrow. Leslie had called and requested a lunch meeting at Frank’s Fish Grill. It would be a relief talking with Tad on Sunday, talking to the one person that knew Virgina’s reason for breaking off relations with Chuck. Craig stopped them on their way to Tyus’s office. Craig had taken off his choir robe and was wearing a white Hawthorne Fire Department shirt with “Paramedic” written on its front and back. “Hi Beth,” said Craig.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels “Hi Craig,” said Beth. “Beth, do you mind if I steal my Mama for a few minutes?” “Ah, no,” Beth said hesitantly, “Steal away. Virgina, let’s talk Friday night when I drop Kent off.” “Are you sure Beth?” asked Virgina. “Yes I’m sure,” said Beth. “Thanks Beth,” said Craig. “Do you think your dad would mine if we used his office?” “No not all. I’ll see you on Friday Virgina.” After saying goodbye to Beth, Virgina followed her son into Tyus’s office. Craig motioned for them to sit down at a table. “Mama,” began Craig, “I’ll get straight to the point. I’m hearing from people that it’s stubbornness that has kept you from talking to Chuck for the last eight years. Others are calling it foolish pride. I’ve even heard sinful vanity used to describe your refusal to forgive Chuck and heal old wounds.” Listening to her son’s words, Virgina felt adrift among divergent fragments of her inner universe. Part of her felt the pain in Craig’s voice, tracing its source back to a car crash in the summer of ‘83. Another piece of herself was at her eldest son’s funeral, approaching the open casket behind Craig and Chuck. Another piece absorbed every word her paramedic son spoke. “But I know it’s not vanity or stubbornness or pride or foolishness, because I know you Mama. So it is a mystery to me. I don’t understand this disowning of Chuck.” One piece listened; another piece went back to a hospital room in the summer of ‘83. The doctors at the USC Medical Center had expected a full recovery. A form of cerebral contusion they had called it. Clark would have known the term; he could have explained the condition in his relaxed and simple style that made the most complex of biological processes understandable. He could have explained the nature of the coma that made him as powerless as the small naked infant that she had suckled on the same snow-white USC bed sheets. Perhaps, even though he had completed only one year of medical school, Clark could have explained why the doctors had been wrong, why he didn’t recover, why he suddenly hemorrhaged and died on his fifth night at the hospital. One piece held her eldest son’s lifeless hand; another piece continued to listen to Craig. “You say this isn’t about that night, that you don’t blame Chuck for what happened. But perhaps, just perhaps, some part of your soul, unknown to yourself, blames and keeps you from reconciling. But Chuck isn’t to blame, Mama.” Virgina raised a hand, her eyes closed, a great weariness descending upon her like a physical weight. Craig continued, “I made a vow to Chuck to not talk about what I have to say. A vow I shall now break.” A small moan escaped through Virgina’s clenched teeth. She shook her raised hand and said, “Son, stop, you have spoken and I have heard.” “No Mama, no,” said Craig, slowly getting up from his chair, his voice coming out in short gasps. “I have not spoken and you have not heard. That night, that terrible night, Chuck wasn’t…” “Stop!” The command was an absolute. Virgina rose out of her chair, her eyes an intense fire. “This isn’t about that. You were about to say that on that night, that terrible night when Clark came back from his first year at UCSF and you all went drinking and partying to celebrate, that things happened differently than I think. Chuck made you vow not to reveal who was driving. He shouldered the blame because he wasn’t in med. school or trying to become a fireman. He could afford a D.W.I. on his record; you and Clark could not. That’s why he made it look like he

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels was the one responsible for the crash when Clark was the one who had actually been driving.” Craig’s jaw dropped. He sat back down. “How, how did you know?” “I told you that this wasn’t about Clark,” said Virgina, sitting back down. “I best be going. They’re expecting me at the station.” Virgina nodded. Craig got up and made for the door. “Wait,” said Virgina as Craig reached towards the office door. “Come back here and give your Mama a hug.” They hugged for few moments longer than normal.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels

Tim “Mrs. Washington, I’m sorry, but your new husband simply can’t be put on the loan,” said Tim. “Why?” “Mrs. Washington, I’ve told you why four times.” “Best be making it five times,” said Mrs. Washington from across a dimly lit, ornate table of what Tim guessed to be oak. Growing up out on the ranch in Fresno Tim had done his homework on a similar antique oak table. Its wood had the same bone hardness as the intricately carved table dominating Mrs. Washington’s dining room. “You qualify by yourself. Your husband is not on title now and he’s not needed for the loan. Let’s just keep things simple and leave him out of the picture.” “Tyrone’s not needed. You just want me to discard him like some chewed-up chicken bone. You think it best I tell him he’s unneeded, unwanted, unnecessary. Just drop him like some useless bread crumb, some seedless and impotent corn husk.” “Mrs. Washington,” said Tim slowly, relaxing his tense fingers, letting a preliminary credit report fall out of his hands. The report fell onto the thick film of plastic that coated the table, protecting spotless white linen and hard black oak. “Mrs. Washington, I’ve showed you Mr. Washington’s credit report. You’ve seen the three outstanding collection accounts, the tax liens, the sixty-day late payments on Tyrone’s car, the lates on his Master Card, Visa, and Sears card. Mrs. Washington, is there a single account on your husband’s report that is current?” “Tyrone’s good people.” “I’m sure he his, and I’m sure he’ll understand why he has to sign a quitclaim. Add him onto the title after the refinance. He just can’t be on the loan, that’s all.” “That’s all,” said Mrs. Washington, the comical frogeyes in her skeletal head taking on a hard angry glint. Her black hands rolled into fists, black knuckles indented into the film of plastic covering the table, white linen bunched around finger joints. “Mr. Daniels, let me tell you what not being on the loan means to Tyrone. You see Tim, men…men… they’re sensitive. A man needs power, needs to feel he be something. A man can’t be expected to be logical in something like this. All Tyrone is going to hear is how he be nothing, no good. Is that what you’re saying Mr. Daniels?” “No I…” “’Cus that be what you’re saying. You can go into the living room right now and say it to his face. Look him in the eye and tell him he is no good, a nobody, worthless.” “Mrs. Washington I’m not…” “’Cus I’m not going to tell my Tyrone he be nothing. Now if you can’t look him in the eye and tell him what you think of him, then you best march back to your bank in your fancy suit and tell all them other fancy suits that my man is good people. You go and tell them that they best be finding room for Tyrone on all these here loan papers, Mr. Daniels, they best be finding room.” Tim studied Mrs. Washington with his gentle sky-blue eyes. He let a contemplative silence settle into the dining room as he slowly stroked the goatee that he had adopted to age his babyface. He had learned the value of a good

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels contemplative silence from Pastor Devonshire during his summer internships as an associate youth pastor at the Porterville Seventh Day Adventist Church. He stopped the slow stroke of his beard, clasped his fingers together and set them on the table in front of him. He took his eyes off Mrs. Washington, letting them explore the dim surroundings. Mrs. Washington absorbed the silence, angry frogeyes locked on the young white loan officer that “The Post” had recommended. From the living room came the sound of TV basketball punctuated by an occasional bout of smoker’s cough. Tim looked up to an impressive crystal chandelier radiating a faint electric yellow above them, before letting his gaze drift down to the plates and silverware in a windowed oak china cabinet behind Mrs. Washington. His gaze continued downward, drifting to the oak table, around crystal salt and peppershakers, stopping briefly at a porcelain vase containing three newly cut red roses. The vase had been pushed to one side to allow room for the stack of loan application papers and supporting documentation that lay neatly in front of Mrs. Washington. Tim refocused on Mrs. Washington. He unclasped his hands and raised them in surrender. With a smile wise beyond his years, Tim sighed and said, “I’ll see what can be done. If Tyrone can be added on, Tyrone will be added. For now, let’s get the ball rolling and finish up with the application. O.K.?” “O.K.,” said Mrs. Washington, the angry glint receding in her eyes. Tim sat at the oak table for 40 minutes explaining costs itemized on a Good Faith Estimate, filling out a two-sided green 1003, and getting her signatures on a host of Cal. Gold disclaimers ranging from a blue “Sale of Loan Servicing” form to a white “Fair Lending Notice”. A grandfather clock standing next to the china cabinet chimed eleven as Tim prepared to leave. He put two Hawthorne Post Office paycheck stubs into a manila envelope along with photocopies of Mrs. Washington’s Wells Fargo and Hawthorne Federal Credit Union bank statements, 1990 and 1991 W2s and tax returns, and a $300 check for credit report and appraisal. He put the envelope into his briefcase, snapped it shut, and rose from the table. “The appraiser will give you a call Monday or Tuesday to set up a time to come out and take a look at your place.” “Tuesday Tyrone and I goes bowling. Outside of Wednesday nobody is here during the day on the account of us being working folk. Best the appraising man call sometime after six on Monday.” “I’ll have him call Monday evening then,” said Tim, taking a few business cards out of his shirt pocket. “Here are a couple of my business cards. Call anytime. Leave a message on my voicemail if I’m not in. My voicemail activates my pager and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.” Mrs. Washington studied one of the offered cards, her smooth skeletal forehead wrinkling in puzzlement. “This is sure a funny looking card for a loan man.” Tim pulled his cards out of his shirt pocket, briefly scanning them before quickly taking back the ones he’d handed Mrs. Washington. Scarlet crept into his babyface as he fumbled for words. “Er… sorry Mrs. Washington, but…er…er…you see…the printers…the printers that make these here business cards keep getting me mixed up with another Tim Daniels. What makes things really confusing is that the cards look so alike. Now here you go, here are a couple of the right cards. Sorry for the confusion.” Mrs. Washington studied the cards before setting them down on the plastic covering of her oak table. She followed Tim to the front door. From the comfort of his La-Z-Boy, Tyrone briefly removed his eyes from the TV to give Tim a slight nod of recognition. Tim returned the nod before passing through the front door and walking out to his silver Acura Integra. Inside his car he checked for messages on his pager. It had been in silent mode for the duration of the Washington application. The pager

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels showed seven messages on his voicemail. Before starting his car Tim took out his business cards and examined them. Tim was onto Harry’s trick of secretly interchanging business cards so that Tim unwittingly handed out Harry Haroldson cards. It was an old standby in their continual practical joke duel. Harry hadn’t sneaked his cards into Tim’s in months. Tim had grown careless and Harry had gotten him good. Tim compared a California Gold Mortgage Company card with a Counterfeit Gold Mortuary Company card that only Harry would have gone to the trouble of having printed. At a quick glance both cards seemed identical. Both were white with bold gold print, both had supporting words in blue, both had a small circular emblem and “Tim Daniels” printed in clear black letters, and both had a blue bird in flight over the bold gold print. A blue eagle flew with its talons outstretched between the “California” and “Gold” on Tim’s actual card. Under his name, next to three blue stars, were three lines that said in descending order: “California’s Oldest and Largest Mortgage Company”, “Over 50 Home Loan Programs”, “FHA and VA Specialist”. It had “Loan Officer” in small black print under Tim’s name. The small black emblem in the upper right of the card had the words “Servicing California Since 1952” printed in a small circle around a miniature California. The other cards had a small coffin in their upper right corner with “Servicing the Dead since 1952” encircling it. A blue vulture with a dead rat in its extended talons flew above “Counterfeit Gold Mortuary Company”. Under “Tim Daniels” it said “Necrophile Officer” and had three descending lines with blue stars next to them that said: “California’s Most Exciting and Erotic Mortuary”, “50 Demonstrable Positions”, “S&M and Bondage Specialist”. After sorting all Counterfeit Gold cards and placing them into his glove compartment, Tim drove away from Mrs. Washington’s house. The tidy, white stucco and red brick house was located in one of Compton’s more untidy areas. Tim turned right, passing three black men in their early twenties standing in front of a corner liquor store. Large posters advertising liquor prices covered brick walls and graffiti. Tim locked his door with his left hand and decided to take freeways back to the office rather than surface streets. He took the 110 south, driving through the concrete tangle of the 105 interchange, a freeway that had been under construction since Tim had moved to LA over three years ago. For the first four months in LA he had lived with his parents at their San Pedro condo. His father moved out of the condo two years after he did, returning to Fresno without his mother or their antique oak table. Tim ordered lunch at a Taco Bell drive-through, deciding to eat at his desk to save time. At the office he bit into a bean burrito as he put on his headset and fingered the button on his phone for voicemail. “Sorry, but I want the angel,” began the voicemail from his father. “I’ve been more than reasonable through this whole thing but the angel is mine. I spent weeks restoring the thing; carved its replacement trumpet myself. Sorry Tim, but I’m not playing ball on this one. Tell your mother that I want the angel.” Lillian Wordsworth was next on his voicemail. “Tim, I just wanted to call and tell you how excited I am to have you as part of my team. Things with Brian are going fantastic. Your Mrs. Cooper says Brian should fund tomorrow. Number 43 for me Tim, number 43. Have you made your list yet? Make sure you write them down. That’s one of the things I will be stressing Sunday at my Positive Wealth Seminar, ‘a goal unwritten is not worth having.’ This dynamic insight is something that I’m afraid your Mrs. Cooper fails to see. Alas, it is so sad to see somebody like her, somebody unable to grasp the power of goals, somebody…”

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Tim pushed a button on his phone, terminating Lillian’s message and skipping to the next. “Janet here. Interrupting your hectic day to tell you that I’m currently naked and playing with my soon-to-be-enlarged breasts in front of the bathroom mirror. Wish the mirror was you. Get over here as soon as you can escape work and let me put that goatee of yours to its special use. That’s all, my muscle of love. Bye, honey.” Tim replayed the message before going to the next. It was Pete Barnhill. “Tim, you got talent, you got connections, you got what Southern California Homes Mortgage wants. Tim, I’m talking 80 basis points here, a company car, your own office and private processor. Wake up Tim. Forget the 60 basis points you’re getting now. Let’s talk…” Tim cut Pete off and skipped to the next message. While listening to his sister, Tim watched Harry get up from his desk and hang up his tie. “Hi Tim, how’s life? Just a quick friendly reminder that I haven’t forgotten your promise to attend a C.C.A. meeting with me this Sunday. Time to face your denial, your…” Tim push-buttoned past his sister. “Hello Tim, Frank Paulson. How long has it been? Four, five years? I’m visiting LA and heard that you were working here in the mortgage business. Got your number from Ted. Strange world. Who would have ever thought Ted would end up owning and operating a pet shop. Anyway, I’m in town for about a week and would love to see you. Talk about old times and stuff. If you can, call me at the Long Beach Hilton before noon, 960-5530, room 240. If you can’t reach me by noon, call Monday or I’ll call you. I’ve got some business things that will be tying me down until then. We’ve got a lot to talk about. I left rather awkwardly from Pacific Union, but then you know all about that. Looking forward to hearing from you. Bye.” Tim paused before hitting the button to play his final message. Too much was happening. He needed to run. His heart was beating too fast. He hadn’t jogged since Sunday. Maybe he could get a jog in after the Nussbaum re-fi at five. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly as he listened to his last voicemail. “Hello, it’s Mom,” came the recorded message. “Look, I’m not going to sacrifice myself to your father any longer. Thirty-two years was enough. The angel is a part of my heritage. Why your father thinks he has any right to something my parents obtained while they were missionaries in Thailand is beyond me. The damn thing is staying with me. It’s mine. I’ve been patient, I’ve been reasonable, but I’m putting my foot down over this angel business.” After the last voicemail had played, Tim sat and thought about the divorce that brilliant Uncle Albert had suggested he arbitrate. “Cut out greedy lawyers” Uncle Albert had told his parents, “Protect your nest egg. Get Tim to help you”. And he had agreed to it all. At least the damn thing was almost over. Final papers could be drawn up and signed once the teak angel issue was resolved. To distract himself from his anxiety, Tim decided to confront Harry about the business cards he’d handed out to Mrs. Washington. He unclipped his headset from its phone control box and approached Harry. “You and Janet ready for tonight’s gumbo?” asked Harry. “I don’t know about Janet,” said Tim, “but I hear it is the preferred food of Necrophile Officers.” Tim couldn’t figure Harry out. Nothing seemed to quite fit, and the more pieces of Harry that were revealed to him, the more confusing the puzzle became. Tim had gone to three of Harry’s past dinner parties where he learned that Harry was an extraordinarily gifted cook and an ardent racist. At the first dinner party, Tim met Daniel Brown and learned from him that Harry was a member of some organization called the California Bear Militia. The shocking news didn’t gel with other pieces of Harry, especially with the Harry revealed to him at Tokyo Bob’s, a Japanese

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels restaurant in Torrance where Harry always insisted they eat barefoot on tatami mats. During one lunch, Tim had super-glued Harry’s shoes to the restaurant floor. The practical joke had produced a strange reaction in Harry. Tim had left before Harry tried to put on his shoes so that he could enjoy the fruits of his practical joke while hidden in the adjacent bar. Harry looked blankly at his shoes for a full three minutes, seemingly paralyzed by the news that his shoes where glued to the floor. He then sat back on the tatami mats and ordered a large container of hot sake. From his vantage point in Tokyo Bob’s bar, Tim could see tears in Harry eyes as he drank the rice wine. Tim didn’t know quite what to do, but decided to walk back to where Harry was sitting. Harry motioned for him to sit down. Tim took his shoes off, sat down, and listened as Harry talked. Harry told him about skinny Bucktooth Billy, a black kid who had glued his boots to the barrack floor during basic training. He told him about boxing in Minneapolis and fighting Amateur State Champion Leonard White to a draw. The Harry at Tokyo Bob’s that day and the Harry at the dinner party with Daniel Brown just didn’t gel, were impossible for Tim to reconcile. Ty, a loan officer hired when Sherman fired Monica Ash a little over a year ago, interrupted Tim in his questioning of Harry. Tim listened as Ty tried to stop Harry from bringing Sherman into the loan officer’s room to help save the Smits refi. Sherman came into the loan officer’s room and placed a $100 bill down on Ty’s desk. He turned to Tim and asked, “You on Daniels?” “Odds?” asked Tim, humoring Sherman. He knew better than to bet against The Wig saving an impossible situation. After listening to Sherman weave his magic and save the Smits, Virgina rang his desk and asked if he could run the Cole documents over to American Heritage Escrow. While walking to Virgina’s office, Tim noticed Harry’s tie hanging on the coat rack and wondered why he had never retied the thing before. It wouldn’t make up for Harry’s trick business cards, thought Tim as he retied Harry’s tie so that it would hang down too long, but it was a start in the right direction. Escrow office Cindy Cirillo kept Tim at American Heritage until nearly 3:30. Cindy referred clients interested in refinancing to Tim and the hour flirtation was time well spent. Besides being good business, Cindy Cirillo was a sexy Colombian with a sweet personality and the body of a teenage cheerleader. Tim hated whatever part of his soul rendered him incapable of cheating on girlfriends and kept him from taking Cindy up on her many advances. It wasn’t like Janet and he had any real future together. They were just filling gaps in time, pretending that they meant more to each other than they really did. Prior to his 5:00 refinance appointment at the Nussbaums’ home in El Segundo, Tim managed to pay an office visit to both Century 21 Wilshire in Santa Monica and Venice Realty in Venice Beach. He had hoped to get a jog in before heading to Harry’s dinner party, but the Nussbaums took longer than expected. He would barely have time to shower at Janet’s apartment in Manhattan Beach and drive them to Harry’s dinner party. While showering Tim thought of Cindy Cirillo. He lightly stroked himself with some of Janet’s scented soap, envisioning Cindy’s impish smile as she licked his erect penis in her office at American Heritage. Before this fantasy brought him to climax, Frank Paulson suddenly flashed a smile at him. Tim stopped his masturbating, fearing that he would ejaculate with visions of the gay ex-theology student in his head. While driving with Janet to Harry’s dinner party, Tim couldn’t stop thinking about Frank. Why was he suddenly appearing in his life now? Thoughts of Frank interleaved into angst over leaving the church and his parents’ divorce. He really

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels needed to run, needed to get his thoughts and adrenaline back under control. In an attempt to stop the panic welling up within him, Tim turned his attention to the conversation he was having with Janet concerning her upcoming breast operation. “I go in for a blood test and final consultation tomorrow. Then, come Sunday, I walk in Janet Jensen and walk out Dolly Parton.” “Nervous?” asked Tim. “A little,” said Janet. “How did you decide on the right pair? Did you pick ones out of a display case or did they have you modeling various demo boobs?” asked Tim, glancing over at Janet in the passenger seat of the Integra. “You look at pictures in magazines until you’ve got an idea of what you want. Then they use this cool computer to simulate what you’d look like with a given pair.” “Weird. I think the whole thing’s weird. What’s wrong with the ones you’ve got? I think they’re just fine.” “Yeah, but my seven other boyfriends hate them”, laughed Janet. “You’re beautiful without injected Jell-O. Why put your body through this? What will your seven other boyfriends think if your tits suddenly explode while scuba diving?” “Implants are perfectly safe. Four girls at work have them and all are completely satisfied. Besides, I don’t scuba dive.” “Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher; all is vanity” “What?” “Nothing. Just something Solomon had to say about tit jobs.” “Who?” “A friend of mine.” “Well tell your asshole friend that vanity has nothing to do with it. I’m doing it for my mind, not my body. It’s about self-confidence.” “I’ll be sure and tell him.” Tim parked in front of Harry’s house and walked up to the front door with Janet. He rang the doorbell. Harry opened the door. “My favorite Necrophile Officer and his darling bride. Come in and grab a hat.” From prior Wednesday dinners Tim had learned that Harry made all his guests wear hats. Harry had on a court jester’s crown that sat on his head like a drunken octopus with multi-colored tentacles. Bells jingled from the tentacled ends of the cloth crown as Harry closed the door and walked them to a hallway leading to a large combination living/dining room. Hats lined the floor on both sides of the hallway, waiting to be picked up from the soft cream-colored carpet. Janet chose a bright red fire-chief’s hat and Tim picked up a stovepipe. “Tim, Tim,” said Harry in mock disapproval, “pick something that’s a little more appropriate for your new line of work. Abraham Lincoln is no role model for an up-and-coming Necrophile Officer.” Harry took off the stovepipe and placed a Gestapo cap on Tim’s head, its silver and black skull-and-crossbones all the more menacing when contrasted with Tim’s gentle sky-blue eyes. “Wine? Beer? Whiskey?” asked Harry. “Do you have Coors Light?” asked Janet. “Sorry, no silver bullet. Corona Light?” “Close enough.” “Tim?” asked Harry. “Wine.” “White or red?” “Red.” “Merlot? Pinot? Cabernet? Chianti? Beaujolais?”

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels “Cabernet.” They followed Harry into the kitchen where he introduced them to the DeVincis and Sally Farmer. After getting their drinks, Harry left them to attend to a large pot of gumbo on his stove. Randy DeVinci was a stubby bear of a man with an unruly black beard, undisciplined mustache, and eyebrows like fat hairy caterpillars. A shiny conquistador’s helmet covered his curly black hair. Cecilia, Randy’s wife, wore the feathered headdress of an Apache chief and Sally Farmer had on a Stetson. After a few minutes of small talk, Tim left Janet, who was discussing various tequila mixes with Sally Farmer and the DeVincis, and walked out onto Harry’s redwood deck. Natalie, Harry’s wife, waved to him from a large vegetable garden that lay beyond a perfectly manicured lawn. She was examining a tomato plant with a mustached man wearing gold wire-rimmed glasses. It took a few seconds for Tim to recognize that the man was Daniel Brown. Daniel had on a white yarmulke embroidered with a gold Star of David. Natalie wasn’t wearing a hat. The need to run overwhelmed Tim as he waved to Natalie and Daniel Brown. Daniel waved back. Tim quickly gulped down his Cabernet to numb the impulse for bodily movement, to dampen his desire for escape into the pain of jarred bones and screaming muscle. He set his empty wineglass on the deck’s railing. He grabbed the redwood railing with both hands, pressing his flesh into wood, digging his fingernails into weather-sealed grains. He looked out beyond the vegetable garden, beyond the tranquil green hills of Palos Verdes, beyond the vast human-infested plain of LA, beyond to where the mountains of the San Gabriel range towered into the blue gray of a dying day. Harry seated his guests at a little before eight. With Janet on his right and Daniel on his left, Tim sat facing the DeVincis and the Farmers. Eric Farmer was wearing a scarlet bishop’s miter. Beyond bishop miter, conquistador helmet, Apache headdress, and cowboy hat, Tim could see a big screen TV. His attention was repeatedly drawn to the flashing scenes of youths breaking windows, police beating Rodney King, a brick smashing into Reginald Denny’s head, Korean store owners arming themselves with shotguns, black community leaders speaking into bouquets of news microphones. The sound on the big screen TV was switched off. From a CD player came the voices of Placido Domingo, Jose Carreras and Luciano Pavarotti. “Granada” began as Harry filled a bowl with gumbo and handed it to Tim. As conversation hummed around him, Tim felt splintered into unrelated fragments of his own mind. The frogeyes of Mrs. Washington bulged at him. Teak angels chorused teak trumpets through his psyche. Images of Janet with various breasts danced before him. Pious church elders frowned at the wine Harry poured him. His father sadly listened as he relayed that he was leaving the ministry. A professor demonstrated on a chalkboard why the Judaic law forbidding the eating of unclean meat was still valid to contemporary Christians. Frank lay bloody and crumpled on grass. His sister Carol preached the virtues of a self-help book. During dinner Tim felt he was drowning in anxiety, felt he was falling into a whirling vortex. By dessert, he had managed to calm his inner tempest by focusing on an argument that had begun between Daniel Brown and Randy DeVinci. By his second cup of hazelnut coffee Tim’s full attention was with Brown. Tim knew, from their previous dinner together, that Daniel’s conversations usually turned into lengthy dissertations, and that Daniel was more interested in revealing truth than in holding discourse. “Let’s tackle the issue from another angle, from an empirical standpoint.” Daniel was warming to the professorial role he loved so much. “Rather than starting

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels with a preconceived conclusion based on an unproved, perhaps faulty, ideal, let’s simply analyze historical facts and statistical evidence to see where that leads us.” “Something tells me that an analysis of your historical data and your statistical evidence will lead us to your viewpoints,” said Randy, “but what the hell, let’s give it a go.” “Let me start by challenging any of you to name one advance given to civilization that was the result of the Negro race. Name one achievement in art, religion, science, literature, philosophy, architecture, or technology, that originated from blacks.” “The pyramids are in Africa aren’t they?” asked Janet, reaching for Tim’s hand under the table. “Yes,” said Daniel. “There you go then,” said Janet. “Egyptians aren’t black,” replied Daniel. “I thought you said Egypt was in Africa” “People in North Africa weren’t and aren’t black. Africa has given many advances to culture but I’m looking for black achievement, not African achievement. The two terms are not synonymous.” “Wasn’t history written by white men?” asked Janet, letting go of Tim’s hand in exchange for the inside of his thigh. “Western history.” “Well then, how can it be fair to judge the achievement of blacks based on books written by white men?” “Give me the Herodotus of the Swahili and I’ll read him.” “What?” asked Janet. “The point is that there is no ancient historical record containing a Negroid perspective because no Negroes were writing history. Neither were they writing philosophy, designing socially cohesive religious structures, or developing scientific treatises.” “How can you judge their work if they didn’t produce anything?” asked Janet. “My point exactly,” said Daniel. “Which is?” asked Janet. “I base my judgment on black contribution to civilization on the basis that there was no contribution.” “That can hardly be fair,” said Janet. “I suppose,” said Tim deciding to jump in, “that you’re going to draw a correlation between a deficiency in cultural achievement to a deficiency in intellect. You started going into this the last time I talked with you.” “Before jumping to any correlations, let’s continue our review of historical facts and then take a look at some current statistics on things like race and crime.” “Lies, damn lies, and statistics,” muttered Randy DeVinci, scratching under his conquistador’s helmet with his left hand. “Turning from the fact that civilization owes no debt to Negro intellect, let’s look at some interesting facts concerning the fate of nations that came into being during the fifties and sixties. If we compare post-British Southeast Asia with postBritish Southwest Africa, we find freed Asians with a per capita GNP that is currently five times higher, and a literacy rate that is twenty percent above, their African counterparts. If we do the same comparison with the post-colonial Arabs and Berbers of North Africa, we find that Mediterranean African countries have roughly the same per capita GNP superiority. Now let’s bring South Africa into the picture, a country run politically, militarily, and economically by whites. Surprise, surprise. When compared with African countries run by blacks, we find a per capita GNP that is seven times higher and a literacy rate that is higher by fifteen percent.”

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Daniel stopped talking and took a slow sip of water. A reporter standing before a burning gas station caught Tim’s eye on the big screen TV. The newscast cut to a car commercial as Daniel continued. “Just as blacks fail to govern themselves successfully in almost every post-colonial country where they have gained power, they fail to govern themselves as minority groups within ordered societies. Today’s riots should come as no surprise. The surprise is that blacks don’t riot more, given their historical track record.” “You can’t blame the victim,” interjected Janet. “How could a persecuted, enslaved people develop respect for law and order?” “I don’t know, I don’t come from a persecuted enslaved people,” replied Daniel, “but I think that any dime-store rabbi could make the case that racial persecution doesn’t necessarily equate to a disrespect for the law. On the subject of law and order, let’s take a look at statistics concerning race and crime in the United States.” “Time for the old racist circular loop,” said Randy DeVinci. “Let me see. It goes something like: ‘Prisons have proportionally more blacks than whites. Therefore blacks are more criminal than whites. And if you don’t believe it, just look how many blacks are in jail’.” “I’ll strike a bargain,” said Daniel. “I’ll avoid that tautology, if you’ll avoid the reverse one. The one that goes: ‘Prisons are proportionately more full of blacks than whites. Therefore the prison system is racist. And if you don’t believe me, just look how many more blacks than whites end up in jail’.” Daniel paused before continuing. “Leaving both circular arguments aside, let’s sum up what we have established. First, we have concluded that blacks have contributed nothing of significance to the development of culture or civilization. Secondly, we have seen that in ex-colonial countries, black leadership of black countries has been a recipe for chaos and decay. Now add to this, that in America, blacks disproportionately engage in criminal activity and are unable to adequately care for themselves. They are both six times more likely than whites to be involved in a violent crime and many times more likely to be on welfare.” Tim drank the last of his hazelnut coffee. Harry made a gesture inquiring if Tim wanted more. He declined. Daniel continued. “That, my friends, is the empirical data. Now we must ask ourselves what can be inferred from this empirical data. For me, the inference is obvious. Blacks, as a group, lack something that enables them to form complex civilizations or to function productively in already-existing, complex social structures. The next question to ask is why they lack such ability. Is the reason to be found externally in their environment? Or is the reason internal, within their biology?” “After twenty minutes of listening to your line of reasoning,” said Randy DeVinci, “we arrive at the old nature versus nurture argument. I assume you have an answer to it as well.” “Before relaying my opinions on the matter, it is important to admit the context into which an unbiased examination of the facts has lead us to frame the heredity versus environment debate. The context is that blacks lack something in relationship to other races in regards to cultivated civilization and working productively within organized societies. This lack is not open to debate. It is an empirically demonstrable fact. The question is the cause of this lack. Is it due to environment, biology, or some form of interaction between both elements?” “It must be environment,” said Janet. “After all, the Constitution states that all men are created equal.” Daniel cleared his throat and replied, “When Jefferson brought down the Constitution from Mount Sinai, he didn’t clarify precisely what God meant by

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels equality. Does it mean equality of opportunity, equality before the law, or equality as some metaphysical absolute that denies that men can differ in innate ability?” “I would think that by equality, it is meant that all men are equal,” said Janet. Tim smiled at Janet’s response, his hand slipping back into hers. Tim was so engrossed in the debate he didn’t notice that others had lost interest. Eric Farmer had turned around to watch the TV, while his wife discussed nail polish with Cecilia. “I wouldn’t deny that environment plays a role,” replied Daniel, ignoring Janet’s latest retort, “but to me biology should also be employed when discussing black deficiencies. If we accept that blacks, as a racial group, have a genetic propensity to sickle-cell anemia, hypertension, and thalassemia, why couldn’t genes account for their propensity to crime, lack of great intellectual achievement, low I.Q. scores, and inability to form and maintain nuclear families?” “The danger I see in your arguments,” said Randy DeVinci, “is in judging an individual by the group that he is a member of. Forming conclusions about somebody based on social, racial, or religious group affiliations, is bound to result in error.” “True,” said Daniel, “but you must admit that a man’s religion, or lack of one, is going to give you an idea of the general framework within which he confronts reality. Conversely, a man’s race will denote certain abilities and tendencies, just as an animal’s pedigree gives you an idea of its character and constitution. For instance, if I go fox hunting, I would choose a fox terrier over a Chihuahua. If I was chasing an escaped convict, I would choose bloodhounds over toy poodles.” “Men aren’t bred for certain purposes like animals,” said Janet. “I’ll admit the analogy is imperfect,” said Daniel. “But in the canine species you can still assume certain characteristics in the absence of artificial selection. Natural selection steps in, resulting in cleverness in foxes, pack cohesiveness in wolves, and the scavenger instinct in the coyote.” “How does natural selection work to explain these so called Negroid deficiencies?” asked Tim. “Many theories have been advanced. One of the more likely is that racial groups were exposed to different environmental pressures. One theory purports that learning to cope with harsh winter environments on the part of Caucasians and Mongoloids resulted in the advancement of certain neural pathways. Negroids never had selective pressure for advancement of neural pathways connected with surviving harsh winters because they developed in mild climates by means of simple random gathering.” “So Plato and Aristotle headed north to iron out their philosophies and the builders of the pyramids set up a think tank in Oslo?” asked Tim. “This would be before their time, before whites migrated down to the sunny lands of Egypt and Greece,” said Daniel. “How convenient,” said Tim. “Trying to argue what exact selective forces were at work in ages long past is always going to be fraught with danger. I’m sure that if I worked out a plausible theory to explain what selective forces were at work in developing the behavioral differences between foxes, wolves, and coyotes, somebody could come along and heap scorn on it, finding inconsistencies and logical errors. However, they wouldn’t conclude that there are no behavioral differences between the canine races. They would instead conclude that my explanation was inadequate.” “Since you have concluded that blacks are intellectually and culturally inferior based on genetics,” began Randy DeVinci, “what final solutions have you reached in dealing with this problem? How about re-instituting slavery? Why in my neighborhood alone I know three blacks - a nuclear physicist, an orthopedic surgeon, and a college professor - that we could round up and cart off to Georgia to pick cotton under the supervision of some unemployed redneck high school dropout. Yes,

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels slavery is the solution. Sure, our Olympic basketball team would suffer and pop music would have to do without Michael Jackson, but that’s a small price to pay to rid the streets of crime while cleaning out the gene pool.” Daniel smiled, stretching out the hairs of his blond-brown mustache. Before he could retort, Eric Farmer turned everyone’s attention to the large screen TV by saying, “Jesus Christ, they’re burning down the God-damn city!” Harry switched off his CD player and turned up the volume on the TV. Mozart was replaced by a Channel 7 news reporter. Street-level scenes of burning buildings gave way to aerial views showing haphazard patches of conflagration. Scenes of firemen huddling behind their fire trucks to avoid bullets gave way to vandalized stores crawling with looters. After watching TV for a few more minutes, Harry moved his guests out to his redwood deck. Tim peered down at LA with the others. LA was an ebony sea pulsating with angry phosphorescence, black velvet humming with electric currents and raging in tongues of fire. Tim sipped wine and watched. Tim could feel unwanted thoughts starting up again. Frank crumpled on grass faded in and out of Janet’s small breasts. Questions poured into his mind, drowning his ability to analyze them. Was God real? Why couldn’t he lose himself in Janet’s sexuality? Why the recurring images of Frank? Wasn’t life about more than tit jobs and escrow closings? Is morality solely subjective and religion an elaborate con job? What should be done about his parents’ angel? What was he going to say at Lillian Woodsworth’s Positive Wealth Seminar? He wanted more wine, wanted to drown in the substance he once had preached was sinful. It took all his willpower to refuse Harry’s offer of more alcohol and request a cup of whiskeyless coffee. It was past midnight when he and Janet left Harry’s dinner party. In the car Janet slowly went over all the reasons why she thought Daniel was an asshole. While they drove, Tim thought about wooden angels and his sexual identity. The conscious part of him was relieved when Janet stopped talking and switched on the radio. It took her a while to find a station that was playing music instead of reporting about the riots.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels

Tyranda Ty was leaning back in his chair and watching Sherman walk away from his desk when Tina’s voice came over his intercom. “Darci is on line two.” Ty’s check for losing the Smits bet was in his boss’s right hand. Check and Sherman exited the loan officer’s room as Ty began talking with his sister. Darci was calling to verify that Ty was picking up their father. Ty could not call his father by that name and only agreed to pick up Sam to help his older and only sibling. Being a single mother with two small boys was tough enough; Darci didn’t need an additional fifty-four year old child on her hands. Ty agreed to help out with Sam until Monday night when Aunt Thelma was scheduled to pick up the drunk and take him out to live with her in Hesperia. Sam was being kicked out of the Downtown Men's Rehab Center for repeated curfew violations and what the staff referred to as a "belligerent attitude". He had entered the rehab center after a threeyear prison stint for cashing forged checks. Ty couldn’t understand his sister’s soft spot for Sam. When they were kids, the bum wasn’t even around. Their grandparents had been the ones that had raised them. After a sixteen-year absence, Sam suddenly appeared one day at their grandparent’s house. Sam’s reappearance only increased Ty’s bitterness towards the man that had left him when he was just an infant. The bastard had no right to call him son. After hanging up with his sister, Ty cleaned up his desk in preparation for leaving the office. He wanted to get some studying done prior to driving into LA and picking up Sam. His phone rang before he could leave. Ty put his headset back on. “Ty Alexander,” said Ty into his headset. "Got the guy down to nineteen thousand,” was the reply. "Forget the guy, have you convinced Holly?" asked Ty. "It's a done deal." "No shit Nick, what's the catch?" "Bali." "Bali?" "I give Holly two weeks in Bali and the Stingray is mine." "Isn't she about the same age as Lena?" "Two years younger." "A ’57? Shit Nick! $19,000 is a steal. You said she's mint." "Mint." "Sweet deal Nick. Have you decided how much cash you want? We're submitting today." "Give me the monthly again at $175,000, $185,000, and $190,000. You say we qualify up to $190,000?" "Whoever said that cops and teachers are underpaid has never met the Houghtons. You guys more than qualify." "You try working with gun-toting criminals all day and then still tell me we're paid enough. And I'm talking Holly here." Ty took his calculator out of his desk. L.A.P.D. Officer Nick Houghton and his LA Unified School District teacher wife, Holly Houghton, had become more than clients since doing a rate reduction refinance for them a little over a year ago. It had been one of his first mortgages. Nick and he had become friends from the moment Nick saw Ty pulling up for their loan appointment in “Lena”. Nick’s passion for vintage cars and jazz was nearly equal to Ty's. They found themselves getting

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels together after that first application, going to car shows, and taking in various jazz concerts with Holly and whomever Ty was dating at the time. After discussing various options, Ty said, "So we'll submit at $190,000. We can always go for a lesser amount when it comes time to draw docs." "More than likely we will stick with $190,000. That way I can pay cash for Bali and the Corvette." "Drive her over the minute she’s yours." "That I will. Have a day Ty, and tell Lena hi." “Bye Nick." Ty removed his camelhair jacket from the coat rack as he left the office and started up Lena. Lena was his cherry-red 1955 Coupe de Ville convertible, his scarlet seduction, his chrome poem. The car had been Grandpa Alexander's before he died three years ago and had willed it to Ty, along with his collection of priceless jazz records and his old gramophone. While driving, Ty listened to Willie Smith on a cassette he’d made from one of his grandpa's old records. The sweet sounds of a clarinet consoling a sad sax drifted out of the Cadillac as Ty turned onto PCH from Aviation. Ty parked Lena in the underground parking lot of his apartment complex and walked up to his unit. He could see the Pacific Ocean out of the apartment’s sliding glass door. After opening the sliding door to hear waves and smell fresh sea air, Ty began making a pot of tea. Marci Stevens, a flight attendant with British Airways, had introduced Ty to the vast and subtle world of tea. She would have one glass of ginger tea prior to making love, two glasses of Earl Grey with milk afterwards. Mary, Marci’s sister and a Delta flight attendant, hated tea and always wanted to make love with the lights on. With their different flight schedules, Ty was able to romance them both for two months before they found out and dumped him. He smiled as he thought back to the Stevens sisters romances that had ended a little over five months ago. While waiting for the water to boil, Ty walked over to his stereo system and put in a tape from his library of jazz recordings. His grandpa’s records were too valuable to risk playing too often. On rare occasions Ty would play one of the records on the 1908 Pathe gramophone his grandpa had brought home from Paris. He had two cassette tapes of each record in his grandpa’s collection - one recording made at a friend’s studio seeking to eliminate all sound but the actual music, and another recording he’d taped directly from the gramophone. Ty preferred his hand-taped recordings, valuing each of his grandpa’s old records as a unique creation with a unique soul, recognizing scratches and static gaps as personality traits. Grandpa had said that the static hiss and crackle of a record were the electronic weeping of a disc at hearing the beauty unlocked from its notched grooves. Ty walked back to the teapot as Billie Holiday began singing. A picture of Vivian in a stainless steel frame matching the teapot was next to the stove. Ty had met Vivian two weeks before he stopped having sex with Mary and Marci. He’d been seeing her since December - seriously since the middle of April. He didn’t believe in seeing women seriously. He’d never seen the point before Vivian. While looking at Vivian’s picture, Ty could hear his apartment neighbor walk out to his balcony. A girl was with Johnny. Ty listened to bits of their conversation as he waited for the teapot to whistle. While pouring tea into a cup, he could hear the girl saying goodbye. He decided to go and talk to Johnny, his curiosity winning over the need to sit down and review French for his upcoming mid-term on Monday. “Looks like fishing was good for you last night,” said Ty as he set his mug of Earl Grey tea and milk down on a balcony railing. The white wooden railings between the balconies were less than four feet apart.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels “Theresa was her name. Snagged her at Hennessey's on my first cast. Latin and untamed. Had oils at her place I didn't even know existed. Did things with them that are illegal in most states. Too bad Vivian broke your rod. She had a sister.” “Shit Johnny, in my day I would have had her and her sister oiled up. Fishing is all in the worm.” “From the look of things I'd say your casting days are over. Your worm’s done been tamed and leashed. I’ve been warning you. Allow a framed picture of a woman in your house and it’s only a matter of time before she’s moved in and bitching about the position of the toilet seat." Ty didn't reply. A jogger ran along the Esplanade, her figure outlined against the vast blue of the Pacific Ocean. "Sweet tits," said Ty from his balcony. "Legs to die for," returned Johnny from his balcony. They watched the jogger. Johnny leaned over his balcony, blonde hair sliding slowly across his shoulders as his head followed the running girl. "I've got toilet seat problems," said Ty. "Vivian wants to move in?" "Worse." "What could be worse than a girl moving into your pad?" "She has given me until Monday. I either gain a roommate or lose Vivian." "What kind of seriously heavy shit is that? A girl gives an ultimatum like that and you best be cutting free. Jesus Ty, you're not seriously considering letting her move in?" "I don't know." "That means you're considering it." "Yeah, I guess I am." "Sweet Jesus!" "You ever been in love Johnny?" "Sure I've been in love. I just fell head-over-heels, puppy-dog-in-love with that ass that just ran past.” "I don’t know." "Look Ty, one thing you've got to get straight. People like you and I aren't made for just one woman at a time. Hell, we can’t even limit ourselves to three. And why the fuck should we? Wake up and smell the pussy while you’re still young.” Ty put his hands on his balcony and stretched, tendons surfacing like black cables from out of the back of his hands. He yawned and decided to change the subject. "You coming to see the girls Sunday afternoon?” "You're going to have to play without me. We’ve got this big promotional thing going on over the weekend. By Sunday afternoon I'll just want to crash." "All right but you know how the girls love their Johnny." "Kiss and hug them all and give that cute one Betty a big pinch on the ass from me." "Consider it pinched. I’ve got to hit the books. I have a French mid-term Monday." “Listen to yourself. You’ll never make it to all them jazz clubs in Paris if you let a woman move in. Pretty soon you’ll be talking marriage. That happens and you can throw away every dream you ever had.” “I’ll make it to Paris.” “Then you better go and throw out Vivian’s picture right now.” “Maybe you’re right.” “Maybe? Shit Ty, you know I’m right.” Ty could make out Freddie Green’s rhythm guitar as he walked back into his apartment, took out his French schoolwork, and sat down at a round table a few feet

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels from his grandfather’s old Pathe. His grandfather’s records were in a glass cabinet next to the gramophone. Ty was taking French at nearby Lawndale Community College. His French professor was a thirty-eight year old Parisian who happened to be a jazz buff. Mlle. Defoe had actually visited most of the famous Parisian jazz clubs of the 40's and 50's - clubs that had seen the likes of Gillespie, Bechet, Mitchell, and Reinhart. Clubs that Grandpa had gone to during the year he lived in Paris following the war. Vivian. Why couldn't it be a few years from now, after his year in Paris? So many women yet to explore. He was only 25, too damn early to settle down. Ty tried to study French, but images of the night he and Vivian first made love kept interfering with his concentration. He had dated Vivian for over a month before sleeping with her. He’d never lasted a week without having sex with any previous girl he had dated. Ty had kissed Vivian’s forehead and was walking out of her bedroom in preparation to leave. He had stopped at her doorway and looked back. Milky arms of moonlight filtered through a curtained window, caressing pink bedsheets. Vivian was a black pearl in a pink oyster. Patterns of shadow and light pulsated around her. Charcoal twisted to gray and deepened to black; silver spilled into cream and became white before twisting back into silver. Vivian had motioned to a portion of the moonlit emptiness that surrounded her. Ty had come to her as if in a dream, filling the emptiness. “Vivian, Vivian, Vivian,” muttered Ty, his mind a jumble of moonlit emptiness and rumpled bedsheets. He knew he had to give her up, had to follow his dream, had to walk the cobblestoned streets of his grandfather’s past. Ty didn’t get much studying done before it was time to leave. He needed to swing by a Remax office in Carson before driving downtown to pick up Sam. He took his camelhair jacket and briefcase with him as he walked out the door, wanting to look professional when dropping the pre-qualification sheets off for Bob Champlin. While delivering the sheets to Bob, Ty bumped into Peter Robinson, the biggest producer at Carson Remax. He would have liked to talk longer with Peter but it was past four and he wanted to be on the 110 before traffic became too heavy. >From Carson Remax, Ty drove to the on ramp for the northbound Harbor Freeway. He switched on the radio as he merged onto the 110. Reports of the acquittal of the police officers who’d beaten Rodney King were on all stations. Ty was angered but not surprised. It was the way of the ‘hood; the system protected the system and the weak got fucked. Ty had learned this lesson in his early teens, baptized into the reality of the ‘hood by a steel-tipped police boot. His thoughts drifted away from the reports on the radio, his mind thinking back to Officer Brown and his white partner with the toothpick, thinking back to the beating that had cracked his ribs. It had been over ten years since Officer Brown had administered his lesson on inner city reality. It had taken months for his cracked ribs to heal. It happened on the Friday that Grandpa had promised to take him to the Long Beach Jazz Festival. In his excitement to get home from school Ty had run down back alleys. To Officer Brown, a teenager running down an alley was as good as an admission of guilt. He’d laughed at Ty’s explanation for why he was running, accusing the boy of being involved in the hold-up of Leroy's Pawnshop. Ty could remember breathing hotly through his nose while being roughly frisked against the back wall of Uncle Toby's Cajun Chicken; he could remember his fingernails digging into red brick. Officer Brown had asked all the questions, while his white partner just twirled his toothpick in his mouth and watched in silence. When nothing was found on Ty he’d actually thought he would be released, not slammed up against the brick wall, not called a lying Geri-curl nigger, not threatened with

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels physical violence unless he gave them information regarding a robbery he knew nothing about. Perhaps he would not have received such beating if he’d simply stayed quiet. But the bitterness of his rage had been a toxin he could not keep bottled. "Officer," he had said, "I might be the one with Geri-curl, but the only nigger here is the one hiding behind his government-issued gun and badge." Ty's words had stopped the white partner's toothpick twirling. Ty had nearly vomited when Officer Brown punched him in the gut. He had crumpled to the ground where he received three kicks to his ribs. The white officer never touched him but before leaving he had laughed and flicked his chewed toothpick at him. Ty could never decide which of the two officers he hated more. Ty thought about the beating as he drove beneath the tangle of overpasses being constructed for the interchange with the new 105 freeway. Traffic wasn't too bad. A little way beyond the interchange he noticed a news helicopter circling off to his left. From his car's radio he could hear the pilot's voice describing black youths pulling a white man out of his truck. Ty looked in disbelief at the helicopter whirling into and out of the sun above him. He lost sight of it when the 110 curved downward to run below the level of the city. The pilot continued to describe the action at Slauson and Normandy - a youth throwing something at a trucker's head, no police response, other people forced out of their cars and beaten. The skyscrapers of downtown rose above Ty as he exited onto Pico. Not knowing exactly why, he pulled over at a gas station and put up Lena's top. There was a strangeness to the city, an unnatural calm, a wrongness. He parked in a guarded lot across from the Rehab Center. Sam was shooting pool when Ty found him. "My son, the banker," said Sam as he sank a tough combination. "I see they already got you wearing Oxford shirts and camelhair blazers. When do you go in for skin bleaching and cock shortening?" "Good to see you, too, Sam." "You reek of sincerity." "At least for once you don't reek of gin." "Wine and whisky is what I drink, not gin," said Sam, sinking another ball. "Well, excuse me." "And right, I’m not drinking anything. I’ve given up booze.” "I think I've heard this before." "This time it's the real deal," said Sam, banking in the eight ball and collecting five dollars from a fat Hawaiian. "Right," said Ty. "Let's just get your shit and get out of here. Save your conversion story for Darci. I'm sure she'll love hearing it for the thirtieth time." Sam had a large battered plastic suitcase and two gym bags. Ty carried a bag in each hand. Sam followed, rolling his battered suitcase behind him. They exited the Downtown Men's Rehab Center and crossed the street to the guarded car park. They put Sam’s belongings into Lena's trunk. "She's as seductive and beautiful as the day she rolled into the showroom." "You remember her showroom days?" asked Ty as he turned the ignition. "Sure. I may have been just a pup, but Lena's curves made me as hard as she must have made your grandpa." "I thought he bought Lena used," said Ty as he pulled onto Pico. "Sure he did. In the spring of ‘62. Caused the only serious argument I can remember my folks having. But Pops would be damned if he would lose her again. Back when she was the pride of Inglewood Cadillac he used to walk past her everyday on his way to work. On Saturdays he would bring me along and we would just sit and stare. It broke his heart when she sold."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Gramps told me he used to take the trolley to work." "Sure he did. The showroom was on the way to his trolley stop." "Inglewood Cadillac is miles away from where Gramps was living back then." "He enjoyed the walk, the air used to be as clean as a virgin's honey pot." "Didn't his war wounds bother him walking so far?" "They got worse with age." "How can blown-off toes get worse with age?" "Phantom pains. They started in the late sixties. I've always suspected it had something to do with the Vietnam War." "Now I know you're bullshitting me." "I'd never bullshit about Lena." "I thought Gramps got Lena from an old lady out in Riverside who was afraid to drive after her husband died." "Sure enough. The old lady's husband bought Lena from Inglewood Cadillac on a rainy December Sunday I'll never forget. Dad was openly weeping." "You were at the dealership?" "Sure." "I thought you went on Saturdays to look at Lena." "We went so often that everyone came to know us at Inglewood Cadillac. They called so Dad could have one last look at her." "Gramps told me they didn't have a phone until the sixties. Didn't need one until George moved his family up to Oakland." "True. It was Sunday. They called us as we were leaving church." "They knew which church Gramps went to?" "One of the salesmen was a brother of the pastor." "I thought Inglewood Cadillac was lily-white back then." "They were very progressive. They had three Negroes working for them - one salesman and two mechanics." "I thought that the old lady was a friend that Gramps had made through the California Jazz Club." "Yes, but they first met when she saw Dad weeping over Lena. She was so moved that she vowed if ever the car were to be sold, it would be sold to him. She kept her word." Turning into the parking lot of a large appliance store Ty said, “I need to run into Silo and pick up something for Darci. Can you keep Lena company for a few minutes?” "Sure." Ty parked and walked into the store. Ty had seen an ad in the morning’s paper for big Silo discounts on microwaves and had decided to get one for Darci. On his way to the kitchen appliance section, Ty passed a row of televisions. Thirty screens all showed a video recording of a white trucker being pulled out of his bigrig. Ty hesitated by the television sets, watching as a black youth threw something at the trucker's head. On thirty screens, the man's head jerked violently from the impact of the blow. The black youth whirled backwards, gleefully flashing a gang signal on thirty screens. After five minutes of examining various microwaves Ty chose a Litton. On his way to the checkout stand he passed a display advertising clearance prices on phones, fax machines, and answering machines. He purchased the microwave and carted it out to Lena. His father opened the trunk and Ty set the microwave down next to Sam's plastic suitcase and two gym bags. As they got into the car Sam asked, "When did Lena get the nametags?" "I got her the personalized plates about a year ago." "I guess ‘Lena’ on your bumper is more original than ‘WKL 978’."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "She seems to think so. Her idling improved the day I installed the new plates." Ty drove to the Ridgewood Apartments on Oak Street in Huntington Park. At the gate he rang his sister on the complex's intercom. Darci pushed the button on her phone that was supposed to trigger an automatic opener to roll back a heavy steel gate. A bored guard in a small brick guardhouse watched Ty and Sam as they waited for the heavy black gate to roll open. "Who ya seeing?" asked the guard after sliding open a small window. "My sister," said Ty. "Lots of sisters here," replied the guard. "Darci Alexander." "Figures." "What figures?" "I'm always having to fiddle with her phone to get the pulse to work right." "Can you let us in?" "Sure. Let me just call Ms. Alexander and verify you are who you say you are and then I'll buzz you in." After the guard buzzed them in Ty parked in the visitors’ parking lot. He slung the microwave over one shoulder and picked up the heavier of Sam’s two gym bags. Sam followed with the other gym bag and the battered suitcase. After giving Sam a big hug and thanking Ty for the microwave Darci asked, "You staying for dinner Ty?" "Thanks, but I best be going." "I've baked some chicken macaroni just like Grandma use to make." "Chicken macaroni?" "For dessert you're looking at chocolate cake and vanilla Haagen-Dazs. And the cake is from Marie Callender's. I didn't bake it." "Grandma's chicken macaroni and chocolate cake you didn't bake. Hmm, I think I can stay. Why don't you show me where you want the microwave and I'll set it up? We can test it with your neighbor's chihuahua. Roger, why don't you grab the little canine and we'll nuke ’im." "Great idea Uncle Ty. Maybe we should nuke a couple of Miss Johnson's cats while we're at it," laughed Roger, the older of Ty's two nephews. "You're a great role model,” said Darci. “Roger, help Uncle Ty bring the microwave into the kitchen. Let's set it where the answering machine is at now. Ty, could you move the answering machine?" "Where's the old microwave?" "Dead and gone, just like that answering machine is going to be." "Your answering machine doesn't work now?" asked Ty as he removed it from the kitchen counter. "Nothing works around here. I think my body gives off some kind of force field that short-circuits everything." "They've got a sale on phone stuff at the Silo. I was thinking of picking up a cellular phone." "Really? Could you pick up a cordless phone and an answering machine for me? I'll write you a check for it now." "No you won't" "Yes I will. Look, Ty, I appreciate you buying the microwave for me but I'm not a welfare charity case here. I've been putting in serious overtime lately. I'm cash rich at the moment. What do you think it will run?" "I don't need the money now. I'll charge it to Uncle Visa and you can reimburse me Friday."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "All right, and thanks for picking up Pops," said Darci. She lowered her voice so that Sam, who was examining a drawing of a rocket ship presented to him by her youngest son Eric, couldn't hear. "I know you can't bring yourself to forgive Dad but try to be compassionate. He's trying to iron himself out and is really vulnerable right now." "Maybe I should pick up a new iron for him at Silo. He's been working on the same annoying wrinkles for the past twenty years." "Look Ty, you don’t know the whole story about Dad. Mom's death destroyed him; he's an amazingly sensitive person." "Darci, let’s don’t do this conversation. I'll let him stay at my place Friday night and Saturday like I promised. Just be there Saturday night to pick him up." "Thanks Ty. I've been promising this San Diego Zoo thing to the boys for over a year now." "Go and have a good time." "I'll bring Pops by your place Friday around five." Ty grunted his agreement and plugged in the microwave. Roger helped him as he read through the manual and played with various buttons. Dinner was served at eight and dessert was finished around nine. Despite himself, Ty was drawn into Sam's stories and sucked into his charming aura. After chocolate cake and ice cream they moved into the living room where Sam told them the tale of looking for Darci's lost cocker spaniel in the middle of the Watts riots. Ty watched Darci, pondering the love her eyes professed for Sam, wondering how she could forget his drunken antics and years of abandonment. It was eleven by the time Ty said his goodbyes and walked out to Lena. Driving out of the Ridgewood Apartments everything about the neighborhood of his youth felt alien and unreal. People were milling around in front of Art's Furniture Emporium. Ty had been on the same Compton High football team as the youngest of Art's three sons. Anthony, Art’s youngest son, had been a lousy middle linebacker, but Coach Parker had stuck with him because Richard Stevenson was even worse. While driving, Ty watched as someone threw a brick at the display window of Art's Furniture Emporium. Glass rained onto the pavement. Ty slowed and watched people crawl through the display window. Three Mexicans wrestled the display case's leather sofa out of the broken window and hauled it onto the bed of a Chevy truck. A black woman and her three children carried away the display case's rattan coffee table and endpieces. Two men argued over a stainless steel lamp that both had simultaneously claimed. He drove on. Groups of hooting and hollering pre-teen boys were running along the street, breaking storefront windows with sticks. Ty pulled over to let two wailing fire trucks speed pass. The boys picked up rocks and threw them at the fire trucks. Ty drove on, nearing Silo. The appliance store's parking lot was too full for this time of night. Cars were parked haphazardly. Knots of young men were drinking beer and laughing. A sudden explosion filled the night sky, an orange cloud shot upwards. The knots of young men stopped drinking and stared. The orange fireball was a beautiful firework, a wondrous flaming shout, a glorious burst of destruction. A spontaneous cheer erupted from the young men. A gun was fired into the air. Ty pulled into Silo's parking lot without knowing why. He seemed someone else, somebody in a frightening yet comical video. He stepped out of Lena and into a surreal dream, a strange world that was the neighborhood he’d grown up in. The excitement sparked by the explosion was like an electrical current. Somebody just blew up the Shell on Central, came the rumor, or perhaps the Arco on Santa Fe. People began beating on the doors of Silo. The doors collapsed and the current

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels surged forward. Excitement was a live and dangerous thing; Ty could feel it pulling him forward, a primordial river, an unthinking moving force. The store was dimly lit. People began filling shopping carts with goods. Ty put a cordless phone, an answering machine, and a cellular phone into his cart. He stopped by a rapidly disappearing row of television sets and put a 25“ remotecontrolled Magnavox into the cart for Mabel. Not wanting any of his Sunday girls to feel jealous, he added another Magnavox for Janis before finding a Sony CD/cassette player for Betty and a VCR for Matilda. Pushing his cart out to Lena, Ty watched somebody throw a Molotov cocktail through the broken windows of Uncle Toby's Cajun Chicken. The Changs owned the place. Ty had made out with their daughter at a Halloween party. Karla had big tits for an Oriental. Almost everything fit in Lena's trunk. Ty put the answering machine and phones in the backseat next to his briefcase and laid his camelhair jacket over them. An explosion ripped through Uncle Toby's Cajun Chicken as Ty turned onto Florence and drove away. After a few blocks, he took Parmamelle down to 76th, deciding to take residential back streets to the 110. The larger commercial streets were turning into something best confined to Universal Studios - a riot theme park of impressive explosions and burning buildings. He heaved a sigh of relief as the on-ramp to the 110 came into view. Even though things were fairly calm in the residential areas, he was happy to be leaving the hemorrhaging ‘hood with Lena unharmed. He was stopped before he could pull onto the 110 on-ramp by whirling blue and red lights. "Shit," said Ty, pulling over to the side of a deserted street and rolling down his window. He could hear cars humming on the Harbor Freeway twenty-five feet above him. The freeway was a safe vein of reinforced concrete shuttling people through the heart of the ‘hood. The police stayed inside their squad car. One talked into a radio, the other fixed a spotlight on Ty. A minute went by. Ty was tempted to exit Lena and ask the officers what was going on. He didn't. Another minute went by. Sweat formed on the back of his neck and wetness began to appear under the armpits of his navy-blue Oxford button-down shirt. A second squad car with two more cops appeared. It did a 180-degree turn and stopped fifteen feet in front of Lena, its high beams causing Ty to squint and look away. One of the officers in the new squad car got out and leveled a shotgun at Lena's windshield. The two officers in the original car exited their vehicle, service revolvers held out in front of them. The shotgun-wielding officer's partner in the car facing Ty got out a megaphone. "Slowly exit the car and you won't get hurt," came the officer's unconvincing voice over the megaphone. "Hands in the air where I can see them. Slowly now." Ty got out of Lena, hands held heavenward. One of the officers that had been in the squad car behind him slowly approached. He was sweating. He placed his service revolver in the small of Ty's back and told him to turn around and spread his legs against Lena. Ty could feel the barrel of the cop's gun against his lower back. The officer's frisk was extremely thorough. "He's clean," said the officer, removing the gun from his back. "Where's your license and registration?" "My license is in my wallet,” said Ty. “Registration is in the glove box." "What's his license and registration going to God-damn tell us?" asked the officer with the shotgun. "It's him. God-damn it, just how many Geri-curled assholes in convertible Cadillacs you think are out driving around at midnight in a fucking war zone? I ought to blow him a new asshole right now." "What's this all about?" asked Ty. "Don't get coy with me boy," said the officer with the shotgun.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Not so fast Clarence," said the officer who had frisked Ty. "The APB said pink, not red. It said nothing about a red convertible. Let's just keep cool and not go jumping to conclusions." "It's him," replied Clarence, finger tightening on the trigger of his gun. "Let's open the trunk and find out." "Sounds fair to me Bruce," said the frisking officer's partner. "After all, that was a cop that got shot. If nothing's in the trunk, we take the guys particulars and then decide what to do." "I'm with Clarence and Frank," said the partner of Clarence. "The guy in the bulletin was stuffing his Cadillac with stolen electronic shit. If Mr. Clean here has nothing in his trunk, we wait for his license to be run then let him go. You did call in the license?" "Yeah, I called it in," said Bruce, the officer who had frisked Ty. "Then let's crack open the God-damn trunk and see what we find," said Clarence. "Ten to one he's our man. Bill, open the fucking trunk. Let's get this party started." Ty was made to stand in front of Lena with his hands held above his head as Bill, Clarence's partner, took the keys out of Lena's ignition and walked to the trunk. A third squad car pulled up as Bill fumbled for the correct key. A gigantic white police officer with treetrunks for arms and eyes of cold blue steel got out of the car. "Bingo!" said Bill as Lena's trunk popped open. The treetrunk-armed officer walked over to where Bill was looking into Lena's trunk, anger melting the cold steel of his eyes to molten crimson. The new officer took one look in the trunk before closing it and taking the keys out of the lock. "What do we have here?" asked the new officer. "An arrest or just a good old fashion lynching?" "Jesus Nick, this here asshole just shot a cop and you want to go by the book?" asked Bill. "I suppose you saw him do it," said Nick. "Well no, but the evidence…" began Bill. "The evidence? What are you, a cop or a juror? "Come on Nick," said Frank. "A black driving a red Cadillac just bumped off a department store not far from here and shot Downtown in the process. And what do we have here? A black in a red Cadillac whose trunk just happens to be full of new TV sets." "Case closed. Move straight to execution," said Nick. "What's up your ass?" asked Clarence, his shotgun still leveled at Ty's head. "You what to know what’s up my ass? I'll tell you what’s up my ass. The driver of your red Cadillac, which just happened to be a pink Lincoln Continental, has already been apprehended and is in custody. The man you've pronounced guilty just happens to be both a personal friend and my mortgage banker. Luckily, I heard you call in Lena, the not-pink, not-a-Lincoln, 1955 classic Cadillac you see in front of you. If it wasn't for her, you cowboys might just have hospitalized the man that's going to get my wife to Bali." "Jesus!" said Clarence, shouldering his gun. Ty heaved a sigh and put down his arms. "Nick, I think I'll lower your rate by an eighth.” "An eighth? Isn’t your ass worth at least a quarter?" Nick and the officers gathered around Ty. The officers looked sheepishly at him. Clarence said, "Look, we screwed up and we're sorry. It's just that the adrenaline was pumping and all I could think about was Downtown, Officer Brown. He's only a few months away from retirement and to get shot so close to the golden watch. It's just not fair."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "He'll be O.K.," said Nick. "The word is that the bullet only grazed his shoulder. He'll get to wear the watch." "I nearly got my head blown off because Officer Brown - Downtown Brown got nicked in the shoulder?" asked Ty. "Yeah," said Nick. "I know Downtown's reputation on the street. I don't expect many citizens will be sending sympathy cards." "Oh citizens will send sympathy cards all right", said Ty, "to the guy who got arrested for shooting Downtown." "So," asked Nick, "you get me submitted today?" "Yep, you're looking at approval Tuesday. In about a week you'll have your lower rate and Bali-Stingray cash." "What did rates do today?" "Ticked down to eight and three-quarters." "Eight and three-quarters," whistled Clarence, "Jesus Christ, I wish I could refinance. I'm at 10.5%." "Why can't you re-fi?" asked Ty. "No equity." "Did you buy FHA?" "Yeah, the loan on the place is worth more than the damn place itself." "I take it your current mortgage is still FHA?" "Yeah." "Then you can re-fi. You don't need equity to do a simple rate and term FHA re-fi." "That's not what my cousin Charles says." "Is Charles a mortgage broker?" "No, but his wife's in real estate." "No offense to Cousin Charles, but he should stop listening to his wife. Real estate agents know dick about mortgages. With a 2% interest rate drop, you're looking at saving around $150 per month on a $100,000 loan." "Damn Clarence!" said his partner Bill. "That's a lot of extra drinking money, even for a fish like you. Shit, if I wasn't planning on buying up in three years, I'd refinance myself." "What's your rate at now Bill?" "Nine and a half." "Why not go with a no costs adjustable that has an initial fixed rate for the first three years of say, six and three-quarters. What's your loan amount?" "One hundred and eighty thousand dollars." "You're looking at saving around $350 per month, and the total cost to you, if we buy up the margin, would be zero, nothing, zilch. Speaking of extra drinking money, you've struck the mother lode." "What's the hitch?" "You do VA loans?" asked Frank, the officer who had frisked him. "Yeah, I've got a VA mortgage that I've been thinking about doing something with as well," said Frank's partner Bruce. As Ty and the officers talked, cars hummed twenty-five feet above their heads, moving along the concrete vein of the Harbor Freeway. After a few minutes, Ty went over to Lena and got out his Real Estate Master Plus calculator and a yellow legal pad. The police huddled around the hood of Nick's squad car as Ty scrawled out various mortgage refinance options. After fifteen minutes of discussing numbers and outlining various programs, Ty drove off with appointments to refinance each of the officer's homes in the coming week.

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Thursday Virginia Harry Tyranda Sherman Virginia Tim Tyranda

Sherman Harry Tim

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Virgina Virgina longed for a few strips of crisp bacon as she surveyed the breakfast on her kitchen table. She’d caved in under pressure from her paramedic son to lower her cholesterol intake and had agreed to remove bacon from her breakfast and cut the number of eggs she ate to two, every other morning. Today was sunny-side up egg day and two jaundiced eyes peered unblinking above a row of French toast triangles. Despite badgering from Craig, Virgina would never cut out her daily dose of three fat slices of French toast smothered in butter and real New England maple syrup. Next to the plate of eggs and French toast were a clear glass of freshsqueezed orange juice and a mug of steaming coffee. A rolled-up Los Angeles Times rested next to a small plate of sourdough toast. She took a long swallow of orange juice. Her late husband Eddie, a man who hated pulp, had introduced fresh-squeezed orange juice into Virgina’s life. Every morning Eddie would pick some oranges out of a cardboard box filled with plump jewels off Tad's tree, squeeze them by hand, and strain out the pulp. When they got married, Eddie added one non-strained glass for Virgina to his daily morning tradition. Eddie would sip his juice like a wine taster sampling a hundred-year-old bottle of Cabernet, making it last the whole morning. He could never understand Virgina's need to gulp and taste for pulp. After Eddie died, Virgina took up the morning orange juice ritual. In 1974, a year after the explosion at Pacific Rim Engineering killed her strong, God-fearing, pulp-less man, she bought an electric juicer and put Eddie's ancient hand-made contraption up into the attic storage room. From time to time she would climb up into the attic and stare at the old juicer, remembering the man that was. Remembering the uncluttered mind of a meticulous engineer, the deep faith of a sincere Christian, the strong pride of an individualistic American, the vision of an idealistic reformer, and the muscular arms of a passionate lover. Virgina unrolled the morning's LA Times and took a bite of golden brown, syrup-drowned, French toast. The front page screamed, "All 4 in King Beating Acquitted". While she read the front page and reached for her third sourdough toast triangle, the phone rang. It was Tommy Chen, laundry man and friend of the family. "Virgina, so sorry I call early." "No problem Tommy," returned Virgina, glancing at the kitchen clock, which proclaimed 6:15. "I'm just sitting down with my morning coffee and reading the paper. It seems LA has gone crazy." "Crazy, completely crazy." "Everything O.K. with you Tommy?" asked Virgina, a sudden feeling of unease creeping through her egg-and-toast-filled stomach. "Yes, O.K.. You pick up clothes today?" "Yes," said Virgina, the unease increasing. She had been picking up her clothes at Chen's South Central Dry Cleaning every Thursday for the last ten years. "Could you come Torrance?" "Sure, I'll come by before work. Why?" "South Central burned." "What?" "Not worry, we move clothes out as soon as we hear about Rodney King. Grace idea." "What about the shop? All your dry presses and stuff?"

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "We have very best insurance. Torrance will have to work everything until Vermont Street fixed." "Wow Tommy, this is terrible." "Good it no happen ten year ago. Grace and me big problem." "Always the optimist. When others would be cursing their bad luck, you're contemplating your good fortune." "You too, good fortune. Congratulations. Whatever dress you wear to Chuck’s weeding, free steam on house." "Chuck and I are still not on speaking terms." "Not speaking? No weeding?" "I'll be by between seven and eight." “See you then.” "Goodbye Tommy. Give my sympathies to Grace; I know how hard you two struggled to get Vermont Street off the ground." Virgina hung up the phone and refilled her coffee mug. Sitting down at the table, she used her last triangle of toast to mop up the yolk remaining on her plate. She read about the riots until nearly seven o'clock. Getting up to wash dishes, Virgina glanced at the calendar on her refrigerator. Scribbled down in red ink was today’s lunch appointment with Leslie Jacobs. Walking out to her Thunderbird, Virgina thought about what type of woman her son’s fiancée would turn out to be. As she drove to the Chen’s laundry, she realized that part of the unease in her stomach was nervousness over the upcoming noon meeting. Chen's Torrance Dry Cleaning simply wasn’t equipped to handle the influx from Chen's South Central Dry Cleaning. The brick building that Virgina parked in front of was awash in clothes. She squeezed through a jungle of material occupying the laundry’s front lobby. She had to hunt through a counter covered with neatly stacked plastic-wrapped pants to find the service bell. It took a while before Tommy materialized out of the jungle. "Good to see you Virgina," said Tommy. "This is sure some shelter for homeless pants you're running here." "I am priest of pant,” laughed Tommy, a huge grin splitting his gentle face. ”Grace is saint of shirt.” “Where is Grace?” “She say hello. She talking to insurance company. Two hour.” "A lot of people are sure going to be happy to learn that their clothes didn't go up in smoke with your Vermont Street laundry. You folks did a good thing. Clothes have a personality all their own that no insurance money could ever replace." "I give you clean personalities. Out back. Everything too crazy. Your clothes in delivery van. ‘A’ through ‘F’ people in van. Cooper in delivery van. So sorry." Virgina drove the Thunderbird around to the shop's small back parking lot. Tommy was waiting next to a white Chevy van that hemorrhaged clothes out of an open sliding door. He took three dresses and two silk blouses out of the van. "Thank you," said Virgina after Tommy had placed the last of her clothes into her Thunderbird. "Do you have moment?" asked Tommy. "Certainly." "Normally I take you tea in office. Office no good. ‘P’ through ‘Z’ in office. Everything clothes, no room for tea. So sorry." "Don’t worry about it Tommy." "Virgina, what I tell you is bad story. I so ashamed. But I think maybe no weeding for you because you think Chuck not so good boy.” “Tommy, you have nothing to do with me not going to Chuck’s wedding.”

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels “Virgina, please, I ask you most respectfully to listen to little bit long story,” began Tommy, his accent becoming less as his voice grew sad and soft. “Early on phone this morning I fish with you. I fishing to see if you and Chuck patch things up. Unfortunately, you no patch. I must now tell you about Chuck. Something I should say long, long time ago. "I start in beginning. In Guangzhou, China - you call Canton - we never do laundry. We come to America fifteen year ago, no money. Grace say after four year that we no can cook, we must laundry. I say ‘Grace, we don’t know laundry.’ Grace say ‘O.K., we don’t need to know laundry. We have China eye, everyone think we know laundry.’ So we invest all money and buy bankrupt Vermont Street Dry Cleaning. Grace say when the people see we Chinese, they think we can run laundry. We have many problem before Cooper family.” "You bring me church choir. Black people say, ‘look, the church goes to new laundry, so new laundry most be good.’ We have little business before choir contract. Contract save business. Contract and Chuck start us to success.” "It's time you know real choir robe story. Robes never stolen. Chuck make crime to save my face. He lie to cover up my mistake. He lost face so that I don't have to. Others think him untrustworthy. I retain trust. And I remained silent. I allow him to take blame so I can survive. For sake of family, I let Chuck play game.” "You remember Chuck story, you remember Chuck van driver in summer ‘81. He helping out until we find full-time driver. Chuck good worker, fast, responsible, never late. He do delivery ahead of schedule. He come back to help around shop. He excellent employee. He save business by looking like bad boy.” "You know his story. Chuck go to church with van full of clean choir robes. On way, he stop to see movie. Everybody know Chuck crazy about movies. No-one doubt story. Everyone think Chuck stop job in middle of day to see ‘Cannonball Run’. He say he watch movie and somebody steal robes from van. Nobody ask why anybody want 62 robe.” "The one person who lucky from theft was me. In van was 62 bleach robe. I kick bleach bucket into choir bin while changing light on ladder. Before get down ladder, damage done. All robe no good. This was third time to clean choir robe. I have big problem. I tell Chuck to take written sorry with robe. I write we no charge and we pay replacement. But I know people think new laundry no good, new laundry bleach important clothes, people no go to new laundry.” "Then came theft. I no buy it for a minute. But Chuck stick to story. I know he dump robes somewhere to save my face, to keep business from going down. He said he no longer deserved to keep job. I told him that I no way fire him. He quit. He quit to make it look like I fire him, to make story look real.” Tommy stopped talking. Virgina said, "I always thought Chuck's story was a little fishy. He never liked Burt Reynolds movies." "He good man. I know he had problem but he good. He and Leslie bring laundry to me every week. Leslie good girl. I wish you go to weeding." "Tommy, I appreciate what you just shared with me, but the reason I wouldn’t be going to the wedding has nothing to do with choir robes. Now I best be letting you get back to your work. See you next week." "See you next week. Bye Virgina." Virgina took Carson St. to Hawthorne Blvd., turned left and drove to the office. Harry was pulling out of Cal. Gold's parking lot as Virgina pulled in. Their eyes connected, a fusion evaporating windshields and space, a brief melting of linear time into complex units of shared history. Harry's scowling face was a tempest, his balding forehead a storm of angry hues. Virgina waved and the spell broke. Harry waved back and tried to smile but couldn’t. Virgina pondered the strangeness of Harry's scowl as she walked into the office.

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Harry Harry was cleaning last night’s gumbo-stained dishes when Daniel came into the kitchen. Harry threw him a towel and Daniel began drying the pots and pans that were too large to fit in the dishwasher. "You all packed and ready?" asked Harry, as he handed Daniel a pan. "All packed and ready to roll. Mind if I drain the last of the coffee? My brain still hasn't recovered from last night's alcohol." "If we're going to catch your plane, you'd better take the bean juice with you," said Harry, as he reached into his cupboard and pulled out a special mug designed for drinking coffee while driving. "Use this. We'd best be leaving. I need to drop some documents off at an escrow company on our way to the airport." After Daniel got his coffee, they put his luggage into Harry's Explorer and began the drive to LAX. Lincoln Street Escrow was silent, empty, and locked when they drove up to it. Harry got out and taped a package containing the Samuel docs to the bottom of a glass door in the rear. Walking back to his truck, he looked out to a sluggish Pacific Ocean, slowly crawling out of its morning blanket of gray blue. Steam rising out of Daniel's coffee mug twisted in abstract patterns on the passenger's side of the windshield as Harry walked past and got back in. "Maybe the monkeys burned down The Stone's home. She seems rather conciliatory today," said Daniel as Harry climbed into the Explorer and resumed the drive. Daniel began reading from a newspaper as they drove. "Listen to this. `I call for calm, an end to the people's revolt, a cooling of the fiery anger that is destroying our homes. This explosive expression of civil disobedience must end. We must stop the torching of our neighborhoods and the burning of our businesses. Don't demonstrate your outrage through self-destruction. Don't protest injustice in tongues of fire that burn your dreams, your hopes, and your homes. Don't let the L.A.P.D. burn your neighborhoods down by doing nothing to prevent it'." "Interesting," said Harry, "I didn't know that looting department stores is a form of civil disobedience. This must be the first people's revolt in history whose sole purpose is to provide the oppressed black masses with Sony Handycams and remote-control TVs." "Electronics are the opiate of the masses," said Daniel. Daniel read aloud from various articles as they drove. Harry listened and joined in with his chuckles, eye-rolling, and occasional grunt of disgust. It was a little past seven when he dropped Daniel off at the airport for his flight to San Francisco. Harry decided to drive straight to the office and work a few hours before quitting early to prepare mentally and physically for the sail to Catalina. Sherman's dark blue Mercedes was the only car in the parking lot when he pulled in. Sherman was in his office taking a loan application. Harry could never understand how Sherman could get clients to meet him so God-damn early in the morning. Phones were still on answering service. Harry's pager went off as he sat down at his desk. He waited a few minutes before dialing his voicemail. He still used the phone the old fashioned way. Headsets were for boiler-room con men, uptight prepubescent yuppie stockbrokers, fat female operators. If God intended for loan officers to use headsets, he wouldn't have given them collarbones to cradle the receiver. "Mr. Haroldson, Moses Jones," came the recent recording on his voicemail. "Monday at noon would be good for me. I'll bring the usual photocopies. Call me if

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels there's a problem with the time. I'll be home, 868-4395, for another half hour. Then at my office, 316-6000." Harry dialed. Moses Jones was another of his standby customers. Jones should be an Asian, thought Harry; spotless credit, kids at Stanford and Harvard, cars eight years old and paid for, no revolving credit, fat savings account, twenty thousand plus in T-bills. Not the average black's credit report of maxed-out credit cards sprinkled with various 30 through 90-day lates. Harry wondered what Daniel would think if he learned that he’d refinanced the home of the current director of the Los Angeles N.A.A.C.P three times. "Hello." "Moses?" Harry called everybody by their first name. "Mr. Haroldson?" Moses called everyone by their last name. "How's Nancy and the kids?" "Fine, Moses Jr. just got accepted into Harvard law." "Great, just what America needs, more liberal lawyers to dream up novel ways of bankrupting the state through civil litigation. I hope Jane is still pursuing engineering." "I'm working on her. She still has time to come to her senses and follow in her brother's and father's footsteps." "Leave her alone. At least somebody in your family will earn an honest living." "Monday at noon O.K.?" "No problem." "See you then. Enjoy your weekend." "Thanks, I will. I'm sailing to Catalina tomorrow." "Tough life." "Yeah. See you Monday." "Noon." "Noon." Harry hung up the phone and watched through the windows of the loan rep. room as Sherman walked his zebra clients to the front door. On the way back, Sherman nodded to Harry as he stopped by the coffee machine and poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup. The cup seemed tiny in Sherman's big meaty hand. Sherman sucked loudly at his coffee as he came into the loan rep. room. Between sucks, Sherman asked, "What brings you in so early?" "Just wanted to get some work done before the place gets torched in the name of civil disobedience." "The riots won't get this far. Samuels going to fund this quarter?" "Looks like it. Nicole's not a bad processor. I thought you just hired her for her tits and ass." "I did. Anybody can type. Still taking out Pacific Pride tomorrow?" "You bet. Nothing like waves and whiskey to help one forget work and wife." "Speaking of work, the Baluchistani business has caused something of a problem." "How big of a problem?" "Big, and there's more. Ms. Tits and Ass has stirred up the hornet's nest." "What?" "You're in some serious shit. Let's go into my office and talk. Grab yourself a cup of Joe." "I don't do Joe," said Harry, following Sherman into his office without a cup of the Folgers automatic drip. Sherman sat in his leather swivel chair and motioned for Harry to sit in one of the two chairs facing his desk. Harry sat and watched Sherman light a Pall Mall and inhale. The Wig exhaled while unlocking a cabinet built into his desk and taking out a

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels cassette tape. He inserted the tape into the recorder on his desk and hit the play button. Silently they listened as Harry called Bernie Baluchistani a “sand nigger” and a “camel-sodomizing raghead.” After Sherman clicked off the recorder, Harry asked, "Who gave you the tape?" "Arnie Mathas, attorney for the civil rights-violated Bernie Baluchistani." "Shit!" "Shit is right. Next time you’re going to use racial slurs and cuss out a client, try not to do it in front of a tape-recorder-packing attorney." "What do they want?" "Money. Cal.Gold's got some deep pockets and Bernie figures he can get his camel-sodomizing hands on some of it. With the tape, and forty plus witnesses, I'd say they got a pretty good case." "Shit!" "There's more. Nicole jumped on the bandwagon. She's brought complaints of sexual and psychological harassment against you." "Psychological harassment?" "Racial slurs." "God-damn bitch. I don't believe this." "Believe it. The charges would fit nicely into Bernie's lawsuit should Mathas get wind of it." "Shit! Maybe I can cool the raghead out, or get Frank to. Let me make some calls and see what I can do." "You've already done enough. Don't phone, write, or in any way contact the Baluchistanis. Corporate wants you to stay away from them - far away." "Corporate?" "Once Mathas got involved, I had to contact corporate. No choice." "And?" "And you're on indefinite suspension until this thing gets cleaned up." "When will that be?" "Corporate wants to move fast on this - real fast. Monday afternoon they're sending down a few of their legal hotshots." "Who?" "Melissa Powell and Barry Waters. Maybe Cliff White." "Corporate attorney Cliff White?" "He's coming up to corporate from San Diego and said he might swing by." "Shit! Cal.Gold's whole legal posse is in on this." "This thing is big Harry - real big. The meeting is to be at one." "One on Monday?" "One on Monday. Be on time and on your best behavior for once. We'll be fighting for your job and it will be an uphill battle. The file against you is pretty bulletproof." "File?" "This file," said Sherman, pulling out a manila envelope form his desk cabinet. "It's damaging to say the least. We've got the Mathas tape, charges brought up by Nicole, a letter from Mathas concerning pending litigation, and a signed testimony from over fifteen people saying you used racial slurs against Mr. Baluchistani." "Jesus Christ!" "Stay away from the office until Monday and don't be stirring anything up. Leave the Baluchistanis alone. And Harry, wear a tie Monday." Harry walked back to his desk. He sat down and stared at his phone, mind swinging between humor over the absurdity of it all and rage at Bernie's lawsuit and Nicole's betrayal. At 8:30 he snapped his briefcase shut and walked out to his truck.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Virgina was pulling into the parking lot as Harry was pulling out. Harry's eyes met hers. Time melted. He pondered how many years he had given Cal. Gold, how many damn times he’d pulled in and out of this fucking parking lot, how close he was to his pension. Fury solidified time, clutched at his heart, and twisted his face into an ugly scowl.

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Tyranda Ty's glass of Earl Grey and milk was nearly the same shade of tan as his leather sofa. He started each morning with two glasses with milk before switching to a milk-less mug of coffee. The coffee he drank on his balcony, the milk tea he sipped sitting inside his apartment. Ty's feet rested atop Mabel’s 25” Magnavox. Janis's Magnavox, the one without any plastic walnut veneer, sat between Matilda's VCR and Betty's Sony CD/cassette player. Ty doubted Betty had any laser discs, but she had plenty of cassette tapes, mostly gospel hymns and Frank Sinatra. He had on silk briefs and a large blue terry-cloth bathrobe with his name embroidered in pearl white. The robe had been a gift from Mary Stevens. Ty was on his second glass of Earl Grey. He held the glass in his left hand, resting its bottom against the inside of a terry-cloth sleeve so as not to harm the beige leather of his sofa. He listened to Miles Davis as he sipped his tea. He’d been eight when he first heard Miles on Grandpa's 1908 Pathe gramophone. In the summer of ‘88, Ty took Grandpa Alexander to see Miles at the Hollywood Bowl. Grandpa died the following summer, and Grandma Alexander and Miles Davis were not long in following Grandpa. Grandma passed away three days before Christmas ‘89, Miles in September ‘91. Ty thought about his grandfather as he sat in his terry-cloth cocoon with his feet propped up on the Magnavox. And he thought about Vivian; about promises he’d made to himself and moonlit emptiness, about Parisian jazz clubs and a black pearl being caressed by rumpled pink sheets. Sipping his tea he knew he had to come to a decision about Vivian moving in, knowing he couldn’t put aside his dream of living in Paris. He had to see the Paris his Grandpa talked about. He had to hear saxophones moaning in smoke-filled rooms, pigeons cooing at cathedral bells, drums laughing at the melody of trumpets. Grandpa Alexander had spent a little over a year in Paris following his three years with Company C of the 614th Tank Destroyer Battalion in WW2. He lived off the money he’d earned in the army, along with what he made as a busboy at La Coupole, a jazz club on Rue Dumont. He rented a small room in a seedy hotel across from the club. He bussed tables, listened to jazz, and drew. After 13 months he left for home with 34 sketches and the Pathe gramophone. He never drew after Paris and he never bought another record player. Above Ty's sofa were three of his grandpa's sketches. One large black and white sketch above the center of the sofa, with two smaller ones on either side. The center sketch was his favorite. A man was playing a violin at night in the rain. He was playing under a street lamp and standing on a curb next to a large puddle of water. The water reflected day. In the puddle was the sun, a warm orb smiling down on the Eiffel Tower. The two smaller sketches were club scenes: a saxophonist playing on an empty stage in front of a deserted dining room and a woman smoking a cigarette and looking out of a small rain-stained window. Ty wondered if the woman looking out into the rain was watching the violinist under the street lamp. When things got bad, Grandpa Alexander would think about the puddle, think about Paris, think about the Eiffel Tower and the sun he once saw reflected in the murky waters of a clogged street corner drain. The puddle had a deep meaning to Grandpa, something beyond the artistic perfection of the moment. It symbolized the possibility of transformation - that the ordinary and mundane had profound elements

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels if viewed from certain angles. It symbolized change, symbolized remembering angry dark tempests in times of gentle light, spring sunshine in the cold bleak night. Grandpa had been content to watch life, listen to jazz, and remember past sun-reflected puddles. As the years went by, his stories of Paris became longer, more detailed. He would begin to remember the way a certain woman smoked her cigarette during a certain song. With the next telling he would remember the brand name of the cigarette, the color of the woman's dress and eyes, the people sitting at the table with her. Then would come bits of conversation. The blue-eyed woman in the red dress smoking a Gauloise would discuss poodles with a fat spectacled man smoking a pipe. Grandpa's stories had become his sketches. Listening to them, Ty began to paint himself into the scenes. He would talk poodles with the blue-eyed woman, joke with the fat spectacled man, walk deserted streets in the moonlight, and see the Eiffel Tower reflected in a muddy puddle. In his late teens he began to dream of Paris. When he turned 21 he vowed that he would go, and that he would find himself his own puddle to remember as he grew old. Ty finished his second glass of milk tea, took his feet off of Mabel’s Magnavox, and pulled himself up from the sofa. He took a white mug off a kitchen peg and poured himself some coffee. The automatic drip machine had a self-timer that was set to begin brewing at 6:30 a.m. Johnny wasn't out on the balcony when Ty walked out of his sliding door. Ty held his coffee mug to his face, letting hot steam filter up past his nose, eyes, forehead and Geri-curled hair. The Geri-curl was a reminder of the ‘hood, a reminder of Downtown Brown's punch to his gut. Ty had vowed to keep his dewy crown until seeing the Eiffel Tower, until feeling the cold steel of the monument with his own hands. He hoped Salon De Coiffure Pour Hommes De Pierre was still in business. He could smell the strong lime scent in the shaving cream when Grandpa told of getting a shave there. It was a good pickup line, the dream. He’d used it on Vivian the night he’d met her at the bar in Santa Monica. As he sipped his coffee the hot vapors caressed his face. He had to let Vivian go. She couldn't handle their relationship unless it deepened and matured, grew to what she called "soulness". Ty couldn't handle the commitment of "soulness" without his puddle, without getting his lime-scented shave and walking the cobblestone streets of his grandfather's memory. He had to let her go. Surely there would be another Vivian, another woman to touch him at the same levels after he returned from Paris. He would tell Vivian of his decision today. After work he would drive down to her place and set himself free. Next Wednesday he would go fishing with Johnny. Time to dust off the old rod and start casting again. Ty could feel the rightness of his decision as he finished his coffee and took his mug to the kitchen sink. He felt at peace as he put on his suit and walked to Lena. He placed a navy blazer of light tropical wool on the passenger's side and began the drive to the office. After work he’d drive straight to Vivian's apartment and free himself. It was the right decision.

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Sherman Sherman's mind was not on his wife. Sally was talking about something as she dumped sugar onto a bowl of cornflakes, bananas, and milk. She’d never used sugar on cornflakes before her pregnancy. Sherman counted five tablespoons of sugar as he thought of how best to get rid of Harry. He smiled to himself, lips curving in delight at the possibilities. "What are you smiling at?" "You, my love melon. I was thinking that you never used sugar on your cornflakes before." "Before what?" "Before I planted my seed." "I used sugar, you just never noticed." "No, you didn't." "Two tablespoons every morning." "Of honey, not sugar." "Honey on Wheaties, sugar on cornflakes." "Honey, you've never used sugar before." "Sugar, you don't know what the hell you’re talking about." Sherman decided on a two-track approach. Tell corporate one thing, Harry another. Perhaps throw in Nicole - drive a wedge into their developing friendship while making the case against Harry bulletproof. "We've been married nearly five years and you don't even know that I've always put sugar on my cornflakes?" "I've been married to you long enough to know that I'm going to lose this argument even though I'm right. How you feeling this morning?" "Better," said Sally, appearing on the brink of tears. "Good. Come Monday evening I can start being around you more. Until then Daddy's got to work on beating Bobby-Fucking-Beckman." "Bobby-Fucking-Beckman, Bobby-Fucking-Beckman. I'm sick of hearing about Bobby-Fucking-Beckman!" "Careful honey, don't get excited or we'll have us another false labor. I thought last night was the real deal." "I wish it was. I want this thing over with." "It will be soon enough." "Easy for you to say." "Love melon, why don't we take Tuesday off and head down to the beach?" "I don't think I'm going to last until Tuesday." "Sure you will. That's just Braxton-Hicks talking." As Sherman talked to Sally, the plan to fire Harry began to take a concrete form. As he kissed his love melon goodbye and walked out to his new 500SEL, the threads of different schemes came together and Sherman saw how best to hang his weak link out to dry. Sherman barked into his mini-cassette recorder, "Thursday, May 22nd, 6:40 a.m. Best way to fire Harry. Contact corporate and inform Melissa and/or Barry of the Baluchistani situation. Say Bernie plans on suing Cal. Gold but will drop the suit in exchange for Harry's dismissal. To add fuel to the fire, say that Nicole has brought up sexual and racial harassment charges against Harry that Bernie could use as evidence that Cal. Gold knew of Harry's racist tendencies. Harry should be fired immediately before the situation explodes. Tell corporate that Bernie will sign a legal

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels statement clearing Cal. Gold of any blame as soon as Harry is terminated. Should be able to talk Nicole into bringing up charges. May have to dangle a promotion in front of her." Sherman clicked off the recorder. He reviewed his Haroldson removal strategy as he drove. At the office he started brewing a pot of coffee. He unlocked the cabinet in his desk and dropped in a manila envelope containing a tape of Harry and Bernie. Last night he’d transferred the central courtyard recording from his mini-cassette to a regular size Maxwell. Sometime today he would call Arnie Mathas. Arnie was an old golf buddy who would back up the bullshit should Harry or anybody at corporate start nosing around. The McCalls, his seven o’clock appointment, showed up at a quarter past. Sherman poured them two cups of coffee. Mike McCall added cream and three cubes of sugar. He was overweight and black. Lucy McCall was fat, white, and took her coffee black. After fifteen minutes of small talk, Sherman raced through their loan application in less than ten minutes. As he walked the McCalls out of the office, Sherman was surprised to see Harry at his desk. He stopped by the coffee machine for his fourth cup and headed into the loan rep. room. "What brings you in so early?" asked Sherman as he thought of how best to begin the hanging. "Just wanted to get some work done before the place gets torched in the name of civil disobedience." "The riots won't get this far," said Sherman. He took a gulp of coffee and decided to open with Nicole, making her the central focus. "Samuels going to fund this quarter?" He knew the answer but wanted Harry to bring up Nicole. He did and Sherman began to unravel the rope. It sounded good as he spoke; it sounded sincere. Sherman nearly believed his own lies by the time he’d brought Harry into his office and told him he was on indefinite suspension. Indefinite suspension was a nice euphemism. Sherman nearly grinned. "Jesus Christ," muttered Harry when Sherman lied about the contents of the empty manila envelope that he’d pulled out of his desk for effect. "Stay away from the office until Monday and don't be stirring things up. Leave the Baluchistanis alone," said Sherman. He could barely contain his glee when he added, "And Harry, wear a tie Monday." Sherman lit a cigarette and watched Harry shuffle out of his office. Blowing smoke out of his lungs, he watched the Pall Mall haze drift above his wig. He leaned back in his leather swivel chair and enjoyed his smoke, contemplating his triumph while the cigarette burned down to a butt. He stubbed it out, turned to his computer and punched the commands to print up a current A.L.F. report. He knew the average loan funding numbers would remain unchanged from the previous evening but printed a report anyway. He was studying the report when Virgina entered the office. "What's with Harry?" asked Virgina. "What do you mean?" returned Sherman innocently. "He hasn't been into the office this early in years." "I guess he wanted to put in a few minutes of work before beginning a long weekend of drinking." "He sure looked angry pulling out of the parking lot. He didn't seem funny to you?" "Maybe somebody stole his glove compartment whiskey flask." The less the office knew about Harry's problem, the better. Once he was fired, Sherman could blame corporate. Nicole was the only person he would have to let in on the scheme. She would keep her mouth shut and play the game.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "I don't think I've ever seen Harry that mad." Sherman allowed a silence long enough to make a change in subjects seem natural. "Lee docs ready for City View?" "They will be in an hour or so." "Great. Lee goes and the quarter is ours." "Lee, Samuels, Baluchistani, Woods, Spitzer, and Martinez will all have to fund Monday morning for us to beat The King." "They'll fund." "They should." "They will." "Only ‘would’, ‘could’, and ‘should’ can be counted on in this business. ‘Will’ fails you every time." Sherman touched his meaty fingertips together and remained silent. He listened as Virgina walked down the hall to her office and inserted a key into her door. His fingers remained in a pyramid as Virgina switched on her cheap Panasonic radio. Knuckles repeatedly bent and straightened as he contemplated Bobby Beckman. The pyramid quivered and pulsated like an angry amoeba under Sherman's desire to strangle little affable Bobby with his full head of hair.

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Virgina Virgina and Leslie both had the Fisherman’s Platter at Frank’s Fish Grill in Manhattan Beach. By the time Virgina finished her filet and began eating one of the two crab legs that came with the lunch special, she realized that she liked Leslie Jacobs. After eating, they talked about trivial matters for a few minutes before Leslie said, "I don’t want to leave without talking with you about Chuck. This is rather awkward but I’d like to understand what is going on between you two.” “You’re right,” said Virgina. “It is awkward. I wish I had a simple explanation but I’m afraid I don’t.” “I’ll take any explanation.” “I really hate saying this but you’ve come to the wrong person.” “I’ve asked Chuck a thousand times but I get nowhere.” “I’m truly sorry.” “I would like to share something with you.” “Please do.” “I’ve asked people about you and everyone says the same thing. Everyone says that you’re a fair, rational, and loving woman. I love Chuck and know any fair and loving mother would be proud of the Chuck of today. I have some information about the Chuck of the past that I would like to share with you if that is O.K..” “If you feel that it’s necessary, please do so. But Leslie, nothing you say can change anything. There is only one person that can change things.” “And who is that?” “I’ve said more than I should. Please go on with your information.” Leslie took a drink of water before asking, “As a boy was Chuck a nightly radio when he slept?” “Just like his father. Eddie used to say that he dreamed in Technicolor and living sound. Does get annoying.” “If it wasn’t for his annoying talk while dreaming, I wouldn’t have found out the things about Chuck that I now know. I believe that whatever is between you and Chuck is all tied up with the South African con. I think once you know Chuck's actual role, you might be more ready to patch things up with him." Virgina didn’t have the heart to tell Leslie that her information wouldn’t change anything. They fell silent for a while. Leslie seemed to be waiting for some kind of reply but Virgina had nothing to say. In the silence, Virgina thought back to the South African con of 1985, the smoke and mirrors trick that could have duped the black community in LA out of millions of dollars. The con had been exceedingly subtle and seductive, slithering through black Los Angeles like an electric eel, spreading jolts of hushed excitement in its slippery wake. Virgina had felt tempted to join in, to jump on the eel's back and make a few hundred bucks while helping her fellow black brethren living under the yoke of Apartheid. All A.A.I. was doing, they explained, was skirting around racist South African export laws while helping out black artists. Credit cards would be used to help move black art products that the South African regime was taxing to economic extinction. The simplicity and genius of the scam came out in the trial that sent Chuck to prison for two years. People were told that middlemen were needed to connect black artists in South Africa with art shops in America. U.S. art shops were begging for authentic African art, but the South African government had slapped a 500%

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels commercial resale tax on such goods to discourage trafficking in items they connected with anti-Apartheid sentiment. It was explained that an individual purchaser art would only be subject to a 50% tax. Ordinary Americans with ordinary Visa cards were being used to wage war against Apartheid, by helping funnel South African art to American art dealers. The art would be sent to the homes of the middlemen, picked up by African Art International, and taken to the dealer who was actually placing the order. The American middleman would then be reimbursed the full purchase price plus 100%. African Art International reeled in the black community slowly. For three months they took small orders from various people in scattered locations: $100 from a mechanic in Compton, $150 from a hairdresser in Hawthorne, $300 from a doctor in Baldwin Heights. The mechanic, hairdresser, and doctor all had African art delivered to their houses, and all had African Art International trucks pick up the art. And all were fully reimbursed and given a 100% profit for their trouble. Word spread like voltage through an electric eel. The Courier Recruitment Officers of African Art International were beseeched by those wanting to get involved in helping their home continent brothers while making a 100% profit. A.A.I. told those wanting to be involved that no courier slots were available but that they would be contacted as soon as there was an opening. Names and Visa numbers were taken and a list compiled. The list grew to 2387 people before A.A.I. suddenly contacted all couriers and told them a slot had just opened up. Most would-be couriers told A.A.I. to max out their credit cards. If the scam had gone through it was estimated that A.A.I. would have run off with over three million dollars. But before A.A.I. could close shop and run, the FBI swooped and closed down the whole operation. Would-be couriers found their orders cancelled and expected profit evaporated with the arrest of the A.A.I. syndicate. The syndicate was made up of four men, whose links to organized crime were speculated about in the local papers but never proven. The leader, Lewis Foreman, was handed an eight-year prison sentence and each of his two lieutenants was given four years. Chuck was described as the syndicate's "liaison officer" - a newcomer brought into the inner fold because of his contacts in the local community and his ability to handle the A.A.I.'s Courier Recruitment Officers. "Please go on Leslie," said Virgina. “Chuck never told me anything about A.A.I. until the month he started having dreams about his two years in prison, until he started talking in his sleep about the trial and the con. At first what he said didn’t make any sense. Then I began to piece together what his role in the con had really been. Once I had a clear enough picture, I confronted him with it. He still wouldn’t tell me much but he did say enough to confirm what I’m about to tell you.” "From what I’ve been able to put together, the A.A.I. syndicate was controlled by some shadowy organization out of Chicago. Somehow, in a three-month period, Chuck went from Recruitment Officer to Liaison Officer to somebody that could be trusted to know what the A.A.I. was really up to. Lewis Foreman took a real liking to him and spilt the beans about the scam one night when they were getting drunk together. Chuck is real vague about the whole thing, but I know he accompanied Lewis to Chicago and met the big boss.” "Before he knew it, Chuck got sucked into a whole other world. A part of him felt that the scam was a form of justice after the way the community had treated him, after the business with the choir robes and Beth Montgomery. That kind of thinking all changed the night Lewis took him along to do a ‘favor’ for the big boss. The ‘favor’ they did was so bad that it brought Chuck back to reality and really

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels freaked him out. I guess Lewis hired thugs to drug up some Mexican and toss him onto the freeway from the King Blvd. overpass.” "Witnessing that killing drove Chuck to his overdose, and sometime after the overdose he decided to turn the syndicate in. But that would’ve been the same thing as putting a bullet through his head, so somehow he had to turn the syndicate in without anyone knowing about it. So he typed up a letter explaining the whole scam and put it into Tad's mailbox. He knew Tad would know what to do." Leslie stopped talking. After a while Virgina said, “Thank you for sharing this with me. I wish I could say that I'll be at your wedding next Sunday. But I'm afraid that I don't see how that's possible right now." "I see where Chuck gets his stubborn streak, along with his strong character." "I wish you luck Leslie, you and Chuck both. Take care of my son." "He's in good hands.” “I can see that. I’d better be getting back to work. I’d like to have lunch with you again sometime.” “I’d like that too.” They left Frank’s Fish Grill and Virgina drove back to the office. It took an enormous effort to shut out the memory of Chuck's overdose and begin working on the Lee documents.

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Tim "I agreed to a lengthy separation so that your Dad could get a free ride on my insurance until his Medicare kicked in. I didn't make a fuss when Troy wanted to keep the miniature spoon collection. I didn't force the tropical fish issue. I didn't …" Tim looked down at his phone as he listened to his mother. Two red lights were blinking; two other people were waiting to talk to him. He took pride in his ability to juggle multiple phone calls, and had given Tina strict instructions never to put anybody into voicemail if he was in the office. "Mom," said Tim during a lull in her verbal torrent, "let me shake a few callers off my other lines. Stay put." He put her on hold without waiting for a response and hit one of the blinking buttons. "Tim Daniels." "What did they say?" "Mrs. Washington?" "What did they say about Tyrone?" "I'm afraid the loan can't fly with Tyrone." "No Tyrone?" "No Tyrone, sorry Mrs. Washington." "Always trying to put the black man down." "This is about credit, not color, Mrs. Washington." "I bet if my Tyrone was white, them pale suits at your bank would be fighting to give him money." "Mrs. Washington, the bank doesn't care if Tyrone is black, white, purple, or orange. All the bank cares about is the color of money. Tyrone can't be on the loan because he is a high risk. He is a high risk due to the content of his credit report, not the color of his skin." "I'm not giving up on my Tyrone this easy. Put a power suit on the line, maybe I can talk some sense into one." "Mrs. Washington can you hold for a bit? I've got a few other calls to shake," said Tim, noticing a new line had started blinking. "Why don't you transfer me to your boss and let me talk to him about Tyrone." "I'll be back with you in just a minute," said Tim, putting Mrs. Washington on hold and stabbing at another blinking button. "Tim Daniels." "Tim, number 43 is officially in the bag. Brian has funded." "Fantastic Lillian," said Tim. "It's all about goals. You know Brian has already written down his list of 100." "Really." "How's your list coming along?" "I'm working on it." "Brian's going to read his list tomorrow at the seminar. Say, why don't you read your list as well?" "I might not have it done by then." "Get it done. Remember, a goal unwritten is not worth having." "See you at the seminar. You want me there at eight?" "Seven-thirty Tim, seven-thirty. We should be getting upwards of 100 people." "Fantastic. See you then." "Isn't it fantastic? I'm so happy being able to share my success with others. Brian is so happy. Everything is so fantastic. The movers are packing his things now.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels I'm going to put him up in the Holiday Inn for the night because I think it would be just fantastic to have his moving van at the breakfast seminar. Wouldn't that be a tremendous sight, a spectacular stunt?" "Jesus Christ," muttered Tim into his mute phone before saying, "Fantastic!” "You'll be speaking at nine. Is your talk ready?" "Yes. Sorry Lillian but my phone is lit up with calls." "What is your talk going to be about?" "First time home buying." "Fantastic. Keep it positive and simple." "Sorry Lillian, I have to put you on hold," interrupted Tim as he hit another blinking light. "Tim Daniels." "You will be coming this Sunday?" "Ah Carol, can I call you back? Things are a little hectic right now." "No Tim, no, you can't call me back. I want a commitment from you." "Carol, now really is a bad time. Give me your number and I'll call you right back." "No, you can't call me right back. I'm finally going to get you to face your problems." "Are you at home?" "No, I'm not at home. You coming this Sunday?" "This weekend is going to be a real killer with the quarter ending and all." "Every weekend is a killer. I'm only requesting you go for your own good. You promised me." "O.K., O.K.. What time is it again?" "Sunday at three. It only lasts for an hour or two." Putting his phone on mute mode, Tim cursed, "Shit, shit, fucking shit!" He put the phone back online and told his sister that he would attend the C.C.A. meeting at three on Sunday. He then hung up on her and tapped another blinking light. "Tim Daniels." "Tim, how's life in the big city?" "Hi Dad. Listen, the big city is real busy right now. Mind if I call you back? You at home?" "Over at Bill Baker's. Getting ready to go up to Shaver Lake and kick some worms around. Son, it's about time you come up and cast a rod." "Sounds good Pops. Why don't we talk about it next week?" "Before I let you go, tell me, did you talk any sense into that thick head of your mother's concerning the angel?" "Not yet. It's sort of a family heirloom to her." "Family heirloom? Pam's calling it a family heirloom now?" "Dad, I've got three calls on hold. Make it four, somebody else just joined the party," said Tim, looking down at the buttons on his phone. Three lines were lit unblinking red. One button pulsated crimson to denote a call that hadn't been answered yet. "Can't this wait until Monday?" "Why did she want to sell that angel at every garage sale we ever had if it was a family heirloom? That winged fellow was in pretty bad shape before I fixed it up. Do you know how hard teak is to work with?" "Dad, I gotta go." "Son, that angel is mine. I'll let you go but just know that I want my angel. I've been fair, more than fair. I agreed to let Pam have the oak table and I didn't force the sale of the condo. I could go on but I think you get the point. I'm not playing ball on the angel." "We'll talk Monday. Enjoy fishing and try to let go of the angel. It's rather ridiculous if you think about it. Tell Bill hi."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Bye son." "Bye Pops." He punched a pulsating button. "Tim Daniels." "Hi Tim." "Now's bad Janet, real bad. You at the apartment?" "Yeah." "I'll call you as soon as I can?" "I'm pregnant." "You're what?" "Pregnant." "What do you mean, you're pregnant?" "I'm pregnant." "How do you know?" "The blood test for the tit job." "Jesus Christ! You sure?" "I don't know." "What do you mean, you don't know?" "I don't see how it's possible." "The blood test said you are?" "Yeah, and they won't do the operation Sunday unless I'm not pregnant." "I thought you were on the pill?" "I am. Maybe the test is wrong. They can be, you know." "You've been taking the pill everyday?" "I think so." "What do you mean, you think so?" "I always take the pill every day." "Every day?" "Every day." "And you haven't forgotten or skipped a day or anything?" "I don't think so." "You either did or you didn't." "I might have skipped a few days last month." "Jesus Christ! It is about period time too, isn't it?" "Yeah." "You're late?" "Three days." "What are you going to do?" "I don't know. I think the test is wrong." "Why?" "It has to be wrong. How can I be pregnant?" "It's not wrong." "How do you know?" "Listen Janet. Hang on the line for just a few minutes. I've got three other calls going on right now that I have to deal with. I'll get rid of them as soon as I can and we'll talk. O.K.?" "O.K., but hurry." Tim put Janet on hold and tried to remain calm. His palms were sweaty. He stood up, hands toying with the clear wire mouthpiece of his headset, eyes staring at the four lit buttons on his phone. He removed his right hand from the adjustable mouthpiece, drummed his fingers on his desktop, and stabbed the phone's intercom. "Tina." "Yes Tim." "I'm not here." "O.K., but I've got a Joe Star on the line that wants to talk to you."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Put Joe Star into voicemail." "He says it's real important, like an emergency." Joe Star sounded familiar but Tim couldn't hang a face on the name. He drummed his fingers four times on the tabletop before saying, "All right, patch him through but throw everyone else into voicemail. I'm not here." Tim watched as the fifth button began to pulsate. He stabbed it with a sweaty finger. "Tim Daniels." "Tim, sorry about the Joe Star business but Sherman has given the girls instructions not to let me talk to you." "Mr. Barnhill?" "Call me Pete, Tim, call me Pete." "Mr. Barnhill, I'm sorry but this is a real bad time right now. I'm juggling four other calls as we speak." "Your phone must always be lit up like the fourth of July. That's why Southern California Home Mortgage wants you Tim. You’re a heavy hitter, you're the big time." "Mr. Barnhill, can I call you back? I can't talk to you right now. Things are just too insane." "I'll make it short. We're prepared to give you your own branch in San Pedro, 90 basis points on your own commissions, plus a ten basis point override on all loan reps under you." "I'll think about it." "It's the smart move Tim. And don't forget about the company car. What are you driving now Tim?" "Pete." "Yes Tim." "Goodbye." Tim pushed line two. "Mrs. Washington, sorry to keep you waiting so long." "Why am I talking to you? I thought you were going to let me talk to one of the big cheeses." "Mrs. Washington, it wouldn't do any good to let you talk to anyone else. We simply can't do the loan with Tyrone." "Now listen here small slice, don't be giving up on Tyrone after just one day." "Waiting one day, one week, one month, or one even one year isn't going to help put Tyrone on the loan. His credit is that bad." "Let me talk to your boss. There's more to a man than his credit report." "He isn't in. Would you like his voicemail?" "No I wouldn't. It's not natural talking to machines. And that's what it feels like right now, like I'm talking to some sort of machine. Don't you bank people got no feelings? Tyrone is flesh and bone, not no bit of paper." "Mrs. Washington, you've got to understand. Nobody's out to get Tyrone but to give him special treatment wouldn't be fair to people like you and others who have managed to maintain good credit. It wouldn't be fair to investors buying our loans who have faith in our ability to objectively analyze risk." "Don't be complicating things Mr. Daniels, don't be judging Tyrone by your standards. He's good people." "Mrs. Washington, I've got calls waiting. Do you want us to continue with the refinance?" "As long as you be respecting Tyrone." "I don't know Tyrone. I only know his credit and his credit won't fly. We either do the refinance without him or we don't do it." "What are you saying, Mr. Daniels?" "There's no way possible, not now or next year, that my bank can do a mortgage for you with Tyrone on it.” "We'll see about that. We'll see how you talk after I speak with The Post."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "I don't think even The Post could help with Tyrone's credit." "We'll see, Mr. Daniels, we'll see. Goodbye." "Goodbye Mrs. Washington," said Tim as he stabbed line four. "Janet hang on for a bit longer, I've got two other lines to shake." "Maybe my blood sample got mixed up with somebody else’s." "Janet." "You always hear about lab people getting AIDS from blood samples. It wouldn't be too hard to get careless with all them vials. They’re rather small." "Janet." "It's got to be a mistake, don't you think?" "Janet, I'll be right back," said Tim as he hit line two. "Sorry Lillian, things are crazy here." "You know Brian has been video-recording the whole process? Isn't it amazing how small video-recorders are these days? Do you have one Tim?" "Ah, no. Look Lillian …" "I've been thinking about getting one. They're so cute. Brian has one of them little bitsy Sony Handycams. Sony is the best, isn't it?" "Lillian …" "At first I was afraid of them, all them lights and buttons and things. But Brian showed me how to work his. They aren't all that hard. I think I’d be better off getting a larger model than Brian's. It's a little tough trying to work all them small buttons with arthritic hands. Arthritis run in your family at all?" "Not that I'm aware of. I'll be right back." Tim hit line one. "Sorry Mom." "Busy?" "You could say that." "I won't keep you long. I just want you to be absolutely clear about my angel position. I'll be taking off to Santa Barbara and won't be able to talk to you about it until next week. Let me make it simple. I have the angel now. It's staying with me. I'll see it burned before handing it over to Troy." "That doesn't leave much room for compromise." "I'm through compromising. The angel is the straw that broke the camel's back." "This doesn't sound like you. Both you and Dad are acting a little nuts over some stupid hunk of wood." "Tough. I've reached my limit Tim. You’re just going to have to beat some sense into that father of yours." "I think you’re both being unreasonable. This thing is almost over. Don't let 32 years of marriage boil down to a fight over a wooden angel. It's rather ridiculous." "Tell that to Troy. Enjoy your weekend Tim." "Bye Mom," said Tim hitting line one. "Lillian, I'll see you tomorrow at 7:30." "Aren't you excited? I know Brian is. The movers will be bringing his van over to the Yacht House at around six. Remember the seminar will be in the Quartermaster's Room. We'll have a TV wired to run Brian's home purchase video. You're in it you know?" "Fantastic. Goodbye Lillian." "He has a recording of both your initial consultation and the loan application. Virgina is in it, most of my office, the girls at Ocean, your appraiser, what's his name, Jerry?" "Larry, Larry Wright." "That's right, Larry. How could I forget that?" "Lillian, I've …" "He's a nice person, quiet though." "Goodbye Lillian."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "I wonder if I could get him to talk at a future seminar?" "I'll see you tomorrow." Tim hit line four. "Janet?" "Can you come by the apartment?" "Sure, but I've got an appointment at six." "Can't you cancel it?" "I can't, I'm seeing The Post." "I'm sure something's wrong." "What do you mean?" "The blood samples." "Look Janet, face facts, you're never late." "I've been late before." "Rarely." "So?" "So, you're late and a lab says you’re pregnant. My guess is that you're probably pregnant." "I can't be." "Look, I'm going to drop by Vons and pick up a couple of tests. I'll be right over." "Are you mad?" "We'll talk when I get there." "You’re mad, aren't you?" "Janet, why should I be mad?" "You're mad." "I'm too much in shock to be mad." "You coming?" "Be right there." Tim took off his headset and tossed it on the desk. He was halfway out of the room when he remembered his briefcase. Returning to his desk, he noticed that his phone's voicemail button was blinking. He looked at the pager clipped on his belt. It was flashing crimson. He didn't remember having switched the pager to mute mode. He put on his headset and punched his voicemail number. "Tim, Frank Paulson. Looks like I missed you again. I'll be incommunicado until Monday. Call you then." Tim felt himself going numb, felt his neural pathways overloading and shutting down, felt reality becoming uncertain and puzzling. He took off his headset and began walking out of the loan rep room before returning to grab his briefcase. He nearly drove through a red light at the corner of Hawthorne and Artesia. In Vons he found himself in the frozen food section staring at microwaveable pot pies. Every Friday night growing up Mom would bake pot pies. They didn't have a microwave back then. It took about 45 minutes to bake them in a conventional oven. Carol and his dad preferred chicken, he and his mom turkey. It wasn't real meat but Worthington soybean substitute. Outside of the fish Dad caught, they had been strict vegetarians, ardent followers of Ellen G. White's health message. Tim didn't know how long he stared at the pot pies before leaving the cold of the frozen food section for aisle seventeen - the pharmaceutical and toiletry aisle. He grabbed two pregnancy tests next to a display case of Gillette shaving cream. The cream was on sale so he picked up a can of menthol. A thin girl with badly dyed blonde hair remained expressionless when Tim placed the shaving cream, a pint of Johnny Walker Red, and two pregnancy tests down in front of her register.

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Tyranda Ty watched Tim return to his desk, put his headset on, and hit his voicemail speed dial. Tim’s eyes were glazed and ghostly and he looked like a fish out of water. Ty watched as Tim left his desk only to return for his briefcase. Ty glanced at his watch; it was nearing 2:40. Vivian was usually home between three and five, relaxing before waiting tables at the Cheesecake Factory. She was probably lying on her bed listening to the Cole Porter tape he’d made for her. He sat at his desk and thought about her, naked except for a cotton CU Golden Buffalo's shirt, her long legs flowing like rivers of black silk out of the gray oversized shirt. He worked at his desk for another hour before getting up and walking out to Lena. He put his car's namesake, Lena Horne, into his cassette player. A cop car screamed past him as he pulled onto Hawthorne Blvd. Vivian lived in a three-story apartment complex in Playa Del Rey. As Ty drove up the small raised bluff he looked out towards LA. The city was a sea of smoke and smog. Burning buildings spread out in an orange and red archipelago, islands of flame in an ocean of discontent. He parked Lena and walked up to the lobby of the Del Rey Apartments. An elderly white woman exited the complex as Ty neared the intercom box. He decided to surprise Vivian by walking up to her apartment without ringing her. He put a hand against the heavy wooden door before it closed behind the elderly white woman. The woman looked nervous as Ty walked into the lobby without having had anyone buzz open the security door. She seemed ready to say something but changed her mind and walked on. Ty saw her standing on the curb looking back through the lobby's window as he waited for the elevator. Their eyes met. The woman quickly looked away. Ty shook his head and got in. Vivian shared an apartment with two flight attendants. Their apartment faced LA rather than the Pacific. The apartments facing the ocean were $300 more for the exact same three small rooms, crowded kitchen, and tiny living room. Vivian preferred having an extra $100 dollars a month. Ty stepped out of the elevator to a raised second story walkway that navigated a three-foot wide path above a rectangular inner courtyard. Vivian's apartment was in the southeast corner, and her room faced the courtyard and walkway. The drapes were closed. As he neared the window, Ty could make out Cole Porter. He smiled and thought of the oversized t-shirt. Doubt seeped into Ty's mind. Freedom and Paris were assailed by rumpled moonlit emptiness and silk legs flowing out of gray cotton. He hesitated on the walkway, stopped, and listened to Cole Porter. He put his left hand on a chocolate brown railing and shut his eyes. Opening them again he walked up to the window, his mind whirling with visions of Vivian and demons of doubt. Then a moan, a gasp, an unmistakable exclamation sounded above the taperecorded jazz. Cole Porter was being accompanied by a mad duet of frantic lovers. Ty put his ear to the window, hoping against the physical laws he’d learned in Mr. Glandestone's ninth grade science course that the sounds were some strange property of the glass itself, hoping that some bizarre resonance within molten sand was causing the screams and sighs and grunts. But the melodies of sex weren't a cosmic accident, weren't some freak of wind and glass. The sounds were human in origin, Vivian fucking another man.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels A fury awoke within Ty; an unreasoning wrath began to boil. He turned from the window, clutching the brown railing with both hands. A snarl exploded from his lips. He turned back again to the window and then back again to the railing. His body struggled against itself as anger warred with acceptance. He kicked at the painted pine railing, chocolate brown marks appearing on the front of his newly polished tan dress shoes. He turned and began to walk away from the window, away from Cole Porter, away from the illusion that had touched his soul, away from the bitch who had stolen his heart. With clenched teeth and fists, he forced one scuffed-up Italian shoe after the other to leave the scene of his betrayal. Ty was ten feet away from the window when laughter destroyed his will for movement. Something snapped within and his control crumpled. He picked up a combination ashtray/garbage can without knowing why, possessed by the need to alter the mocking normalcy of the moment. He flung the steel can down the walkway. Its chrome cap popped off its black body and its bowl for went flying down to the courtyard, white sand spreading out like a cloud of dandruff. He jumped on the can, smashing its cylindrical body with his chocolate brown, tan, ripped, torn, leather shoes. He picked up the destroyed can from the balcony walkway, fighting the impulse to hurl it through the window. Gripped by the need to destroy, the desire to break and hurt, he began a comic dance with the can, a slow passionate waltz of pain. He wanted the window shattered into a thousand pieces; wanted a fury of glass to hail down on Vivian and her lover; wanted sharp shards to cut and pierce and disfigure silk rivers; wanted to cut the mocking mischievous laughter out of Vivian's eyes. Ty lifted the can above his head. A roar rushed out of his soul, exploding past his throat, filling the courtyard with a thunderous testimony to his suffering. He whirled away from the window and tossed the smashed garbage can off the second story walkway. It fell down to the courtyard, skittered across the concrete, and came to a stop. When the hurling and skittering metallic can came to a stop, Ty felt weak with release, purified and drained by the act. He turned back towards the window. Emotions found words, flowing out in a loud and sure torrent. "Vivian," the word refocused Ty's universe. "Vivian, you fuck another man and preach commitment. You talk about soulness and I believe your shit. You talk about moving in together, about our relationship deepening and maturing and I believe your shit. I believed you Vivian. I believed you were something special only to find out you’re a bullshitting whore, a manipulating bitch." Ty turned from the window. A hallucination stood where the garbage can had once been. The hallucination's right arm rested on a chocolate brown railing, its fingertips drumming against the pine. Its eyes bored into Ty's, inflamed ebony pools devoid of any mocking mischievous laughter. "Nice shoes," said the hallucination. Ty looked down at his shoes, back up to the hallucination, back down to his shoes. He looked at the window. He looked at the hallucination. "Vivian?" "Don't explain." "But I …" "Don't." "I thought you were …" "I know what you thought." "Vivian, please," began Ty, moving towards Vivian, reaching out with a trembling hand. "Don't touch me." "O.K., but …"

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Just go." "O.K., I'll go. But not before I tell you why I came.” Vivian remained motionless and silent. Ty looked down at his mutilated shoes before continuing. "I was coming here to tell …” He stopped himself, looked pleadingly at Vivian, and began again. "I want you to move in. I want you to share your life with me. I came here to tell you that when I came across your window." "Michelle's window," said Vivian softly. "We traded rooms yesterday. She needed more outlets for her new computer. So we traded." "Oh shit !" said Ty. A brief eternity of silence engulfed them before he continued. "I want you to move in. I want you to move over to my place after we go to Paris. I talked to the people at Ted's Travel today. I nearly bought two tickets but decided to come and talk to you first. I came to take you to Paris for a few months. I came to share my dream with you only to find the nightmare of your…of Michelle's window. I'm so sorry." A tear slid down Vivian's check. She turned and looked out towards the courtyard. Ty reached out to brush away the tear. She took her hand from the railing and motioned him to come no further. "Please go," said Vivian in a small voice. "Vivian, I …" "Please go," repeated Vivian. "Can I call you?" Vivian shook her head. "Will you call me?" She nodded and walked past him. He watched her take her keys out of her purse, open the door, and disappear. He stood and stared at the door. The elderly white woman he’d met entering the complex brought him out of his trance. She hurried past him, quickly opening and closing her own door. He could hear her sliding home the deadbolt as he began to walk towards the elevator. Driving down from Playa Del Rey, Ty looked dumbly out at LA. No cassette was playing in Lena's tape deck, and he didn't notice that new islands had been added to the orange and red archipelago.

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Sherman Sherman fingered the clear speaker wire of his headset after hanging up on Sally for the sixth time in two hours. Maybe the pains were the real thing this time. He hit the speed dial button that rang his home. After one ring he stabbed the phone's clear button and his headset went dead. He couldn't afford to be jumping the gun every time Sally thought she was going into labor, not if he was going to beat Bobby-Fucking-Beckman. Sherman had spent the last two hours juggling his wife's fears while ironing out complications with the Lee doc signing caused by the riots that forced City View Escrow to close down. Sherman had called City View officer Tanya Porter after tracking down her home phone number. It had taken twenty minutes of pleading, threats, and bribes to get Tanya to agree to show up at the Lee's store at 7:00 for the doc signing and the notarization. It had taken nearly the same amount of time to convince Paul Lee to tear his wife away from her father's sickbed and get her to the store. Sherman removed the headset from his wig and picked up a funding report. Encino and Lawndale were neck and neck as they headed towards Monday's noon finishing line. He would need every loan to beat Beckman; both of Lee's investment properties and Manuel's four-plex had to go. He tossed the computer status report back onto his desk. Now that the Lees were straightened out, it was time to check up on Martinez. He decided to bypass Manuel and directly contact the people responsible for the outstanding funding requirements on the loan. Sherman started with Maria, a seamstress at a downtown mattress sweatshop. It took a while to convince the heavily accented man that answered at the factory to put Maria on the phone. She sounded scared but quite certain that she would be able to supply him with a current paycheck stub. And, when he called Tony’s apartment, his wife, another Maria, said they had all twelve months worth of cancelled rental checks. Neither Javier nor Raul, nor their wives, spoke any English, so Sherman had Tina come into his office to translate. They learned that Raul and Javier had taken off early from their work at a janitorial supply company and gone over to Jesus’s house. Jesus didn't have a phone. Sherman thanked Tina, excused her, and called American Steelworks. Manuel sounded nervous when he told Sherman that he’d track down Raul and Javier and have all the necessary loan items by nine o’clock. Sherman could imagine him staring at his steel-tipped work boots and picking at the scar on his left hand. After Manuel hung up, Sherman locked his door. The legwork on Lee’s tax returns took more time then he’d anticipated. The trick was not to make any mistake that would cause an underwriter to question the authenticity of the tax returns he was manufacturing. Nothing could conflict with anything in their loan files. It was 6:30 when Sherman left the office, and nearly 7:00 when he exited the Harbor Freeway and began the twelve-block drive to the 23rd Street Convenience Store. A few stores where being looted as he drove past, and a few were burning. A few had "Black Owned" painted across their storefronts. Men wielding fire hoses shot water at a corner store engulfed in flames. Two motorcycle cops and three squad cars protected the firemen from a taunting swarm of teenage spectators. As Sherman drove past, he noticed rocks and bottles in the youths’ hands. He accelerated quickly, wanting to leave the scene before anybody decided to target his car.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Sherman pulled up to the locked convenience store and joined escrow office Jones and the Lees in the store’s back storage room. After a half hour of signing docs, Tanya and Mrs. Lee left the store. Sherman thought of Nicole as he watched Tanya walk out of the room. Both Nicole and Tanya had the same feline strut of raw sexuality. "Know how to use that thing?" asked Sherman as Paul returned to the storage room's wooden table after locking the door behind the two women. The store's tin alley door was open but its iron-barred security gate was deadbolted. Sherman didn't want the tin door obstructing his view of his new Mercedes 500SEL. "Aim and pull the trigger, the buckshot does the rest," said Paul, looking at a shotgun resting against a column of stacked soda cases. "Ever fire a gun before?" "No." "Where'd you get it?" "Wayne Tung passed a few out this morning." "As in Wayne of Wayne's Donut Shop?" "Yeah." "Just how big of a posse did John Wayne Tung form?" "I think he passed out five or six. I know Billy Moon - the guy that owns the parts store across the street - took one." "Paul, if anything starts to go down while I'm here, you'd better let me handle the heavy artillery." "I just hope the National Guard hurries up and gets here before the riot spreads to my shop." "Weekend warriors do beat merchant vigilantes and donut dukes. Now, let’s get down to business. I want to be out of here by 8:30." "Certainly Mr. Peters," said Paul as he sat down. Sherman put a manila envelope containing the signed and sealed Lee documents into his briefcase. The desk was soon a clutter of tax returns, finalized 1003 photocopies, rough draft P&Ls, balance sheets, and pens. Sherman had Paul fill out an ‘89 blank tax return while he toyed with balance sheet numbers, so they’d correspond to the finalized loan application. They could hear sirens wailing and occasional bursts of gunfire as they sat around the wooden table and manufactured a fiscally sound Lee paper universe. As Paul was completing ‘91 tax returns, shattering glass could be heard in the distance. "Sounds close," said Paul. "Um", grunted Sherman. "Maybe I should go and take a look." "Finish first." Paul had the paperwork finished in five minutes. He said, "I'm going to go and poke my head outside." "Before you go and get your head shot off, sign this," said Sherman, taking a white piece of paper out of the typewriter Paul had borrowed from Ron Parks, owner of Citywide Office Rentals. Paul signed the completed P&L above his wife's signature. Sherman added, "Don't go outside if things have turned too crazy." "I'll be careful," said Paul, reaching down for the shotgun. "Leave it. If things have gotten to the point where you need John Wayne Tung's bazooka, come and get me. Always best to have a set of friendly eyes watching your back." Paul left the gun and exited the storage room. He returned a few minutes later. "Well?" asked Sherman. "Looks like things are escalating faster than I thought they would."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "What's up?" Sherman stopped ordering papers and looked up at Paul. Paul looked scared. "I think Art's Video Shop is burning." "That's only a few blocks away," said Sherman. "It's getting dark. This is going to be a bad night. I saw a couple of black kids running past Wayne's Donut Shop. I think one of them threw a rock at a window." "Where's John Wayne?" "Don't know," shrugged Paul. "Bet he’s ditched Dodge. We'd better saddle up and follow." "What about my shop?" "Got insurance?" "Yeah." "Well then screw the shop. It's a hell of a lot less important than your life." "The shop is my life." "Listen Paul, hang around here and you could get killed. It sounds like the riots are moving in. Why don't you just go paint ‘Black Owned’ in big letters across your storefront and call it a night." "Do what?" "As I drove over here, I noticed that most places with ‘Black Owned’ written on them were in fairly good shape. Got any paint and brushes around here?" "As a matter of fact I do." "Well then what are you waiting for?" "I guess it couldn't hurt anything," said Paul, walking to a far corner of the storage room and pulling out a can of paint. Sherman watched Paul leave the room before returning to his desk clearing. He’d organized things into files and begun putting them into his briefcase when a shotgun blast ripped apart the store's front window. He grabbed Wayne Tung's shotgun from the green and red striped column of Sprite and Coke cases. He switched off the lights and inched his way out of the storage room. Crouching low inside the shop, he moved slowly down an aisle of potato chips and candy bars. The shop's lights were out, but the white from a street lamp reflected off plastic fast-food wrappers and bits of broken glass. A man was standing over Paul. Sherman nearly blew him apart before making out that he was a middle-aged Korean, holding a shotgun stupidly in his right hand. "Billy Moon, Wayne Tung, or some other Korean cowboy?" asked Sherman as he walked out of the store. Surprisingly the door had retained its glass through the shooting. "Billy Moon," said Billy Moon. "Is he dead?" "Let's take a look." Billy Moon didn't look like he could do anything other than stand stupidly holding a shotgun. Sherman felt Paul's pulse, lifted one of his closed eyelids, and listened to his breathing. "Shouldn't we call an ambulance or something?" asked Billy. "Look around you cowboy. Ambulances don't make speedy house calls in war zones. What the hell happened?" "I saw this guy messing around with Paul's storefront. I didn't know the guy was Paul." "So you shot without questioning?" "No, that's not what happened at all. I see somebody messing with Paul's shop. I decide to investigate. I didn't know it was Paul. Then I see these two black boys rounding the corner. One's got a gun in his hand and says to Paul, 'Hey funny looking nigger, what kind of game you playing?' Then the friend points at me and the boy with the gun starts aiming it at me. I panicked and fired."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "There's your gun," said Sherman, pointing to something lying on the street about ten feet from the store. "Oh shit!" said Billy Moon, picking up a harmonica from the street. "Go get your car. Time you drive Paul to the hospital." "He's going to be all right?" "I think so. Was he standing on that chair over there when you shot him?" "Yeah, why?" "I think he fell off when you shot him and that's why he's knocked out. The nasty bruise on the side of his head supports my theory. Looks like his ass took most of the buckshot. Now hurry up and bring your car over and get him to the hospital." "I can't." "What do you mean, you can't? Go get your fucking car." "My brother just took off in it. He'll be an hour." "Shit!" bellowed Sherman, looking at his watch; 8:45. He'd just make it to Manuel by nine if he drove straight over. "Now listen to me Billy-boy. You listening?" "Yes. What is your name?" "Peters, Sherman Peters. Now listen. Go to your shop and get any heavy plastic you can find. I don't want blood getting all over my new car. You've got plastic, strong plastic?" "Yes." "Well bring a shitload. Enough to cover the whole of my back seat three times over. Got it?" "Yes." "And while you're at it, grab some duct tape and any cloth towels you can find. And bring a knife, a big one." "All right." "Move it Billy! Let's get him out of here before any more harmonica-wielding hoodlums show up." Billy wasn't long in returning with the requested items. Paul had opened his eyes and begun to moan before passing out again. Probably in shock, thought Sherman, as he taped cloth strips around Paul's wound as a compress. He followed with a few wraps of thick black plastic. They then rolled Paul onto a sheet of triple thick plastic. Each took an end of the plastic stretcher and lifted him up. They walked the stretcher through the store and storage room, setting Paul down next to Sherman's Mercedes. While Sherman lined his back floorboard and seats with the plastic, Billy fished Paul's keys out of his bloodstained pockets and locked up the store. When Billy came back they wrestled Paul into the back seat. Sherman drove out of the alley and turned left onto Jefferson Street. "Isn't King the other way?" asked Billy from the back seat. "We aren't going to King." "Isn't it the closest hospital around?" "We're going to Saint Mary's." "Saint Mary's?" "Their emergency room is better," said Sherman, taking out his car phone and punching in Manuel's number. "Manuel?" It wasn't Manuel. He had to wait another two minutes before Manuel came to the phone. "Manuel, I'm going to be at your house in ten minutes. Do you have everything?" "Javier and Raul haven't stopped by yet." "Manuel, I don't have time to fuck around. Where are they?" "I don't know, but their wives said they had everything." "That won't do a shit of a lot of good if they don't bring the stuff over. Have you talked to them today?"

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "I've tried to Mr. Peters." "That sounds like a ‘no’ to me. Listen Manuel. Get the shit. I'm driving through riots just to meet you, just to help you. Get the shit or forget the loan. I'll be there in eight minutes." They passed a burning Pioneer Chicken as Sherman clicked off the phone. He slowed through a red light and then punched the accelerator. Chaotic whirling blue and red lights suddenly came into view. Cop cars blocked the street ahead. Sherman rolled his window down as he approached an officer. "Evening officer," said Sherman. "Not the best night to be out. Specially in a car like this," said the officer. He then noticed Paul in the back seat and added, "Holy Shit!" "I've got to get to a hospital. I'm a doctor and this man is dying. He'll be dead if I don't get him to a hospital in fifteen minutes." "Sir, you can't go this way." "Listen officer, if I don't go, this man dies." "I understand doc, but if you go down this street you'll all die. They got some crazy kids shooting machine guns out there. The situation is way out of control. Turn around and take him to King. I can't let you go this way." "Um," grunted Sherman, rolling up his window while hitting a button that opened his sunroof. He switched on his Blauplaunkt and found a station playing rap as he put the car into reverse and backed up. Without warning he slammed the car into gear and punched the gas. The screeching sounds of burning rubber on cement filled the night as Sherman shot past the astonished officers and their three patrol cars. He flipped the volume on the Blauplaunkt to the maximum and began honking his horn. Two blocks into his mad ride, he noticed a knot of young men with machine guns appear out of a looted store. He was thankful that he’d let the Mercedes salesman talk him into tinted windows. The knot of young men couldn't see him; they could only see a new 500SEL pulsating rap and honking its horn. The knot of young men cheered as Sherman roared by. A few shot their guns into the air in tribute. It was a little past nine when they pulled into Manuel's apartment complex. He approached as Sherman hit the power window button. "Two items or four?" asked Sherman. "Two," said Manuel, handing the envelope through the window. "What about the other two?" "Javier and Raul haven't come by yet. You having some kind of problem?" "Problem?" asked Sherman. Manuel nodded towards the back seat. As if on cue, Paul suddenly moaned and twitched his blood-matted head. "No problem, he's just another client." "Oh," said Manuel, his eyes going wide. "Any idea where they could be, any idea at all?" "Not really." "Tell me your ‘not really’ idea." "Every month or so, Raul's cousin Manuel puts on a cock fight. Javier and Raul are crazy for chickens but I'm sure they would have swung by here before going to the fights." "How far to cousin Manuel's Pollo Loco party?" "Not far, five minutes maybe." "Get in." Manuel got in. From the back Billy Moon asked, "What about Paul?" "Don't worry about Paul. I'm sure the cockfight is on the way to Saint Mary's. It is, isn't it Manuel?"

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Manuel made a head movement somewhere between a nod and a shake and began picking at the scar on his left hand. He gave directions as they drove. He took them to an abandoned warehouse. The cockfight was in full swing as Sherman and Manuel walked in. Upwards of ninety frenzied men were crowded around a twentyfoot diameter circle cursing and screaming in Spanish. Javier and Raul were on the far side of the ring, up front, eyes glued to the bloody struggle, green bills clenched in their fists. Sherman watched as Manuel approached them. They brushed Manuel aside, ignoring his shouts, their eyes locked on the whirling death clash. Sherman had had enough. He walked around the circle and grabbed Javier and Raul by their shirt collars, pulling them roughly away from the ring. He dragged them across the dimly lit warehouse and tossed them against a wooden wall. A big man wearing a straw hat followed them over to the wall. He looked inquiringly at Sherman, his arms crossed over a beer-swollen stomach nearly as massive as Sally's child-expanded belly. Sherman told him in bad Spanish that the two had failed to deliver something they owed him. The man looked slowly from Italian shoes to bullet head topped by black wig, taking in brutal hands, expensive suit, and lethal eyes along the way. He shrugged and left them to their business. Javier began rattling in Spanish. "He says the paid collection paper is in Jesus's truck," said Manuel. "Let's go to Jesus's truck," said Sherman. They left the cockfight and walked out to Jesus's 1973 GMC pickup. The paper was in the glove compartment. "What about Raul?" asked Sherman. Manuel turned to Raul and a violent argument in Spanish erupted. "Does he have it?" asked Sherman. "No," said Manuel. "Can he get it?" "He doesn't know." Sherman absorbed the information, scratched his wig and said, "Manuel, after we drop by Saint Mary's, we're going to pay a visit to Raul's apartment. Raul will have one of two things for us. Either his green card or somebody's green card along with passport-size photos of himself. If he doesn't have either of these items when we get there, I will personally burn his apartment down. Ask him if he understands." They talked. Raul understood. Sherman and Manuel got back into the Mercedes. Paul began to moan as they drove off. He was still moaning ten minutes later as they entered Saint Mary's Emergency. After Paul was brought inside and attended to, Sherman and Manuel drove off, leaving Billy Moon at the hospital. Green card and passport photos were produced at Raul's apartment. The green card was of a different Raul Ramirez, but the number wasn't too far off, not more than a ten-minute cut-and-paste job. Sherman left Manuel at the apartment and drove down riot hemorrhaging streets to the 710. Once safely on the Long Beach Freeway, he got out his phone and punched Nicole's home number. "Hello," came Nicole's voice. "Need to work on the Blackmont file." "I could do with some Blackmontizing myself." "Can I come over?" "No, my sister’s staying the night." "Let's work on the Blackmont file at the office." "Isn't that a bit dangerous?" "You bet it is. Real dangerous. I'm going to spread the file across my desk and get down and dirty with it." "I'll be there at eleven."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Be wearing something satin that I can tear to pieces." "Easy bad boy. See you at eleven." "I'll be there and ready to tear," said Sherman before hanging up. They’d been having sex, on and off, for the last three years. Charles Blackmont was a sex therapist they’d done a jumbo re-fi for and ‘Blackmont’ had become their code word for fucking. They got sexually entangled two years before the Blackmont file, back when Sally and he had briefly separated. That was the funny thing. Sally moved in with her mother because she erroneously thought he was sleeping around. But he’d been strictly monogamous since saying their vows in front of her preacher cousin. Sally stayed three weeks with her mother before moving back in. During that brief separation he’d met Nicole at one of Winnie's parties. She caught him eyeing the curves of Winnie's ass. Nicole coyly confronted Sherman with his Winnie lust and they flirted the night away. He ended up taking her to a hotel. The sex had been savage and tender, a rhythmic explosion that shocked and amazed them both. Sherman took the 710 to the 91 to the 405. According to Sherman’s walnut dashboard clock, it was 10:55 when he exited the Santa Monica Freeway. It was a little past eleven when he drove to the back of the office complex and parked. He didn't want anyone seeing his or Nicole's car out front. Sherman parked next to Nicole's Nissan Maxima, hardening at the thought of her in the office. She was next to the hallway coffee maker when he walked into the office. She was wearing a multi-colored flower sundress "The coffee will be done soon. Want a cup?" asked Nicole. "I think I'll skip coffee and go straight for the brown sugar." "We're out of sugar, I guess you're going to have to settle for black." Sherman grabbed the coffee counter, his mammoth hands around her slender waist. He leaned his hardness into the spring flowers of her sundress, gyrating slowly against the cotton blossoms. "As long as we've got cream, I can live without sugar. We got any cream, sugar?" "Before we get too creamy, I've got to warn you to never pull that shit you pulled today. It really pissed me off." "What shit?" "Don't get all innocent with me. You know what shit. I'll shut up about you framing Harry, but don't expect me to follow along. And don't ever use me like that again. You understand?" "You're beautiful when you’re pissed off." "No bullshit Peters. This is me you're talking to." "O.K., O.K.." "I'm not going to bring up charges against Harry." "I don't get you Nicole. Why do you suddenly give a fuck about Harry? You've never liked him." "Look Peters, I don't play those race and sex cards unless the game is real. You got that?" "Do whatever you want. But if somebody from corporate asks about Harry, can you just say you've had a change of heart. Jesus knows you could nail his ass to the race and sex tree and it would all be true. The old fart's got a big mouth." "Peters, here's what I’ll do. I won't deny that I brought up the charge that I didn't bring up. But as of now, the charges that I never brought up are officially dropped." "I can live with that. Baluchistani by itself should be more than enough to fry Harry's ass. I was just looking for insurance."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Well consider your insurance policy cancelled. And while we're at it, tell me something. How did you know about Baluchi-whatever-stan and all that silk road and stars shit?" "I'm a sucker for romance," said Sherman, restarting his spring blossom gyrations. "Peters." "I stumbled across the info when researching Pakistan. I was looking into Pakistan when I started getting chummy with Frank Baluchistani. I've been preparing for a long time to fire Harry and steal his best real estate agent from him." "You are an evil, evil man." "Let me show you just how evil," said Sherman, picking up Nicole and carrying her to his office door. With Nicole entwined around his waist, Sherman fished his key out of his pocket and opened the door. He didn't bother to turn on the lights as he rushed Nicole to his desk. Cloth springtime vanished into satin. Lust rioted through veins as tongue found tongue and breast and curve of thigh. Sherman's hardness tore into satin, plunging into burning flesh.

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Harry Something just wasn't right, thought Harry, as he tossed an olive-sized onion into his vodka martini and walked from his kitchen to his backyard deck. He sipped, his mind smoldering with white-hot anger as he looked out towards LA and thought over the Baluchistani events. He bit off the end of a Kenji Yakamoto cigar, chewing bitterly at its almond colored butt as he lit it. The skyscrapers of downtown were lost in a dirty haze grayer than the cigar smoke. When did Sherman get the time to talk to corporate? Was Cliff White really dropping by on Monday? Did Sherman really have a signed testimony from over fifteen witnesses? Did the envelope really contain what Sherman said it did? After finishing his cigar, Harry walked into the house and got his cordless phone. Walking back out to the deck he dialed California Gold's legal department in San Diego. "California Gold Legal, may I help you?" asked a receptionist. "Cliff White please," said Harry. "I'm sorry but he isn't in. Would you like his voicemail?" "How about Sharon Vance? Is she in?" "She's on another line. Would you like her voicemail?" "No, I'll hold." While on hold, he walked back into the house and made another martini. He was returning to the balcony when Sharon came on the line. "Sharon Vance." "Sharon, I just made myself a vodka gibson and couldn't help thinking of you." Sharon was Cliff White’s executive assistant. They were friends from various Cal. Gold functions over the years. At the last Christmas party they’d both gotten a little too drunk. She’d knocked a martini onto his blazer. "Isn’t Thursday a little too early to be starting your weekend drinking?” "You can never start too early." "Monday wouldn't be a bad place to start." "Speaking of Monday, I hear Cliff is going to be dropping by our office on Monday. I was wondering if he could bring a few of the new program guidelines with him." "Better check your sources. Cliff flew to Loreto yesterday. I think he’s in Mexico until Tuesday." "Must have gotten my wires crossed. Oh well, thanks Sharon." "No problem Harry, and have a martini for me." "I'll save you the onion." "You do that." "Bye Sharon." "Bye Harry." Harry stood on his deck and played with the phone's collapsible antenna. He pulled it out to its full length and pushed it back to its half-inch storage position while pacing back and forth on the deck. He stopped and rang Ted's Travel. Posing as somebody with Cal. Gold's legal department he called South Bay Dental, Lawndale Escrow, and All-State Insurance. He questioned receptionists about last evening's proceedings, slipping in inquiries as to whether anybody else had contacted them about the Harry Haroldson/Bernie Baluchistani matter. Nobody had been contacted. Sherman was up to something. Harry thought about calling Frank but decided that would be too rash. He needed to cool down and get a better grasp on what was really going on before contacting Baluchistani.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels He glanced at his watch; 3:20. He headed to the cellar and uncorked a bottle of port. Setting it on his desk he took out another cigar. As he relaxed into his leather chair, he let his mind wander with the smoke that drifted up past the Bear Militia flag and the gun display. Sipping the port, he began thinking of Hank. He was tempted to take out the black and white photo of them laughing and drinking beer together, but decided against it. He thought of the war and Hank until his glass was empty and his cigar extinguished. He sat in the emptiness of the cellar and made a paper jet fighter out of a Bear Militia pamphlet. He tossed it and watched it sail away, disappearing behind a wine rack. It was past five when he came out of the cellar and made focaccia with minestrone. Natalie got home at six and they ate shortly afterwards. She asked if he was going to spend the night on the boat and he nodded his head. Little else was said. At eight he returned to the cellar, got out a bottle of Pinot, and thought about the file Sherman said could cost him his job. Did the envelope really have anything in it besides Arnie's tape? By nine the bottle was half-empty and Harry was obsessed with knowing the contents of that envelope. It wouldn't take much to pick Sherman's desk and office door locks. Then he’d know more about the game Sherman was playing. After his afternoon phone calls, he doubted there was any signed testimony that 15 people had witnessed him using racial slurs against Bernie. At twenty past ten, Harry locked the cellar door and headed to his Explorer, having decided to swing by the office on his way to Pacific Pride. It shouldn’t take more than five minutes to sneak into Sherman's office and take a look at the file. At this time of night, and with the riots going on, nobody from the office complex would be around. Still, not wanting to take any changes of being seen, he parked a half a block away from Cal. Gold, in the back of a Pizza Hut. Things seemed unnaturally calm. He sensed danger. He reached over to his hollowed-out Revised Standard Bible and took out the Smith and Wesson. He placed the gun into a small leather holster he’d designed himself. It fit nicely into the small of his back. He left his long sleeve cotton shirt untucked to cover his waist and hide the gun. It was 10:55 when Harry successfully picked Sherman's office door lock. He kept the lights off, working with a small black Maglite. Sherman's desk lock wasn't any harder to pick than the office door and Harry soon had the envelope Sherman had waved at him in the morning. He opened it. Mathas's tape dropped onto the desk. Nothing else was in the envelope. Harry knew better than to be surprised. As he was putting the tape back into the envelope, he heard somebody walk down the hall and begin making coffee. "Shit!" he said to himself, softly closing the desk cabinet. He felt foolish in the dark holding the small Maglite. He was calm despite the adrenaline exploding like napalm inside him. He’d been on too many missions with Hank to let adrenaline worry him. Accept, remain calm, breathe. Harry switched off the Maglite and concentrated on breathing. "The coffee will be done soon, want a cup?" The voice was Nicole's. "I think I'll skip coffee and go straight for the brown sugar." The voice was Sherman's. Harry listened to their conversation, anger surging through his body when Sherman told of his plan to steal Frank Baluchistani away from him. He had to grab at his hands to keep from going for the gun. He heard a key being inserted into a lock and then Sherman’s office door flew open. The Wig charged in with Nicole entwined about his waist. He flung her on his desk and mounted like a wild beast. Harry saw his chance for escape and crawled out of the room. Unlocking the back door, Harry headed through the courtyard, taking no chances on being spotted returning to his truck. He passed through the back

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels walkway and stopped at the sight of Sherman's new Mercedes. The car was a vivid reminder of Sherman's wolfish grin, his deceit and treachery, his manipulation of Nicole, and his callous disregard for Harry’s pension. Caution was burned in whitehot fury. The car was The Wig and Harry needed to hurt and destroy it. He took out his gun and pumped six shots into the shiny new blue sedan. The first bullet blew off the hood ornament. The second shattered the windshield and tore through the driver’s leather headrest. The third and forth ripped through the grille, rupturing the radiator, ricocheting off the engine. The fifth took out the driver’s side window. The sixth took out the back window. Harry calmly holstered his gun, walked to his Explorer, and drove down to Pacific Pride.

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Tim The blue dot on both pregnancy tests had turned a deeper red than the label on the whiskey bottle at Tim's feet. He swirled Johnny Walker and thought of the tests. The scotch whirled around, ice clinking against the sides of the crystal glass. He felt as powerless as those spinning ice cubes. He sat in a wicker chair on Janet's balcony, looking across a broad street to the balcony of a unit in another apartment complex. Janet was inside watching the riots on TV. Tim finished his scotch and walked inside. Janet switched off the riots with her remote control. "I've got to go." "The Post?" "Yeah." "Come back. I don't want to be alone tonight." "O.K.," said Tim as he walked out. The Post lived in an unremarkable white stucco house in an unremarkable Hawthorne neighborhood. He held an unremarkable job - mail carrier. But William T. Lincoln, or The Post, as most referred to him, was the most remarkable man Tim had ever met. Tim parked in front of The Post's house and took an envelope containing twenty crisp $100 bills out of his briefcase. He put the envelope into a gym bag that he’d taken out of the trunk. He’d changed into jeans and a polo shirt at Janet's apartment. "Come on in," said The Post, opening his front door. "You want to kick up your feet and relax a bit or get right to it?" "Right to it," said Tim as he entered Willy's house. Tim followed Willy to the backyard, which was huge, comprising four legal plots of land. It held over thirty citrus trees, a mammoth jacuzzi under an intricately carved gazebo, and half a basketball court. They headed straight to the basketball court. Tim took a UCLA Bruins t-shirt and a pair of shorts out of his gym bag and changed into them. He walked onto the court and The Post threw him the basketball. He took a shot with his high-tops just inside the court's three-point line. The ball barely hit the rim, no backspin, no follow-through, no wrist control. Willy grabbed the rebound and bounced it back. Tim walked up to the free throw line and bounced the ball a few times. He held it for a moment, feeling its leather seams with his fingertips, visualizing the proper motion. The ball bounced around the rim and fell out. He was pushing the ball, no snap in the wrist. Willy tossed the ball back again. Tim focused on the net, clearing his mind of everything but the motion. The ball arced cleanly though the basket. They practiced for a few minutes before playing Horse. Willy took four out of five games. When they switched to 21, Tim took two out of three games. It felt good to sweat and grunt and run and see the ball arcing through the net. It felt good not to think about tit-jobs and abortion, fatherhood and Frank's unexpected phone call, and teak angels and Positive Wealth Seminars. Tim always forgot, in the hustle and effort of playing 21 against The Post, that he was playing against a 53-year-old man. Willy's mail carrier legs would not look out of place on a collegiate athlete. After the third game of 21, they headed to the showers. The Post used the shower inside his house, Tim the one in the small bathhouse next to the gazebo. Showered, Tim sat shirtless on one of the gazebo’s three benches set around a round table. He scanned the row of books in the small glass cabinet that protected whatever The Post was currently studying against the moisture from the jacuzzi.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Books by Spinoza, Neitzche, and Sartre were sandwiched between a book of baseball statistics and a volume on race and perception by an author Tim had never heard of. "Beer, fruit juice, mineral water, are all in the gazebo fridge," yelled Willy from the house. "Grab yourself something and fire up the jacuzzi. I got a phone call to take care of. It'll take about five minutes. Go ahead and jump in." "Thanks, I'll have a beer. Take your time." Tim took the cash envelope out of his gym bag, slid open the bookcase's glass window, and set it between Spinoza and Sartre. Along with $2000, the envelope contained a computerized breakdown of The Post's current referrals. Tim grabbed a bottle of Bohemia from the miniature fridge and climbed into the hot tub. He opened the beer and hit the button starting the jets. He leaned against a jet and tried not to think. Basketball hadn't cured his itch to run. It had been too many days since he’d jogged, since receiving the therapy of lung strain and foot pounding. He’d have to run tomorrow after the Positive Wealth Seminar. He watched a pair of sparrows playing in the citrus trees, chasing each other from orange tree to lemon tree, flirting around the base of a plum tree, and becoming lost in a grapefruit tree. He envied the birds in their thoughtless flight, their constant movement, their ability to disappear from the city in the foliage of a grapefruit tree. "How's work?" asked The Post, as he walked up the gazebo steps and joined Tim in the tub. "Hectic Willy T., real hectic." It had taken nearly six visits for Tim to switch from using Mr. Lincoln in addressing The Post, to using his preferred form of address - Willy T. He’d met Willy two and a half years ago as the result of an up-call. He’d been the only loan officer present when The Post called in for some information and Virgina patched him to his extension. He’d met The Post that same day to do a cash-out refinance on his personal property so he could purchase a tract of vacant land on Dalton Street. In the course of doing the loan, Tim discovered that The Post had a profound grasp of philosophy, science, history, politics, and religion. He also held nearly a hundred pieces of investment property in the LA area and was a millionaire several times over. Since their first meeting, Tim came to The Post's home at least once every two weeks. They played basketball and had long jacuzzi discussions. Somehow Willy T. learned about Tim's problem refinancing his mother's equity- poor condo and offered to take a silent second on the property despite his mother's shaky credit and relatively low income. If it weren’t for The Post, Tim’s mother would have been forced to sell the place. "I suppose the addition of Mrs. Washington to your workload doesn't make your life any easier," said Willy, cracking open a bottle of beer. "She does add a little spice to my day." "She's one hot little chili pepper." "Steaming hot. She call you today?" "Just got off the phone with the steaming pepper." "Oh?" "She's of the persuasion that you're not respecting her. That you white collars at the bank are out to shame her man on account of the color of his skin." "You can usually play the race card with some degree of success in the mortgage game. Unfortunately her Tyrone isn't exactly the ace of spades." "I told her something along those lines. I know Tyrone." "What was her reaction?" "About what I expected. She ranted about injustice and slavery and hinted that I was turning into an Uncle Tom. I told her to forget Tyrone or forget the re-fi." "And?"

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "And she'll do the re-fi. She didn't say so but I know she will. I know she will because I know the game she's playing. I'm sure that when she called you at work, and then me just now, Tyrone was within earshot. She wants Tyrone to know how hard she is working to get him on the loan and just how bad we think he is." "I don't follow." "Mrs. Washington doesn't want Tyrone anywhere near the security of her home. Tyrone is probably fighting tooth and nail to get his paws on her equity. I'm sure that when it comes time to add him on title after the re-fi, she'll come up with some reason to keep him off. If she was so fired up about giving Tyrone respect, she would’ve put him on title herself years ago. I'd bet money and give odds that she'd divorce his ass before putting him on title." "She sure fooled me." "While we're on the subject of mortgages, I'll need you to drop by sometime next week to handle a purchase for me. Give Peter Bird a call at Century 21 Lawndale. He's handling the transaction and can give you the details." "9350 Dalton by any chance?" "How'd you guess?" Grinned The Post. "That's the last piece of the Western and Century Blvd. puzzle. Now you own everything in a four-block square. With its mixed-use zoning, a huge chunk of land like that has many interesting possibilities." "Many possibilities Tim, many indeed." "Some interesting books on the shelf," said Tim after a brief silence following beer gulps. "Yeah, The Complete Encyclopedia of Baseball Facts does make for some deep contemplation. I pull out Spinoza when the baseball book gets too heavy." "It does look heavy. Five pounds would be my guess. How's the race and perception book?" "Good, real good. With the trial and riots and all, it's an issue I've become rather absorbed with." "You should have been over for the sermon at Harry's gumbo party last night. Harry had over that Daniel Brown guy that I’ve told you about before. "Our California Bear Militia friend?” "That's the one. What’s so scary is how logical the guy seems to be, so calm and rational.” "What did he say this time? Give me a rundown of his sermon?” Tim told The Post about the previous night's discussion, about the lack of black cultural and intellectual achievement as an empirically demonstrable fact, about the development of ex-colonial countries along racial lines. He stopped talking to grab two more beers out of the fridge, handing a Budweiser to The Post. He took a long pull from his Bohemia before relaying Daniel's thoughts on race and crime, before explaining how he correlated natural selective forces in canines with intellectual differences between races. "Interesting," said The Post when Tim had finished. "How much of what he said did you buy?" "Not much. Still, how do you answer a guy like that?” “I think Daniel already has his answers. Nothing you say is going to change his mind.” “I agree, but I’d like to hear what you would have said had you been at the party.” "Pass the Tabasco. I like a lot of the stuff in my gumbo." "After spicing up your gumbo, how would you have handled Daniel?" “So, now that you’ve heard the racist sermon, you want my sermon?” “Something like that.”

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Well, first of all, his ideas are nothing new. He’s borrowed heavily from Galton and a certain lawyer named Lothrop Stoddard who liked to pine about the passing of white barbarians, while warning the world that it was being swamped by primitive, low-grade, black blood. I would have begun by expounding upon some of the ideas that people came up with in debating Galton and Stoddard." "What were some of those ideas?" "Cooley's baseball observations are a good place to start." "Baseball?" "Yeah, baseball. Around the turn of the century an obsession for racial purity began in certain circles. Daniel’s reasoning that the lack of black achievements denotes certain innate intellectual deficiencies springs from this period. Galton, Darwin's cousin and father of eugenics, wrote at great lengths about the comparative worth of different races. He based worth on the number of eminent geniuses in a given race - the assumption being that more geniuses means more worth, and the number of a race’s intellectual or artistic geniuses is a reflection of all its members. A corollary inference is that if the highest stratum of one race is superior to the highest of another race, then the superiority holds at all levels. If race A's ablest produce more geniuses than race B's, then the general ability of race A's average man would be higher than race B's, and race A's idiots would be smarter than race B's. Sound familiar?" "Sounds like a repeat of Daniel all right. But how does baseball fit into the picture?" "Writing in the 1890's, in response to Galton's theories of racial worth, Charles Cooley, a University of Michigan sociologist, turned to baseball to help illustrate the relationships between fame, genius, and race. He pointed out that it is quite probable that, from time to time, a Frenchman might be born with a genius for baseball. However, he would live in ignorance of his own ability because baseball is not a social institution in France like it is in America, where we learn the game as kids, worship and follow those few that make it to The Show, and in our old age study arcane statistics of the sport for hours under our gazebo.” "To illustrate how men of genius have appeared throughout history, Cooley turned to a river analogy. In so doing he called into question Galton's race rankings. Galton had come up with a ranking system that placed the Athenian Greeks of Socrates’ era on the top rung. The bottom rung was reserved for myself and other Negroes whom he regarded as warm-hearted virile dancers given to jabbering and uncontrollable passions. He ranked his contemporary Englishmen in the middle of the scale.” Tim remained silent, as The Post paused and stood up in the jacuzzi. He was used to The Post’s lengthy periods of silence as he gathered his thoughts. After pacing back and forth a few times, he sat back down and continued talking. “Cooley viewed the whole ranking scale as illogical and rather ridiculous. If men of genius reflected their race as a whole, why didn't one race continually spit out eminent men throughout history? The Athenian Greeks of genius were around for only a brief wink of a hundred years or so before fading from the historical scene. If an abundance of genius denotes racial superiority, why do different races seem to produce them only at certain times? The reason, to Cooley, was the same reason why no Frenchman has made it to The Show. Natural ability needs a social mechanism in order to be effective. The cultural, religious, and social environment of a given milieu is the selective soil men of possible genius are cast into by birth. "Cooley’s river analogy points out that genius could be present but fame absent. In this analogy a man is measuring the breath, depth, and current of a river at various points as it passes through a valley of great environmental diversity. Sometimes the current is swift, other times sluggish. Sometimes the river is broad

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels and deep, other times shallow and narrow. At one point it disappears entirely, running underground, only to reappear a mile or so down the valley. Race he saw as such a river, sometimes producing large amounts of eminent men, sometimes not, depending on the twists and turns of cultural and social conditions.” "It would have been a long dinner party with you present," said Tim. "What would you have said to his conclusions about race and crime?" "I wouldn't deny the real problems these statistics reflect concerning the black community. I think throwing in the Cooley River might be helpful. Substitute geniuses with criminals. Sometimes cultural and other environmental factors produce plants stunted in their growth, plants that turn to robbing others of sunshine and nutrients." "I take it that black criminals are stunted plants." "Nutrient deprived would be the more politically correct term," said The Post with a grin, taking a gulp of Bud. "Let's take this soil/seed thing and play with it a bit. Suppose you were a gardener producing tomato plants. In your experience, tomato seeds without black stripes produce superior plants to seeds with black stripes. Which seeds would you use?" "Stripeless ones." "Now let's say you’re a police officer in South Central LA. You know from experience and statistics that in this area young black men are ten times more likely to be involved in crime than young white men. Who are you going to be more suspicious and wary of, a young white man or a young black man?" "The young black man." "Is this being racist or a prudent gardener?" "I don't know." "Two couples come to your office to get a mortgage to buy a house. One couple is white, the other black. Whom would you rather have as a client without knowing anything about either couple?" "The white ones." "Because experience has taught you that blacks tend to have worse credit than whites, less income, and thus a higher chance of being denied a loan. Is this racist?" "What do you think?" "I think racism has many different degrees. To deny that various groups can have certain negative stereotypical characteristics is being rather naive. I think you, the gardener, and the police officer in our examples, are all making negative judgments and discriminating. It would be unnatural to do otherwise. But because something is natural and understandable, it doesn't follow that it is just and fair." "So are we all racists?" "I think it depends on the reasons for your thoughts and the actions you take. Let's say that in 95% of soils, striped seeds actually perform better than non-striped tomato seeds. Our gardener just happened to be working in a plot of land deficient in the nutrient needed for striped seeds to perform up to their innate ability. If he moves to a new plot of land, rich in all needed nutrients, but still maintains the superiority of stripeless seeds, after being shown evidence to the contrary, he is a seed bigot and a lousy gardener.” The Post cupped his hand in bubbly jacuzzi water, running the hot liquid through his hair as he continued. "Same with our South Central L.A.P.D. officer. If he moves to some town where blacks are less likely than whites to be criminals, but still maintains the same assumptions, he is a racist and a lousy cop. Same if you pulled a credit report and found out the black couple had superior credit but still choose to favor the white couple." Tim said, "No wonder Mrs. Washington is calling you an Uncle Tom."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "That's the problem Tim. Everybody seems to have gotten so tripped up in labels and group solidarity that they aren't listening to what they or others are really saying. Blacks in America today are no more the helpless victims of a historic and systemic persecution that explains away all individual shortcomings, than they are a genetic subspecies. We haven't reached Martin's dream, but we have been heading in the right direction." "Are we still headed in the right direction?" "I hope so. I believe that some day reasonable people will view skin color as biologically meaningless, and race as a clumsy grouping of people sharing similar geographical origins in the distant past. Americans really are more like Harry's gumbo than a bunch of separate racial dishes." "Sounds good," said Tim, "but I'm still going to discriminate against white boys when it comes to choosing a team of players to run B down at the park." "And I'd discriminate against blacks if I had to pick a hockey team without holding try-outs", said The Post. "But, who knows, maybe the black Larry Bird of hockey would materialize if ice rinks started becoming popular in the ‘hood." "Maybe," said Tim. "Want a beer?" "Sure, make it a Bohemia this time." Tim grabbed two Bohemias from the fridge. He looked at his watch as he reentered the jacuzzi; 9:15. "Need to be going?" asked The Post. "In ten minutes or so. I'm afraid I can't do one of our midnight spa sessions tonight." "Before I forget, one item of business. Bump the overage to one and a quarter. I want to increase my referral tax to a full three-quarters. The extra O should cover your costs." "Seventy five basis points it is. When do you want me to come by for Dalton Street?" "Why don't you bring Janet and we'll all have dinner together. I'll cook you some authentic African- American cuisine - barbecued chicken and watermelon. For a skinny white girl, your Janet sure can put away the chicken." "Maybe." "What do you mean, maybe? Janet loves my chicken. You two having problems?" "Not really." "You don't sound very convincing. What's up?" "You don't want to know." "Tim, the second I mentioned Janet you looked burdened by the weight of the world. Maybe you should give the old Atlas a shrug. Talking might help." "I don't know." Tim knew he couldn't keep anything from The Post, knew that Willy T. was perhaps the only human on the planet that he could share his anxiety with. Before he knew it, Tim had told the whole tit job/pregnancy story. When he was done talking, they sat in silence and drank beer. "What are you going to do?" asked The Post. "I don't know. It was sure easier discussing the morality of abortion in the abstract. The issue seemed so much clearer before this happened. I guess it's in Janet's hands." "Do you want to be a father?" "Someday." "Do you want to be the father of Janet's child?" Tim fell silent and began removing the label from his beer bottle. He wadded the peeled label into a ball and arced it into a small wooden trashcan next to the

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels fridge. "No Willy T., no I don't. To be honest, I don't even know what the hell I'm doing dating her." "What does she want?" "She doesn't know, but I think her paramount concern is with making sure the operation goes through on Sunday." "At any cost?" "At any cost." The Post peered down at his beer bottle, brow wrinkled in thought. He looked up from his beer, brow unwrinkling. He said, "I'm going to write down the name, address, and phone number of a gynecologist friend of mine who has an office in Harbor City. If Janet decides to terminate the pregnancy, Dr. Westcoat is the one to see. I'll set something up for 10:30 Saturday morning. If you're not going to go the abortion route, call Dr. Westcoat by 9:30 Saturday and cancel." "All right," said Tim. If The Post said something was going to happen, it happened. "Thanks Willy T. Thanks a hell of a lot." "Either way things go, it's going to be a tough few days." They got out of the jacuzzi and The Post wrote down the information. Tim dried himself and put on his jeans and polo shirt. As Tim made for his car, The Post took out his Complete Encyclopedia of Baseball Facts and sat down at the circular table under the gazebo. Anxiety began leaking through the cracks in Tim's self control as he drove. What was Janet going to do? He wasn't ready to be a father. He didn't know what he thought about the genetically unique potential human developing in her womb. Was it murder? Tim parked his car and walked up to Janet's apartment. He knocked and she opened the door. "What took you so long?" "Sorry." "What are we going to do?" "I don't know. I guess it's your decision." "What do you think?" "I think you're going to have to make the decision." "How can I fix things by Sunday?" "If you want to go that route, I can set up an appointment for Saturday morning with a gynaecologist in Harbor City." "Why Harbor City?" "The city isn't important. I’ll drive you over if that is your decision." "I'll think about. I don't know." "I'll have to know by nine Saturday. I can get an appointment for 10:30" "Do you love me?" "Not in the family and picket fence sense of the word." "In what sense then?" "Jesus Janet, let's not have this conversation, not now." "In what sense?" "Janet, I can't think straight about anything right now. I'm mentally exhausted. In the morning I have to get up early and go speak at Lillian's stupid seminar. I don't even know what I'm going to say." "I'm pregnant by a man who doesn't know what he feels about me and all you can think about is some fucking seminar?" "I'm going for a jog." "At this time of night?" "Yeah a jog. If I don't run right now I'm going to explode. I'll be back in an hour or so."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Thanks for the support." Tim ran barefoot past a notice proclaiming that the beach was closed and off limits. He ran across sand to where ocean pounded the shore down to a hard flat surface good for jogging. His feet left a trail of soles and toes along the shore. Seagulls drifting in the black night seemed to mock and laugh cruelly at his effort. He couldn't outrun his thoughts. Frank had jumped out of a window, falling three stories, barely missing the dormitory's concrete sidewalk. He’d lain crumpled on grass, as bloody and helpless as an aborted fetus. Tim was sure he’d die. But he didn't. He lived and moved to Hawaii, where it was said he got a job at a clothing store and openly proclaimed his homosexuality. Why was Frank reappearing in his life now, after all these years? Why couldn't he find satisfaction with women? Was he deep down the same as Frank? Five years ago Frank and he had discussed life and God together. It had been late at night. They’d made a fire alone on the shores of Lake Berryessa. Frank's eyes had communicated possibilities that Tim had never contemplated before, and that night was when Tim began questioning his sexual identity. Tim was running hard, racing against the ghosts of his anxiety. Legs whirled through the night, sweat ringed his goatee and beaded his forehead, feet hammered earth, lungs sucked air. He didn't know why he had suddenly dropped out of the church. There was no soul-searching crisis, no earth-shattering epiphany. He didn't know what he was any more. He was no longer an Adventist but was he a Christian? He didn't know. He was moving south. He had to jog away from the beach when he reached the Redondo Beach Pier. Was being a loan officer what life had in store for him? The money was good but what was the purpose? Should he just shut up and play the game, perhaps take up Pete Barnhill's offer? He passed the pier and jogged back down to the hard flat beach at the ocean's edge. What should be done about the angel? Why wouldn't his sister leave him alone? What was he going to do about Janet? What was he going to say tomorrow morning at the seminar? Why did Frank call him? He turned from the shoreline and ran into watery oblivion. Ocean and blackness and waves swallowed him up. He swam and swam and swam, hitting and kicking at water, punching and tearing at the sea.

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Friday Sherman Harry Tyranda Virginia

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Sherman Sherman paced around his bullet-riddled car for five minutes before phoning his insurance company's 24-hour emergency service operator and making arrangements to pick up a rental. Nicole drove him to the Avis office at LAX, where they had a surplus of cars due to the cancellation of most flights. Sherman picked out a Cadillac with soft leather seats. Nicole left him as he filled out the rental paperwork. He was given keys at 12:55 am. He could have been home by 1:30 if it wasn’t for the open packet of real estate papers on the desk behind the rental counter. He’d noticed that the name “Dennis Saxena” was on both the purchase contract and the nametag of the man helping him, and that the date on the deposit receipt was only two days ago. When he saw the name of Dennis’s real estate agent was Mary Proundstone, he was almost thankful that his new car had been shot up. Mary Proundstone was no bored doctor's wife needing an excuse to get out of the house. She was a serious heavyweight, and one of the biggest producers in Southern California. Keys in hand, Sherman said, "At least the riots make your job simpler; not much business for you to worry about. I didn't think LAX would ever have this much elbow room." "I don't think riots for elbow room is much of a trade off," Dennis Saxena replied. "No it isn't. The Guard better hurry up and get here before my house burns down. How about you, your house safe?" "I don't have a house to burn down, at least not yet." Sherman could feel Dennis warming to him as he wove the conversation towards mortgages. They talked about the small town in North Dakota Dennis had grown up in, about the small town in Montana that Sherman lied about growing up in. They talked about what type of home Dennis and his wife had just purchased. Soon Sherman was discussing various loan programs and doing a prequalification. Dennis had the real estate papers with him to review, in preparation for going down to his wife's credit union tomorrow and getting a mortgage. At one in the morning, Dennis’s pilot wife joined them. At first she was tired and skeptical, having just flown a private jet in from Vegas. She said a lot of rich corporate men got a kick out of having a female pilot. Sherman smiled and asked questions about the jet she’d just flown. Joan felt as if she was being treated as fellow pilot, not a female pilot, just a pilot. Sherman told them he’d been a cargo pilot in Vietnam. They talked planes for a while, Sherman's lies melting away Joan's fatigue and skepticism. The Saxenas agreed to meet with Sherman on Sunday at three for a loan application. Sherman jotted down their social security numbers and told them he would run their credit report in the morning. He left the Saxenas after Dennis made photocopies of their purchase contract. The rented Cadillac's leather seats were softer than the seats in his Mercedes, but, despite the softness, Sherman’s inflamed hemorrhoids protested painfully at being squeezed between butt and cowhide. Once home, he headed straight to the Preparation H in his bathroom cabinet. At breakfast the following morning, Sherman explained to Sally why he was driving an Avis Cadillac. The explanation resulted in him not getting out of the house until nearly eight. His inflamed hemorrhoids had worsened and the drive to the office in the Cadillac was excruciating. He was tempted to pull over and apply some

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Preparation H from the ointment tube and applicator in the Zip-loc bag in his right pocket. He’d started using Zip-locs after accidentally spreading Preparation H all over the crotch of his suit pants minutes prior to a loan application. He’d been driving his old green Mercedes to a loan application in Beverly Hills when the cap of the Preparation H had worked itself loose, greasy cream spreading all over the designer Italian wool. Fittingly, the embarrassing accident had coincided with losing last quarter’s funding contest to Bobby Beckman. At the office, Sherman applied a healthy dose of the ointment before running the Saxena’s credit. Their credit report was sterling; their loan would be a slamdunk. At nine o’clock, he contacted his insurance company and phoned Manhattan Beach Benz. He made arrangements to meet the claims adjuster at noon and Manhattan Beach Benz said they’d have a tow truck to Cal.Gold at one. After running a funding report, Sherman decided to drop by Estate Realty in downtown Torrance. Mary Proundstone had the reputation of living in her office, and paying a personal visit so early in the day should impress her. A sign stating “No Appointment, No Solicitation" greeted Sherman in the Foyer of Estate Realty. Sherman armed himself with his most charming smile as he approached the reception. “Good morning,” said Sherman to the receptionist. She considered the charming smile, the suit, the polished leather shoes. “Do you have an appointment?” “I’m here to see Mary Proundstone.” “Do you have an appointment?” repeated the receptionist, as she pointed to the “No appointment, No Solicitation” sign. “Mary Proundstone,” said Sherman, charm replaced by the threat of violence. “You’re either title or loans. Either way no appointment, no Mary Proundstone." “Can you check with Mary? I believe the Saxenas made an appointment for me.” “What’s your name?” “I’m the Saxenas’ mortgage officer. Mary should know who I am, check with her.” The reception rang Mary’s office and asked, “Mary, a man saying he’s the Saxenas’ mortgage officer is here. Doesn’t know if he has an appointment but says you should know who he is. What do you want me to do?” After listening into her phone, the receptionist turned to Sherman and said, “Mary will be right here.” Sherman waited until a short woman with no- nonsense hazel eyes appeared and said, in a voice made husky from too many cigarettes, “I don’t know you.” "I guess the Saxenas didn’t have time to contact you. I’m the branch manager at Cal. Gold's Lawndale branch and I’m doing the loan for the Saxenas. My name is Sherman, Sherman Peters." "Mary Proundstone," said Mary, shaking Sherman's offered hand. She lit a cigarette and nodded for them to step outside. "I thought the Saxenas were going through their credit union." "They were, until running across some friends that I’d done a purchase for a few years back. Now I'm doing their loan. We're meeting Sunday. I’ve run their credit report and it’s spotless. I'll give you a full report Monday." "Give me the report Sunday." "I'll call you Sunday then," smiled Sherman, taking out a pack of Pall Malls from an inside suit pocket. Showing smokers you smoked seemed to create a bond with them. "They more than qualify and the loan will be smooth sailing as long as the paperwork they bring me tomorrow supports what they've told me." "It will."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Sherman lit his Pall Mall. Mary Proundstone wasn't one for idle small talk. “Who should the appraiser contact for access?” “Me,” said Mary. “I ordered the appraisal today and will tell him you’re the contact,” lied Sherman. Mary nodded her head, stomped out her cigarette and said, “Do you have a card?” “Take these,” said Sherman as he reached into his suit pocket and handed her a stack of cards. “Don’t screw this up,” said Mary Proundstone as she took the cards and walked back into her office. Sherman drove back to the office. He got in about an hour’s work before the claims adjuster showed up. Sherman walked him out to the Mercedes. He stayed with him for five minutes - long enough to find out that the man was renting and had no plans to purchase in the near future. When the claims adjuster came back to the office, he gave Sherman a blue estimate form and a pink copy. He told him to give the garage foreman at Manhattan Beach Benz the blue form and have him call if his repair estimate differed. The pink copy was for Sherman. The tow truck driver showed up a couple of minutes before one. The driver was massive, folds of fat hanging around him like spare tires. Once Sherman found out the guy wasn't a veteran, he didn't bother to squeeze him for any mortgage possibilities. Experience had taught him that white trash should be left alone if he couldn't go VA with them. Their credit usually stank, their job history was sporadic and often under the table, and they got self-righteous when you pointed out their credit risk weaknesses. Danny, the tow driver, had a hydraulic truck that got the whole car off the ground and onto its flat bed. Sherman watched as Danny drove off with his 500SEL. He bent down and picked up the hood ornament from the asphalt. He tossed it back and forth between his huge meaty hands as he walked back into the office. At his desk, Sherman phoned the Lees to inquire about Paul's condition. He couldn't have a client dying on him before his loan funded. Nobody was home. He called the hospital but nobody would give him any information. He then called his wife. "Hello," came Sally's voice. "How’s my love melon doing?" "What do you care?" "Baby you know I care.” "Then divorce Bobby-Fucking-Beckman. I'm tired of our marriage being a threesome." "Love melon, it's a lot of money if my branch wins. Just be patient and I will make it all up to you." "I don't care about money and there's nothing you can do to make things up to me." "Ben and Jerry's? Orville Redenbacher? Blockbusters?" "Maybe." "Come on love melon." "Peanut butter and caramel, cheese and garlic popcorn, ‘Singin' In The Rain’." "Yes, yes, no. Pick another movie. We've seen ‘Singin' In The Rain’ going on ten times now." "I thought you wanted to make things up to me?" "O.K. O.K. Fred and Ginger it is." "I love you honey. And get two cartons of Ben and Jerry's." "Yes boss, love you too."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Despite what he’d told Sally, he could watch ‘Singin' In The Rain’ a hundred times and not tire of it. By acting like he was giving in to her on the video selection he could avoid a night of bickering. What he really hated was weird types of popcorn and fancy ice cream. What was wrong with plain old vanilla and Jiffy-Pop?

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Harry Midnight air vibrated with violence and violation as Nicole’s agony and Father Collins’ lust rang through the forest. In Harry's dream, Nicole was tied naked to Sherman’s desk while Father Collins savagely raped her. Harry stood next to Father Collins, imploring him to be quiet, warning him that the forest was full of North Korean soldiers. Suddenly the night was a riot of sound as bombs began exploding everywhere. Father Collins dismounted Nicole and ran for cover. Things were happening too fast in Harry’s dream; the forest was a chaos of burning trees and flying shrapnel. Suddenly Hank was knocking Harry over, smothering him with his body, taking shrapnel meant for him. Body bleeding from shrapnel hits, Hank got up and stumbled over to Nicole. He untied Nicole, lifted her in his arms, and began carrying her away. A few feet from Sherman’s desk, Hank stumbled due to the weakness of his shrapnel-damaged body and dropped Nicole. Sherman was suddenly in the dream, picking up Nicole and directing a gang of men to bind Hank and put a noose around his neck. Harry stood and did nothing as the men dragged Hank to a gnarled oak tree. Harry awoke as Hank started to jerk and dance stupidly from the end of a rope tied to a thick oak limb. He was covered in sweat. He got ice cubes out of his small boat fridge and put three into his favorite glass. He poured some scotch and slid open the hatch. He could see stars despite smog, smoke, and the electric glow of a million light bulbs. He put on a jacket and walked out of the cabin, sitting on a wooden seat in the astern cockpit. Lights from gangplanks and various boats made colored lines across the black ocean. Harry contemplated the lines and listened to water lapping softly against Pacific Pride's hull. He took a drink and looked at his watch; 3:45 am. Wade was to show up at 5:00. He didn't get any more sleep. Wade showed up at exactly five. Harry had him undo the mooring lines before stepping aboard. Wade had crew-cut blond hair and carried himself like an athlete just a little past his prime. He headed straight into the cabin and stayed there until an hour after they left the harbor. Harry started up the Volvo Penta engine and reversed out of the slip. He could hear Wade grinding beans in the cabin. Five minutes later, Wade handed up a cup of Sumatra blend, staying below to drink his own coffee. It was unlikely anybody that mattered would see Wade and connect him with this organization, but they weren't taking any chances. By the time Wade came topside, Harry had cut the engine and unfurled his sails. The sun was beginning to cast shafts of light from the mainland as Wade took the helm. After eleven such meetings over the past ten years, Wade was still shit behind the wheel. Harry let him navigate anytime the winds weren't too tricky. He was like a kid on his father's lap steering the family car, and was about as skilled a driver as a nine year-old getting his first crack at automotive manhood. Harry went below and brewed more coffee. It was too rough to make a proper breakfast, so he made what he could under the conditions: a bowl of previously cut fresh fruit with yogurt and muesli, hot blueberry muffins cracked open and stuffed with real butter, and a glass of fresh orange juice. He carried up the food and they put the boat on autopilot. After breakfast Wade returned to the helm, Harry sitting next to him. They talked about the riots, the Lakers, Wade's three girls. A few times Wade tried to steer things towards business but Harry didn't want to go down that road. It could wait until later - tomorrow sometime. Today was for sea and sailing and scotch.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels For a while nothing was said. Wade pointed to a pod of dolphins swimming off to starboard but Harry took no notice. He only saw Hank jerking and dancing stupidly from the end of a rope.

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Tyranda Ty and Johnny sat shirtless on their balconies, soaking up the afternoon sun and drinking beer. Ty asked, "You still going to be tied up with Toyota all weekend?" "We put the promo off for two weeks. People don't feel much like buying cars when their garages are burning down." "So you can come visit the girls with me tomorrow?" "Wish I could, but I've got floor duty tomorrow morning. Speaking of girls, have you come to your senses about Vivian yet?" "You don't even want to hear about it." "That bad?" "Worse." "Shit, when's my new neighbor moving in?" "It's not like that. I think I've really fucked up." "What's up? This sounds serious." Ty told Johnny the whole Cole Porter window-fucking, trashcan-smashing, shoe-destroying, Paris-asking story. Johnny said, "Ty, I'm afraid you're beyond help. A man ruins a good pair of dress shoes over a woman and you know he's got problems. I think it's love of the picket fence, baby carriage, share-the-remote control variety. You’d better get down to Hennessey's with me before it’s too late.” "I don't know Johnny. This Vivian thing has got me all fucked up. I don't even trust my own thoughts anymore." "Don't think, drink," said Johnny, getting up from his chair. "Want another cold one?" "Sure." Johnny walked into his apartment and returned with two Miller Genuine Drafts. They drank and talked until Ty spotted Darci pulling into a vacant parking spot below them. "Looks like my sister’s arrived with Sam. I'd better go down and help with the bags. Sam never goes anywhere without bringing a tired old Samsonite that looks more beat to shit than he does." "Need any help?" "Thanks, I'll manage," said Ty, getting up. He could see his two nephews running up to the lobby's front door as he walked through the foyer. Darci and Sam had yet to come into view. "Ready for the big safari?" asked Ty after opening the foyer's front door. "You bet Uncle Ty," said Roger. "I want to see a grizzly," said Eric. "Well there's no bears in my apartment. A couple of kid-eating snakes but no bears. Where's Sam and your mother?" "Getting Grandpa's junk out of the trunk," said Roger. "Come on, let's go and give them a hand," said Ty. Ty carried Sam’s suitcase as he walked them up to his apartment, and phoned for pizza, after convincing Darci to stick around for some pepperoni and pineapple while the 405 traffic thinned out. Ty introduced Johnny when they moved out onto the balcony for sodas and beer. Johnny, who came over to Ty's balcony when the pizza arrived, held Eric spellbound with bear stories. Roger and Sam were inside looking at Grandpa's old gramophone.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels At seven, Johnny left to get ready for a date while Ty and Sam walked Darci and the boys down to their zoo-bound Chrysler. Darci said she’d be back to pick Sam up at nine Sunday evening. After they’d gone, Ty and Sam walked back up to the apartment. Ty got a beer out of the fridge. He didn't offer Sam one. Earlier in the day Ty had moved all his hard liquor bottles over to Johnny's for the duration of his father's stay. A half-empty six-pack of Michelob was the only alcohol left in the apartment. "Want another Coke or something?” asked Ty as he joined his father out on the balcony. "You mean you haven't hidden the Coke along with the rum?" "I didn't think it was necessary. You can't get into too much trouble from a caffeine binge." "I'm warmed all over by your vote of confidence in my wagon-riding capabilities." "I've been down this road too many times cowboy." "This time I'm holding onto the stagecoach." "Let's hope the road doesn't get too bumpy. There's Sprite and Evian in the fridge as well." "Evian? Son, since you're striving so hard to be pale, let me give you a hint. White folks don't do Geri-curl." "Can't we just stop the bullshit? We haven’t been alone five minutes yet and we're already falling into whatever it is that we're always falling into.” "You tell me, Wells Fargo." "Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?" "Think about it Uncle Ty-om." "Jesus Sam, you got some nerve coming in here and copping the attitude. Our history gives me monopoly rights in the attitude department." "Why's that boy? Does it damage your white Christmas fantasies to be reminded that you've got a nigger for a father?" "I'd be proud if I’d been dealt a black ace instead of some fucked-up nigger jack!" "My, my, listen to the foul tongue on the Geri-curled albino." "Sam, black isn't about living in Inglewood and voting for Jessie Jackson. Black ain’t some bullshit club run by niggers with chips on their shoulders." "How many blacks you know are sunbathing in good school districts and beach front condos, drinking Evian, and prancing around in penny loafers and camel hair blazers?" "You don't have to live in the ‘hood to be black." "Son, you don't know black no more, you done lost your roots." "Bullshit Sam." "In trying to escape your color, you’re just becoming the white man's monkey." "Sam." Ty stopped talking and walked to his balcony's railing. He looked at the sun shimmering in evening death over blue eternity. Ty knew the conversation had to stop before things blew up from deeply charged and hidden currents. "Sam, go to the fridge and get yourself something to drink if you're feeling thirsty." "I think I'll go for the Evian. Perhaps it's the bottled water that does the trick. Who knows, maybe if I give up inner city agua, I'll soon be sporting penny loafers and putting on sun block." "Sam, can't you just quit? Can't you get off your high horse for just one weekend?" "I’m not the one playing Lone Ranger. I'm not the one galloping around on the white horse wearing the mask."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Sam, drop the fucking white shit. It's getting old, real old. You don't know my life, you don't know what I've gone through to get where I'm at." "Oh, I know all right Ty-om." "You don't know shit." "And you know even less. Don't be talking about what you've gone through to get to this here lily-white pad in the clouds. You haven't gone through shit. You don't know the black man's pain because you're wearing blinders boy." "Fuck!" screamed Ty. "Listen to me Sam, because I'm talking now." Ty turned to face his father, eyes glowing with anger. His voice had lost its decibel force but none of its intensity. "I live in the same world as you, my skin is as black as yours. I see the looks, I feel the walls. I’ve got the same black skin and red fucking blood. I ain't here because I'm trying to be white. I'm here because it's a pretty good fucking place to be.” "I know the anger you know," continued Ty, "I hear you when you talk that anger. But there's another anger. It's an anger that burns inside the man that’s fought to live the kind of life he wants only to have certain of his own brothers spit in his face. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going for a walk. Why don't you have some Evian, slip on my penny loafers, have a glass of Earl Grey tea. Maybe you'll find yourself suddenly transformed by white magic. Or maybe you'll find you're still a deadbeat nigger drunk." Ty left the balcony, marched through his apartment, and walked down two flights of stairs before his breathing calmed and fists unclenched. He walked out to the darkening blue of the coastal evening, crossing the Esplanade, and heading down a steep staircase to the bicycle path running from Redondo Beach to Malibu. His jaw clenched and unclenched as he walked toward the bluffs of Rancho Palos Verdes. He walked to where the bicycle path ended, and across the sand to where the ocean pounded the earth to a hard wet mirror, reflecting the dying day. The sun had set when he stopped walking. He sat on the sand and watched as stars began to appear in the ever-darkening blanket of the sky.

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Virgina Virgina and Beth moved to the living room when Kent came into the kitchen to squeeze oranges. Kent had been coming over to Virgina’s house every Friday night for the last four years. He’d been making orange juice by himself for the last two months. “It’s slavery the way you chain that boy to the juicer,” said Beth. “He’s getting a quarter per quart.” “Wow, he’ll be able to put himself through college. With a degree from Burger King U, the sky’s the limit for my boy.” Virgina wondered how long it would take before Beth brought up the issue she’d wanted to talk about after choir practice. Sitting on the couch, Virgina was suddenly struck with how alike Beth and Chuck’s fiancée looked. Both were short haired and petite, with brown eyes and skin more mocha than black. Personality wise, they appeared poles apart. Leslie seemed stoic and gentle where Beth was vivacious, with a sarcastic wit bordering on brutal. After fifteen minutes on the couch, Beth said, “I think we should talk about what I started to bring up at my father’s CNN gig.” “O.K..” “This is hard.” Her voice trailed off. When she started talking again she seemed a different person; her theatrical voice was replaced with a monotone, void of its usual sarcastic edge. "I know you aren’t going to Chuck's wedding. Leslie is one lucky girl, she got herself one hell of a good man in your son.” She turned away from Virgina, fighting to find the right words, any words. "What is it Beth?" "Why Virgina? Please tell me why you won't go?" "The reason is between Chuck and me. I'm afraid that it's going to have to stay that way." "What I have to say involves you and Chuck and me and Kent and one other. Since I don't know your reasons for not reconciling with Chuck, I must assume that I’m a big factor." "Beth, you don't have to do this. You're not the reason. You're not …" "Please," cut in Beth, "you don't know the whole story." "I know …" "Please, let me get it out. You have the right to know. I owe it to you as much as to Chuck to tell the story. You know how good of a father Chuck has been to Kent even though he’s always insisted that Kent is not his son. I've always maintained that Chuck is the father. From the beginning most people believed me, especially my father. He’d all but forbidden me to see Chuck when we began dating. My pregnancy confirmed his suspicions of Chuck, confirmed that he was the no-good, choir-fund thieving, irresponsible lowlife that he always suspected him of being. The only problem is that Chuck wasn't lying." Her voice trailed off again. Virgina said, "Go on." Beth needed to get out the shocking news that Virgina already knew. "When Kent was born, Tyus began his campaign to hold Chuck responsible. Chuck took it all in stride. He knew his arithmetic, knew that we didn't have sex until three months after we’d started dating, knew that it was impossible for him to be the father. As you know, Tyus turned the whole thing into a media event to try and draw attention to the issue of deadbeat dads. Most everyone thought Chuck was

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels responsible for my child and should be made to pay. And, as you know, under my father's direction, I sued Chuck for child support. You just can’t buck the testimony of a preacher's daughter, blood tests, and DNA. I won and Chuck's wages were garnished for child support.” She paused and then continued. “Once the hearing was over, Chuck never tried to escape paying. He takes Kent out to the park on alternating weekends and buys him presents for Christmas and his birthday. He loves the boy. In fact, he’s been such a good surrogate father that anyone previously inclined to believe him, despite my testimony and the biological facts, has been forced to conclude that he is a liar. Why would anybody shower so much love on a boy that wasn't his, especially after breaking off ties with the mother prior to the child's birth?” "Now we come to the reason for his strange behavior. Now …" Virgina interrupted softly, "I believe you’re about to tell me that even though Chuck isn't the father, Kent is still my grandson." "No I …" began Beth, stopping with a jolt when the impact of Virgina's words fully registered. "How did you know that Clark was the father?" "I told you my reason doesn't involve you." "Clark and I got involved when he came back from med school, a few days prior to the crash. I don't know if Clark told Chuck about it. He won't talk about it but I know that Chuck knows who Kent's real father is. He didn't seem at all surprised about the blood tests and all that DNA stuff." "I hear that you and Leslie have become good friends," said Virgina. "Great friends. Chuck and I also. Even Tyus and Chuck have buried the hatchet. They sometimes go to Lakers games together. That's what I don't understand. If a mule-headed man like my father can forgive and forget, why can't you? You’re one of the most reasonable people I know." "The reason lies between Chuck and myself." "I'll miss you at the wedding, everyone will." “My slave has probably earned a quarter by now. Would you like a glass of orange juice?” “Thanks but I best be going. You sure you’re O.K. with Kent staying through till church on Sunday?” “I’ll survive. Grandmama is pretty tough.” After Beth left, Virgina went into the kitchen and was served a glass of orange juice by her grandson.

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Saturday Harry Tim Harry

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Harry Harry was up fishing before dawn. As the sun began to light up the Pacific, he caught a magnificent sea bass. He gutted and cooked it a few hours later. He and Wade ate the fish for lunch, anchored in a small bay on Catalina's backside. Outside of a few inquisitive seals and various island birds, they were left alone. Harry couldn't figure out why Catalina was so devoid of other vessels. Wade mentioned the riots but Harry didn’t think inner city destruction would affect recreational traffic around Catalina. Harry might have spotted a boat in Saturday's foggy predawn, but he wasn't sure. Disturbing dreams had driven him out of the cabin. Sliding back the hatch, he thought he saw white sails and bow lights, but the white sheets swirling in black might have been the ghosts of his nightmares haunting his slowly awakening mind. When he’d rubbed his eyes and taken a closer look, he saw only ebony nothingness. He sat for hours in the eerie stillness, thinking about the morning he and Hank had dropped behind North Korean lines. That pre-dawn had also been black and foggy. The area they landed had looked like his brother-in-law's ranch. But the trees out at Dave's place had never burst into toothpicks from 105 mm artillery shells, and its hills had never sung with bullets and the frenzied screams of machine guns and men. Nobody at Dave’s place had ever hurled their mortality onto his body and taken shrapnel meant for him. The bridge Harry had set to explode in five minutes had blown up in less than one. For some reason the explosives had fired early. Perhaps a bird had swooped down onto the detonator wires and triggered the explosion. For whatever reason, the bridge vital for North Korean reinforcements suddenly rose up into the foggy dawn like a rudely awakened steel dragon. Before Harry could make sense of the eruption, Hank had knocked him down, shielding him from the shrapnel. Bridge fragments hit Hank in the shoulder and right leg. Harry was awed and humbled by the man's determination to make it to the helicopter pick-up point after he failed to convince Harry to leave without him. Once Harry had draped Hank over his shoulder, the man swallowed what must have been excruciating pain, and hobbled with surprising speed through hills of pine and ghosts. After the sea bass lunch Harry gave Wade the tapes. “Any good stuff on them?” “Yeah.” “How good?” “Smoking gun good. Assassination of Miriam Stone. Carl is mentioned.” “Damn Harry, you may have just killed the Bears.” Wade paused for a bit. Seagulls squawked in the silence. “Why you handing me these tapes?” Harry shrugged and didn’t answer. “I just don’t get it. In all the years we’ve been together, I’ve never understood why you turned FBI informant. You seem more redneck racist than bleeding heart liberal. I know it’s none of my damn business, but after ten years together I’d sure as hell like to know what motivates you. Why’re you playing mole in an organization like the California Bear Militia?” “Let’s just say I was a redneck racist until meeting a black that was twice the man I’ll ever hope to be.” After Harry had stopped talking Wade made no movement to leave. Harry was silent for a long while. “O.K. Wade, I’ll tell you the story. But it’s going to take a glass of scotch. Want one?” “No thanks,” said Wade.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Harry stepped into the cabin and poured himself a double. Swirling the scotch he walked back to Wade, the amber liquor moving like flames over white coals. Cries of seagulls sounded in the gentle silence as he told the story of how he’d become buddies with Hank during their years in the US Army Special Forces. He told about the time they’d low-dropped behind North Korean lines to destroy a bridge. He told about the bridge exploding early and Hank shielding him, taking the shrapnel meant for him. Then he talked about what happened after Korea. Wade sat and listened and understood Harry's motivations. Towards the end of the story, Harry turned and looked out at Catalina Island so Wade wouldn't see the salt water welling up in his left eye, sliding across cheek to white beard. When he was done talking he walked to the bow and drank his scotch. At the Pacific Pride’s stern, Wade connected earphones to a tape recorder and began taking notes on the latest batch of secretly recorded tapes from double agent "Grizzly”. Ice cubes and scotch seemed to move in abstract patterns, paralleling Harry's memories. They seemed to form a cross in his glass; amber alcohol was flame devouring bone white wood. He should have been there to stop the hanging. He should have reached Hank’s father’s Alabama farm before anything happened. But it had been comfortable in the old bar with new friends, laughing, playing pool, and telling racist jokes. The sun had set when Harry walked out to his Studebaker Commander to begin the drive from the pool hall to the farm. He was going out there to catch and cook the catfish that Hank had constantly talked about during his stay at the VA hospital in Long Beach. Hank was two weeks out of the hospital where he’d been in rehab for over six months. Harry had visited him nearly every day. Hank's dad lived an hour from the nearest paved road. The night sky was black and moonless by the time Harry reached the gravel road leading out to the farm. The headlights of his Studebaker cut eerie white beams through thick ebony foliage as he drove down the narrow country road. The radio was broken, and the night was summer hot and Alabama humid. He rolled his window down and listened to the electric clatter of insects humming like power lines. He heard the three trucks before he saw them; heard high throttle engines and loud male voices. He eased to the shoulder and stopped. The trucks roared over a hillcrest. One man in the bed of the middle truck lifted back a white hood and took a long pull from a bottle. Men holding torches and shotguns surrounded him. A hooded man in the last truck threw out a beer bottle. It arched through the blackness, falling through white Studebaker headlight beams, and shattering on the gravel road leading to the farm. Harry could see the cross from the crest of the hill, an orange scar of burning hate defying the black Alabama night. He drove down the hill, turning right at the mailbox and wagon wheel that Hank had described over the phone, turning towards the burning cross. Hank came into view in the harsh white of the headlights. Harry parked and got out of the car. His legs nearly buckled as he walked past the Commander's front fender. Fire, like the satin hues of scotch swirling in a glass, reflected off of windshield, hood, and grille. Hank twisted calmly from a rope tied to a gnarled oak limb. His head was bent at a crazy angle from the broken, rope-encircled neck, the body dangling. If Harry hadn't been enjoying redneck jokes for so long at the Montgomery bar, he’d have been here for the man who’d taken bridge fragments for him, for the nigger who’d become his best friend and taught him the meaning of courage. A soft wail moaned from his lips. He smashed his fists into the Studebaker’s hood and kicked out the driver’s side headlight. He hit and kicked wildly at the car, denting the hood and smashing the grille. He grabbed the hood ornament, then

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels stopped and looked at Hank, reflected in the windshield. He sank to the ground and began weeping, convulsions racking his body. When the weeping stopped, he walked over to Hank. He cut him down and walked his body to the base of the oak tree. He sat him down, straightened his shirt, and placed a beret on his slumped head. The Special Forces beret had been lying on the grass a yard from his suspended feet. Hank had probably been wearing their unit's beret in honor of Harry's visit. The cowards who had knocked it off his head probably didn't even recognize its significance. If they had, the bastards probably would have strung up the crippled war hero anyway, a nigger being first and foremost a nigger. Harry cocked the beret at the correct regulation angle and stepping back he saluted. He held the salute and thought of exploding bridges. He held it until he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Hank's father. "I should have been here," Harry had said. "This isn't your fault. You didn't hang my son to this here tree." "I should have been here," repeated Harry, turning away from Hank and looking at his father. He was holding a shotgun. Hank's father saw Harry looking at the gun, "I was out at a neighbor's house. He was expecting trouble. I didn't think they'd come here. I didn't leave Hank with a gun. I just didn't think the bastards would come here. I've never had any run-ins with the knights before." "May I see the gun?" He handed Harry the gun. Harry took two steps and fired the gun, blasting away the base of the burning cross. It fell forward, a grotesque golden crucifix, crumpling to the grass. They walked to a nearby pump, filled buckets with well water, and put out the cross. "Hank was going on all week about what a good cook you are. We were looking forward to your catfish Cajun gumbo.” Harry had replied, "I'd still like to make you that gumbo. If you don't mind I'd like to stick around and help you sort this thing out." "I’d like that. Plenty of room in the house with my boys all grown and Norma passed on. I'm glad Norma didn't have to see this. I got whiskey in the house. Have some if you like. I'd appreciate if you'd leave me to be alone with my boy for a bit." "Certainly, Mr. Cooper." Harry had walked back to his car and switched off his one remaining headlight. He sat in the blackness and thought about Hank. He didn't know how long he’d been sitting when Hank's father knocked on the window. Harry got out and they moved Hank's body into the house. By sunrise they’d drunk all the whiskey in the house. Hank was buried six days later

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Tim Tim ate cornflakes at Janet's kitchen table. She was still in bed and still hadn't made up her mind. Tim was to call her from the seminar at 9:30, by which time she promised to have reached a decision concerning the genetically unique potential human developing inside her. Tim's mind seemed unsure of what to think; seemed as if someone had hit the pause button and frozen his mental capabilities. He put on his suit and drove to the Yacht House, pulling into the large restaurant complex at a little past 7:30. Brian's moving van took up six parking spaces. It was done up in ribbons and balloons. Two banners were tied along the side the van, one proclaiming Goal #43 and the other Goal #1. Tim guessed the moving van symbolized the fulfillment of Brian's first goal. He knew about Lillian Woodworth’s goal number 43. The movers sat in a booth adjacent to their truck. The booth boasted Positive Wealth pamphlets and a Sony TV playing a Positive Wealth video. Tim was greeted by the sound of his own voice as he got out of his car. He turned and looked at himself explaining to Brian what was involved with filling out a loan application. He had on the same suit he was wearing now but a different tie. On the video he had on his dark green power tie. "Isn't it all just too fantastic?" asked Lillian, startling Tim away from his TV viewing. "It's sure something all right." "You ready? I'm going to put you on right after Brian. He's so excited about telling his goals that I think he just might burst. Isn't it all so exciting? Why don't you come in and get yourself some eggs and a croissant? Would you like a cup of coffee?" "That would be nice." Tim followed Lillian into the Yacht House. A breakfast buffet had been set up outside the Quartermaster's Room. She pressed a name sticker onto his lapel. Tim got a croissant and a cup of coffee. Ten other Positive Wealth Seminarians were feeding themselves and milling about in front of the breakfast buffet. Brian came up as Tim was finishing his croissant. "Thanks for making me a video star," said Tim. "Thanks for making me a home owner," said Brian in his quick nervous voice, eyes darting back and forth like a caged rat. He was a thin pharmacist in his midthirties. "I hear you'll be reading your list of goals this morning." "Yes, Tim, yes I will be sharing my goals. But I don't need to read from any list, I've got them all memorized." "I thought a goal unwritten wasn't worth having." "Oh, I certainly have everything written down," began Brian, oblivious to Tim's sarcasm. "It's all safely in my computer. In fact, I've printed up copies of my list for everyone at the seminar. But I won't need to refer to the list, I've memorized them all." "What is goal number 73?" "To fly in a hot air balloon over Mount Kilimanjaro." "Sounds exciting," said Tim, gulping at his coffee to keep from verbalizing his thought that Lillian should be taken along for hot air. "Goals are exciting Tim. Aren't we lucky to have been given the privilege of knowing Lillian?"

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Yes, she's fantastic," said Tim, excusing himself and heading back out to the parking lot for some fresh air. He was assailed by Brian's videotaped voice discussing goals with Lillian. He walked past the TV and headed down the street until he could no longer hear goals being discussed. He sat on a sidewalk bench and watched the cars drive by. A jogger ran past. He glanced at his watch; 7:50. A young woman pushing a baby carriage walked by; in the carriage were twins with identical blue caps and wide uncomprehending eyes. One wide-eyed twin lifted a hand towards Tim, stretching his little blue sweater, clutching at the morning air with little baby fingers. It was turning eight when Tim walked into the Quartermaster's Room and sat down at his assigned table. There were nine round tables in the room. Each table sat ten. Tim's had only seven and four were completely vacant. The nametags on either side of him read Paula and Jed. Jed was downing croissants at an alarming rate, stuffing them into his fat face as if the morning's prize for the grossest gluttony was a new house. Paula nibbled at an unbuttered croissant, perhaps having lost her appetite from watching Jed. She was a beautician. He was too busy eating to have time for introductions or career discussions. At 8:10 Lillian Woodsworth opened the seminar. She talked about direction, goals, and positive thinking. A man without goals was like being in Paris without a map. Negative thinking was like seeing only cobblestone cracks and not noticing the Cathedral of Notre Dame on the other side of the street. A man without direction was like a tourist spending his whole vacation in the subway and never making it out to Versailles. By the time Lillian dragged the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower into her rambling analogy, Tim had stopped listening. Jed was still eating when Brian replaced Lillian at 8:35. Brian gushed glory for his guru, expounding upon the dynamic insights embodied in her Positive Wealth philosophy, ensuring all gathered that they too could start on the path to riches if they just grasped Lillian's wisdom. He then told of his home purchasing experience, before reciting from memory his list of a hundred goals. Tim was next. His palms were sweaty as he placed a chalkboard onto a large easel. He walked to the small podium and began talking to the forty or fifty people staring at him. His heart was racing. His first few sentences seemed confused to his own ears. He didn't panic, he'd given too many unprepared sermons as an associate youth pastor for that. Just stay calm, breathe, keep talking; the threads of different thoughts will come together; heart will slow; just stay calm, relax. Tim warmed to his subject. Blank stares turned to attentive interest. Jed stopped eating and watched Tim as he explained the mathematics of governmental home loans, relaying amusing anecdotes, defanging the mystical mortgage monster. He was greeted by enthusiastic applause as he sat back down. Lillian returned to the rostrum and said that her broker, James Elkston, would say a few words after the collage contest. Prizes would be given out to the three best. The idea was to visualize wealth and attainment by cutting things out of magazines that symbolized the fulfillment of desired goals. They’d be given an hour to cut and paste their dreams to colored paper. Tim got up and walked with Jed and Paula to a table stacked with magazines and large sheets of colored paper. Next to the magazines were scissors, sticks of roll-on glue, and colored pens. Tim grabbed two automotive magazines, a National Geographic, and a Sports Illustrated. He sat back down and began leafing through the National Geographic. Fifteen minutes went by before Tim realized he had spent the whole time studying an article about manta rays. Jed had already glued two Ferraris and three bikini-clad blondes to green paper. He was cutting Sharon Stone out of People when Tim got up to call Janet. It was 9:25.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Tim's hands were sweatier than when he’d set the chalkboard on the easel. His heart was racing as he punched the pay phone buttons. Just stay focused, breathe, relax. "Tim?" asked Janet. "Yeah." "I want to go to Harbor City." "I'll be right over," he said and hung up. Tim returned to the table, picking up his jacket from the back of his chair. He said goodbye to Jed and Paula and the other four people at the table, then walked over to Brian and wished him luck in his new home. He then walked over to Lillian. "Sorry Lillian, but I'm going to have to leave." "What? You can't go. You haven't finished your collage yet. We won't be judging for another half hour." "Something came up. Afraid you're going to have to go on without me." "But you can't leave. You're one of the stars of the show. Everyone loved your talk. You have to stay and answer people's mortgage questions." "I wouldn't leave if it wasn't important. I've passed my cards out to everyone and told them to call with any questions." "Tim, what could be more important than positive wealth? I think you'd better sit down and examine your values. This collage isn't some silly game we’re playing." "Tell me who wins. My money is on Jed. Goodbye." "Tim, what is so important that you’re running out on me?" "Janet is sick. I've got to go and pick her mother up from the airport." "Can't she take a taxi?" "With the riots and all, I think it's best somebody is there to pick her up." "Do what you think is best." "The seminar was everything I thought it would be. Wish I could stay but I'd better be getting to the airport." "It has been fantastic, hasn't it?" "Fantastic, just fantastic. Goodbye Lillian." "Goodbye Tim." Tim got into his car and drove to Janet's apartment. The door was unlocked. "Ready?" Janet nodded and they walked in silence down to the car. Little was said as they drove to Dr. Westcoat's office in the drab medical building two blocks off PCH. The place was locked. Tim knocked and Dr. Westcoat's assistant, a pretty black woman with a wise and gentle face, opened the door. She brought some forms for Janet to fill out as Tim looked at a painting of sailboats. When the forms were completed Dr. Westcoat appeared. She was young, with stunning blue eyes and short black hair. Tim didn't know why he’d been expecting a man. Janet disappeared with the doctor, leaving Tim alone in the waiting room. After a few minutes of looking at potted plants, magazines fanned out across the coffee table, and the picture of sailing boats, he walked over to the strangely textured sliding glass window. He tapped on it and the pretty black woman with the wise and gentle face rolled it open. "The bill please," said Tim awkwardly. "That's already been taken care of." The Post, thought Tim, as he thanked her and sat down. Grabbing a Smithsonian off the table he began reading about the asteroid theory of dinosaur extinction. He was nearly done when Janet came into the waiting room. They walked out to the car and silently drove away. As they drove down Pacific Coast Highway, Tim's pager went off. The sound startled them both.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Probably Lillian and her fucking seminar," said Tim. "Can't you just turn that thing off?" "No I …" he began. He paused and corrected himself. "I think you're right. I think I need a pager-less weekend." He unclipped it from his belt and took out the two small batteries. Cracking open the window he threw them out onto the highway. "No voicemail until Monday morning. I'm officially unplugged." "How will you ever survive?" They drove for a few more minutes before Janet asked, "You'll be able to take me tomorrow?" "Yes, I'll take you." "I'll need to be there at one and be picked up at five. I guess I'll be pretty drugged up." "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of you." She leaned over and gave Tim a light kiss on the cheek. He patted her hands. Then she laid her head on Tim's shoulder and sobbed softly all the way back to the apartment.

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Harry Harry gazed vacantly at Wade, who was listening to the tapes Harry had given him earlier. He didn’t see Wade, or hear the squawking seagull floating in the breeze, or smell the salty ocean or feel the sea gently lapping against Pacific Pride. He was in Minneapolis, sparring in the gym with Father Collins and taking a beating. By twelve years of age Harry had learned that it was better to be in the gym being beaten with gloves, than being beaten at home by the iron fists of his father. By fourteen, he was ranked second in his age group in Minneapolis. But second wasn’t good enough for Harry’s father, who exchanged fists for a hickory stick when Harry lost the city championship to Leonard White. It was bad enough to lose to a Protestant, his father screamed at him while beating him with the stick, but to lose to a nigger was a transgression against him personally. Under Father Collins’s relentless coaching, Harry became the second ranked amateur in Minnesota by age sixteen. Leonard White was ranked first, and, no matter how hard he tried, Harry could not beat Leonard, not in five meetings in the ring. Harry Senior was certain that his only son would win the state championship in his sixth fight against Leonard White; knew that his boy could beat a nigger. That sixth fight against Leonard was the last time he stepped into a boxing ring. It was a bloody epic, a gritty poem of determination, a grueling masterpiece, ending in a draw. Father Collins embraced Harry when the last bell had sounded and he’d wobbled back to his corner. Harry’s face was buffed and crimson, his right eye swelled shut, and the white ends of his gloves trickled blood. Later that night, Harry Senior spat in his son’s face for not beating the nigger. When he got out his hickory stick, Harry punched him in the face, a solid blow crumpling the man. Harry grabbed the stick and began beating the living room walls with it, crying like an infant. His father looked at him, tears welling up in his eyes. The sight of tears in his father’s eyes shocked Harry and he dropped the stick. The last memory Harry had of his father was of a lonely and frail old man with tears in his eyes. “You’re right Harry,” said Wade as he approached him on Pacific Pride’s bow. “The tapes fry some pretty big fish. I think I’ll take you up on that scotch.” “Help yourself,” returned Harry. Wade went into the cabin, returning a few minutes later with a glass of scotch. “Let’s review the tapes.” “Let’s do it,” returned Harry. “Let’s go to the stern. I want to replay parts of the recordings for you.” Harry walked astern, where Wade began asking him question after question, recording the answers and jotting down notes. When the sun began to go down, they broke off and ate more sea bass for dinner, then spent two more hours reviewing the tapes. After the review they got out cigars and scotch. Pacific Pride’s cockpit became Harry’s surrogate confessional as they sat beneath the intimacy of the stars and talked. Harry had never shared his personal side with Wade or any FBI case officer before. Perhaps it was the earlier telling of Hank’s story that loosened his tongue. Harry knew that he was drunk but didn’t care. He needed the catharsis, the release of verbalizing the twists and turns of his soul. He told Wade everything from shooting up Sherman’s car to how loosing the anchor of racial hatred had caused him to replace the trinity of his upbringing with one of absurdity, irony, and illusion.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels While talking he seemed to split into three fragments, three separate minds following three different timelines. In present time he sat talking with Wade on the back of his boat. In past time he was leaving Minneapolis after punching his father in the face, drifting South, joining the KKK. At a bus station to buy a ticket for Memphis to attend a Klan meeting, he was befriended by an old black woman who returned his wallet after seeing it fall out of his pants pocket. Harry didn’t know why, but he bought a ticket to Los Angeles instead of Memphis. Six months later he joined the Army. In the Army he nearly killed Bucktooth Billy, a skinny black kid whose only crime was uncontrollable laughter. Billy was a prankster, the clown of the barracks, who one night glued Harry’s boots to the floor, making him stand barefoot for morning line-up. Billy bit his fat lips to keep from laughing while Sergeant Woljoski screamed and cursed at Harry. After prying his boots loose with a knife, Harry confronted Billy, who burst out laughing at the sight of boots. Harry cursed at Bucktooth Billy, telling him he was a stupid nigger that had better stop laughing. Billy tried to stop but couldn’t. Harry hit him with a quick jab that split open his left eyebrow. He continued laughing, so Harry split open his other eyebrow. Billy looked at Harry like a bewildered child, blood flowing down his checks, staining his buckteeth as he laughed. Harry knocked the laughter out of him with a blow to the stomach that sent Billy to the hospital. When Harry went and visited Bucktooth Billy at the hospital, Billy told him he was sorry. Harry was unable to reply to the apology, looking with disbelief at the harmless kid he’d nearly beaten to death - for laughing. Following the visit, Harry went to see Father Schneider, the unit’s priest. Father Schneider was the first priest he’d talked to since Father Collins back in Minneapolis. It was Father Schneider who coached Harry in the hardest fight of his life - the fight against a hickory stick ghost. Harry explained to Wade that if it wasn’t for Bucktooth Billy and Father Schneider, he probably never would have become friends with Hank. After Korea, Harry was a reformed racist that made exceptions for specific people and didn’t really care all that much about white supremacy. It took Hank’s death for Harry to seriously re-examine his position. Three years after Hank’s death, Harry ran into Carl Hoffman, a friend he’d made in his days with the KKK, who was in California starting a movement that would become the California Bear Militia. Harry phoned Father Schneider about Carl. Carl put him in touch with Stan Muller, Harry’s FBI case officer prior to Wade. Harry could hear a part of himself explaining drunkenly about how he’d become a prankster during Bucktooth Billy’s hospital stay; about how Father Schneider replaced Catholic ritual with spiritual wholeness; about how he learned to deal with the serious issues of life by learning to take nothing seriously. While babbling philosophy to Wade, Harry’s third timeline was in the future. An ironic vision was unfolding before him as to how best to handle Sherman and the Cal. Gold legal posse on Monday. If executed shrewdly, his audacious vision could topple The Wig from his Lawndale branch throne. Big deal that he would lose his pension and be stigmatized as a racist. He had plenty of money and the bigger the mark of racism branded on him, the more his name would be respected in certain organizations he was trying to bring down. To implement his idea he would need Natalie to knot the brown tie he normally only wore on Halloween nights with his Hitler Brownshirt costume. The fact that he had a refinance appointment on Monday with Moses Jones of the NAACP was icing on the cake.

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Sunday Tim Virginia Tyranda Sherman Tyranda Virginia Sherman Tim

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Tim Tim spent Saturday night at Janet's apartment. In the morning he went for a jog, but an hour’s exertion did little to settle his thoughts. As he ran, his sexual identity got entwined with deceased genetically-unique fetuses, wooden angels, Christian Cult Anonymous, and artificial breasts. His mind seemed to swing wildly between detached numbness and frantic activity. At noon he took Janet to her surgery appointment at Silver Spur Medical in Palos Verdes. The office was located in a Spanish-style mini-mall between a Gucci outlet and Top of the Hill Tennis. Tim noticed that a Gucci display case suitcase was twice as much as a Prince display case racquet. Inside the office, Spain gave way to New England rustic. The waiting room had lights that would have felt at home with Mrs. Washington's chandelier, tables of black oak with a genuine antique feel to them, and prints in autumn hues, with walls and carpets to match. He wondered how many women in Vermont got plastic Jell-O sacks inserted into their mammary glands. He noticed that the same Smithsonian issue he’d been reading at Dr. Westcoat's office was among the magazines laid out on the antique table. He finished the article on the asteroid theory of dinosaur extinction while they waited. It was 1:00 when Janet was called and, after confirming that he should be back to pick her up at five, Tim went outside to his Integra. His sister's C.C.A. meeting was in San Pedro, just a few blocks from his mother's condo, and only five minutes from his apartment. He took Silver Spur to Hawthorne, deciding to take the scenic route that wound down to Palos Verdes Drive and passed by the Wayfarer's Chapel. Janet and he had first screwed on the beach across the road from the Frank Lloyd Wright church. That moonlit night of wine and wickedness had been over ten months ago. Tim didn't know why he turned off Palos Verdes Drive and drove up the hundred feet to the Wayfarer's Chapel. A wedding had just been performed in the tiny all-glass chapel, and a couple wearing outfits probably purchased at an overpriced clothing store in the mini-mall on Silver Spur smiled as he passed them. He sat and watched the sea until a thin Japanese tourist, burdened by an anchorsized camera around his neck, asked him the time. It was three past three. Tim was 20 minutes late to the C.C.A. meeting. His sister had saved him a seat. Fifteen people were sitting in a double row circle. He sat down in the inner circle and was introduced by his sister. A barred widow was directly behind the opposite side of the circle from Tim. Sunlight angled through the window, casting warped gold squares onto the wood floor. Tim was reminded of a similar window on the third floor of Newton Dorm many years ago. Frank's door had been open when he’d walked past to use the hall showers. Frank had been sitting on a chair and looking out at the morning sun, warped window reflections painting him into a Dali sunrise. He wasn't in the chair and his window had been broken when Tim returned from the showers. Tim had walked up to the broken window and peered out, seeing Frank sprawled out on grass below, his twisted body inches from the dormitory's sidewalk. Tim had walked down to the sidewalk, staying until an ambulance came and took Frank away. Rumor was that Frank had fully recovered and moved to Hawaii where he rented a Honolulu apartment with his lover. Tim had not seen or heard anything from Frank since that ambulance had whirled him away - until Thursday's voicemail. Faculty speculated that confusion over his friend's suicide attempt had resulted in

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Tim forsaking his theology major and his goal of joining the ministry. Tim doubted there was much of a link. Frank had been a friend, but not a close one. They knew each other from high school and had been in some of the same college theology classes, but had rarely hung out together. The Lake Berryessa Saturday night campfire hadn't been planned. It had happened spontaneously one night when he and Frank had driven back together from a theology majors’ bible retreat. It had been a full moon and they had stopped to look at the silvery milk path spilling across the lake. They ended up getting out of the car and building a fire. Frank jumped out the window five weeks later. Tim didn't know why he left the ministry, the church, the faith. It just happened one summer, three years into his theology studies. He switched his major to biology in the fall of ’87, and one quarter later he dropped out. He decided to get his real estate license while he thought about what to do with his life. Once he had the license, he found himself answering a loan officer ad in the paper. That was three years ago. The leader of the C.C.A. group, a man in his mid-forties with a deep calm voice, brought Tim out of his thoughts by asking, "How about you Tim? You haven't told us anything about your experience yet. It's O.K. to listen, but if you really want to explore yourself and your cultic baggage, you're going to have to open yourself up." "If it's O.K. to just listen, I'll just listen," said Tim, coming out of his inner reflections and noticing that the warped cubes of sunlight had moved a few inches closer to a pretty red-haired woman sitting to his left. The calm-voiced man absorbed the reply and let a Pastor Devonshire-like contemplative silence settle over the room. He opened up his hands like Moses parting the Red Sea and said, "Tim, I know your pain. We all know your pain. We've all been through the same metamorphosis, the same confusion. You're among friends here Tim. Friends share things with other friends. Go ahead Tim, open up, we're all here for you." "I appreciate you being here for me, but I'm not here to explore. I'm here to listen." "Tim, you're wrapped in anger, pain, and confusion. It's written in your face and hangs about your shoulders like a cross of lead. Talk Tim, go ahead, let it out." "I'd rather not." "Then why did you come?" "My sister asked me to." "Tim, don't lie to yourself. You came here because you escaped a harsh institution that systematically brainwashed you and squeezed out your soul until only a withered husk of guilt-filled humanity remained. The road to rebuilding your selfesteem is a long one. You're among friends that can help you along that road." "I don't really see myself as a withered husk of guilt-filled humanity. And the only reason I'm here is because of Carol relentlessly pestering me to come. That isn't denial, that's the truth." "Tim," said Calm Voice, "the more you protest, the more you prove your denial." "Then I stop my protest. Please direct the discussion elsewhere." "Tim, you can't escape so easily," said Carol, her voice quivering with emotion. "You're always trying to escape. All week long you've tried to escape coming here. What is it that you're so afraid of?” "Now we're getting somewhere," said Calm Voice. "If I retort, will any reply I make be used against me as evidence of my denial?" asked Tim.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Don't do this Tim," pleaded Carol, "don't hide behind walls of words. Open up the gate and let us in. We're only here to help." "Look" said Tim, lowering his voice and allowing his own Devonshire pause, "I'm not here for the same reasons that you have all gathered together. I'm here because somebody who feels confusion and anger over their Adventist upbringing asked me to come. For whatever reason, I simply do not share your sense of outrage.” "Tim, please," said Carol, "don't make out that your Adventist upbringing was all peaches and cream. I was there, remember?" "I would say that, for me, my Adventist upbringing has had more overall positive aspects than negative ones." "How can you say that?" asked Carol. "I'm not here to air my family and religious dirty laundry. Let's focus this discussion elsewhere. Leave me and my denial out of it." "Afraid we can't do that Tim," said Calm Voice. "Sometimes to help someone who's hurting, you must first get them to confront their hurt. Recognizing pain often leads to anger, but it's the first step in the healing process. Go ahead Tim, let it out." "Let what out?" "The pain." "What pain?" "The pain you're not letting out." "Look. I view things from a different perspective. My evolution away from my heritage hasn't left me with the same bitter taste in my mouth that you all seem to share." "Tim," said Calm Voice, "let me be blunt, you're a liar." "Well thank you, blunt.” "Tim, stop it," said Carol. "Stop what?" asked Tim. "You know what I'm talking about.” "Tim," added Calm Voice, "this isn't doing you any good. Stop wasting time, yours and ours. Confront your cultic Christianity and face your fear. Don't deny denial." "Is denying denial possible?" asked Tim. “Or is the mere act of denying that you're in denial a further manifestation of denial? In order to be left alone, do I have to fabricate some horrific non-Big Mac childhood filled with bible-thumping bullies forcing me to memorize verses from Revelations while denying me free access to Xrated movies? Please, tell what I have to say so you'll let me shut up." "I think you know what to say," said Calm Voice. "I'm beginning to feel your bottled-up anger coming through. That is a good sign. Now go ahead, tap into that reservoir of wrath and let it come bursting out." "You're hearing anger in my voice," said Tim, "because I'm beginning to get pissed off. This has been a really tough weekend. Please, get the hell off my back and move on." "Good Tim, good," said Calm Voice, "follow that anger into the depths of your pain and find the key to unlock the door of self discovery. Your self-discovery begins the road to wellness and wholeness." "Should I make a list of a 100 things that really piss me off? After all, anger isn't really worth having unless you write it down. Somewhere on my list, maybe angry item number 43 would be bullshit, sound-bite solutions for complex emotions and painful situations that certain armchair pop psychologists know nothing about." That's it Tim," smiled Calm Voice, "you've found your anger. Now pick it up and run with it."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "You want me to pick up my pain like some type of Freudian football and run with it." Tim stood up, his face red, voice a near scream. “Take the subconscious pigskin and perform some type of voodoo dance with it? Well I’m not playing. This ex-Adventist and his cultic demons are going to go and steal a wooden angel before picking up a sex partner at the tit-enlargement clinic. Goodbye to you all and remember me in your prayers.” He marched through the sunlight shafts and the warped gold squares, out of the building, and drove directly to his mother's condo. He had a spare key so he could water the plants and care for her cat Simba when she went on vacation. Simba watched as Tim escorted the teak angel out of the condo.

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Virgina Sunday service at the Hawthorne Baptist Church was a memorable one. The choir lived up to the expectations generated by the news of Virgina's return. The bookends seemed to rattle pink bricks and swell the Lord's triangular house to the point of bursting. Estelle marched her vocal cords triumphantly through the first half of the Saints. As previously arranged, Virgina took over midway and moved the choir from Jordan into heaven-bound chariots. Following the Saints, Lois joined Virgina and Estelle in "Rocka My Soul". What Lois lacked in vocal depth she made up for in blending harmony and bookend decibel control. The trio seemed to tap into currents deeper than music; seemed to give voice to a people's historic struggle; seemed to wail with the pain and chaos of recent riots; seemed to radiate hope for reconciliation and redemption. Perhaps it was the choir’s newfound energy that inspired Tyus. Virgina couldn’t remember a more profound and moving sermon. After church Isaac Masters cornered Virgina in the parking lot. "I bet you rattled the good Lord's throne today. Keep that up and Gabriel's going to have to tie it down every Sunday morning." "Glad you enjoyed it Isaac," said Virgina. "Enjoyed it? I warned you about my heart condition. I thought God might just forget all his other duties while listening.” He smiled and pulled at a blue and white bowtie knotted a little too tight around his neck. “There's something important I would like to discuss with you. It won't take long." "What is it?" "Well it's about Chuck. You see …“ “Hold it Isaac. Hold it right there. I’ve warned you. No more crazy stories. I ain’t changing my mind.” “How do you know the story’s crazy if you haven’t heard the story.” “You watch too much TV. You're a bad liar Isaac Masters. The last story you concocted was stolen straight out of ‘Sanford and Son’. You picked the wrong sitcom. ‘Sanford and Son’ was Eddie’s favorite." "So the story might have been a little borrowed, but the point of the whole thing remains. And the point of the thing is that you should give Chuck a break. You …“ "Isaac, you shut up right now or you ain’t coming over for lunch.” Isaac had been coming over to the Coopers’ house every Sunday since before Eddie died. “Now don’t be getting mean. Don’t threaten to separate a man from the best damn chicken in this here part of the galaxy just because he’s trying to knock some sense into your damn head.” “Leave my damn head out of it. Now, are you going to shut up or stay home and order pizza?” "All right, all right, you win.” Isaac walked off and Virgina started her car. Pulling out of the Hawthorne Baptist Church parking lot, she saw Miriam Stone and wondered why she was meeting with Tad. After service, Tad had asked if they could bump their get-together back by a half hour because Miriam was coming over beforehand. Following lunch with Isaac Virgina took a nap, but minutes after she dozed off, the phone rang. It was Harry’s wife Natalie. "Harry’s going to use his Hitler tie for something." “What?” asked Virgina as she tried to get her mind to wake up.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels “You said to call you if Harry was acting stranger than normal. Well, this morning Harry had me knot his Hitler tie." "Hitler tie? You’re going to have to explain this one." "It's a plain brown tie that he wears every Halloween with his stupid Hitler outfit. I don't know of any other use for that tie. I think he's up to another one of his crazy schemes, but I have no idea what it could be. You think it might have something to do with the Sherman thing you called me about on Friday?" "More than likely. What could that crazy fool be up to? Hitler and the NAACP.” “NAACP?” “Just a guess. Harry’s appointment with Moses Jones of the NAACP just happens to coincide with Monday’s discipline hearing.” Virgina first learned of Sherman’s plot against Harry on Thursday while eavesdropping on a phone conversation between Sherman and Arnie Mathas. On Friday she’d made a number of phone calls and had pieced together the whole plot. Shirley at Lawndale Escrow confirmed her suspicion that Sherman had Bernie Baluchistani well under control. Florence Braxton, Barry Waters’ secretary, was the one who’d informed her of Harry's disciplinary hearing at one o’clock on Monday. "What is that man up to?" asked Natalie. "Don't worry. I won’t let anything happen to Harry. I’ll figure out how to handle Hitler if he pops into the office Monday." “You really think Harry would do that?” “Natalie please, I know I’ve known Harry longer than you, but after nearly thirty years of marriage you know better than to be asking that.” “I know. It’s just that I love the idiot and I’m worried about him.” “Natalie, I love him too. Your husband is one of my most favorite people on this earth. Don’t worry, I can take care of Sherman. Nothing is going to happen to Harry.” “Thanks Virgina.” “Anything for you and Harry. You know that. Keep me posted on any new Hitler developments.” “Bye.” “Bye.” Virgina put down her phone and thought about Harry, about how they’d first met when visiting Eddie’s cousin, Hank Cooper, at the Long Beach VA hospital. She thought about the years immediately following Hank’s murder, about how Harry had taught Eddie to sail and had arranged for Virgina’s job at California Gold, about how he’d cried the day he told them that the FBI wanted him to break off their relationship. When Pacific Rim Engineering had called with the news of Eddie's accident, Harry drove Virgina to the hospital and, despite the danger to his cover, he had attended Eddie’s funeral. Virgina thought about Harry and Monday’s disciplinary hearing as she drove to Tad’s house. It was nearing four when she pulled up in front of an unassuming white stucco house. Tad opened his front door as she got out of her car. Miriam Stone came out of the house as Virgina walked towards Tad. Virgina complimented Miriam on her dress and the two briefly chatted on the sidewalk leading up to Tad’s doorstep. "You sure put heart and lungs into the Saints this morning,” said Tad as Virgina entered the house. “Sent goose bumps all up and down this sinner's spine." "It wasn’t my singing. It was your conscience getting after you for not getting to church as much as you should.” "Your singing sure did something to Tyus. The man was genuinely inspired. He even kept the fire and brimstone at a tolerable level."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "He was more moderate with the fire and brimstone than he should have been with such an infamous backslider as yourself present." "Virgina, I need to make a quick phone call. Why don't you go and pour yourself a glass and I'll be right there.” "Sounds like a good idea,” said Virgina, heading to a huge backyard spanning four legal plots of land. A gallon jug of fresh-squeezed lemonade stood on a table under Tad's gazebo, sunlight reflecting off glass and ice cubes like a disco strobe light. Weird patterns of light danced against the gazebo's intricately carved pine, tangoing off bookcase cabinet, jacuzzi, and mini refrigerator. Virgina poured herself a glass and looked at the books in Tad's small wood and glass cabinet. The usual works of philosophy by authors Virgina had never heard of rested against a thick volume on baseball statistics. A letter addressed to William Tad Lincoln was next to a book by Spinoza. Virgina turned from the cabinet, gazing out at fruit trees, listening to bird choirs hidden within citrus foliage. The Post and Willy T. were names Tad had acquired since their childhood days. When Tad came out to the gazebo, Virgina asked, "Did you get a chance to talk to Tim about his Janet situation?" "You were right, the kid does have a lot on his mind. I wasn't able to tap into everything that's eating at him but he did unburden the Janet business that you called me about." "And?" "And they went and saw Anne Westcoat Saturday morning." "Have you talked to him since?" "No." "I wonder how they're doing?" "Physically Janet is fine. Anne said everything went smoothly. Emotionally I guess it's a question of time and a ear to lean on. Tim's coming out next week to handle a purchase for me and, if he feels he needs to talk about it, I'm sure he'll open up." "Is the purchase Tim’s seeing you about 2117 Dalton Street by any chance?" "You got it,” said Tad with a grin. "I now have all the land I need to develop my pet project." "The community center you're always talking about?" "That's the one. Day care, midnight basketball, baseball field, counseling, swimming pool. It's going to have the whole works." "You’re going to need a lot more than your half point referral tax to finance an undertaking like that." "The re-fi tax money is all used on small projects. And, by the way, I've bumped up the overage to give Randy a financial hand starting up his teenage run graffiti removal business." "So where's all the community center money going to come from? Was that why Miriam was here? The center would be in her district, wouldn't it?" "My property is in her district all right. She won't let me forget that. Getting her name tied to the center has obvious political advantages for Miriam. But I want to keep the project as far removed from politics as possible. I want to raise cash in the private sector from personal and business contributions, along with loans from local banks. She has other ideas." "What are her ideas?" "She wants to use both public and private sector funds to build what she calls an African American Opportunity Center." "What did you tell her?" "Find somebody else's land."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Why?" "I don't want to be tied to Uncle Sam's financial and political apron strings. And I don't want this community center to become a bully pulpit for Miriam to use in attacking the establishment that she wishes to receive money from." "How did she take that?" “Not good. She told me I was becoming too comfortable with the fruits of the status quo to recognize the worms of economic repression and systematic racism. I told her that I didn't believe in chopping down the whole tree to get at a few worms." "She does go overboard, but she does do right by her people." "I'll give her that. If she wanted to Miriam could make things a real pain in the ass for me. But she'll keep her weight off my toes because she knows I've got the best interests of her people in mind. I just wish she’d cool the rhetoric at times.” "Give her a break, she’s a politician. Rhetoric gets votes.” "Note my vote. Her vision is a little too black and white, if you’ll excuse the pun.” “I voted for her and I’d vote for her again. Yes she goes overboard, but look at the conditions she’s fighting against: police brutality, drive-by shootings, entrenched poverty." "The conditions existing in South Central are definitely something to get angry about. I just don’t buy holding the establishment as the sole culprit causing all inner city ills.” "She just exaggerates to draw people's attention to issues most Americans want to forget." "I understand what she’s doing. I just want her to learn a few more notes. She has one self righteous trumpet.” "I know you and Miriam rarely see eye to eye on things. But wouldn’t you say that her overall impact has been a positive one for the black community?" "In the short run, yes. In the long run, I have my doubts. Crying white wolf at every issue weakens Miriam's message and elicits emotional responses from both ends of the color spectrum. The white majority falls into stereotyping the black minority and seeing every black complaint as an illogical attempt to use skin color as either an excuse to explain away personal shortcomings or as a guilt whip to try to beat out special concessions. And at the other end of the spectrum, the black minority falls into stereotyping the white majority as greedy racists trying to hold onto what they unjustly gained through centuries of stepping on the backs of blacks." Tad refilled his glass with lemonade and continued. “To me, Miriam Stone is one of the many prophets preaching out-group distrust and in-group self righteousness as a self evident absolute. The graveyards of history are piled high with the bones of those that blindly follow such creeds." "Now that’s a Miriam Stone line if I’ve ever heard one," said Virgina. "Miriam Stone does tend to bring out the Miriam Stone in me. I just don’t want her turning my community center into some kind of ideological fortress. I want it to be an alternative to the streets for inner city kids. A place to come out and play ball, shoot the shit, lift weights, read a book, play with a computer, talk problems out with a counselor from time to time. The kid doesn't have to be black, purple, white, tall, short, educated, or stupid to join the center. He just has to pay his membership fees and follow a few simple rules." "Rules and fees? How much you planning on charging?" "I want the center to be a place that teaches values. You can't learn values until grasping the fact that there's no free lunch in this world." "What about those that have no lunch money?" "I, and the center coordinator I am hiring, have yet to iron out an exact number, but the fee will be in the ballpark of $250 per year. Those that can't pay will

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels be given the opportunity to earn their center privileges by doing necessary work about the place. As far as the rules are concerned, my center coordinator and I are still hotly debating the complex's Ten Commandments." "You've mentioned this center coordinator twice. Who is he?" "He'll be here shortly. He wants to talk to you. His name is Chuck Cooper." "My son?!" "Yes," smiled Tad. "He should be coming by around 4:30. He knows you're here and I told him to come out to the gazebo via the side gate. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you two to talk while I go inside and make some more phone calls." Virgina watched him walk back into the house - the house Chuck had been brought to after his overdose. She poured herself another glass of lemonade and waited for Chuck to arrive.

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Tyranda Ty was to see the girls at 1:00. He’d put the Silo goods into Lena's trunk two days ago, a few hours before Darci arrived with Sam. It would have been difficult explaining to his sister why two new 25” remote control TVs, a top-of-the-line CD player, and a VCR were in his apartment. He’d filed off their identification codes before lugging them all down to the underground garage. He rolled down Lena's window and yanked the cord that triggered the automatic garage opener. A heavy steel gate rumbled open and he pulled out onto Esplanade, relieved to be leaving his apartment. The awkward silence that had been established with Sam was nearly as nerve racking as the constant needling had been. Ty reached the girls’ place a little after 1:00. The retirement center let him park Lena in the gated staff lot in the rear of the complex. Visitors’ parking was no place for Lena, not in this area of Watts. Leticia smiled from the reception desk as he entered, and they talked for a bit before he headed to the girls. Ty knew everyone at the center. He’d visited the place every Sunday since his grandparents moved in during August of ‘88, a month after he’d taken Grandpa to the Hollywood Bowl to see Miles, and two weeks after the stroke that permanently blunted his sharp wit. Grandpa had been a rummy wizard before the stroke. Each Sunday, when Ty visited the Watts Community Rest Home, he’d play cards with his grandparents and the girls. After the stroke, Grandpa got to the point where he couldn't make sense of the cards. In the two months before he passed away on February 10, 1989, he was confined to his bed and couldn't join the group in their weekly game in the small recreation room. Grandma's mind remained crystal clear, and her rummy game chaotic and confused, up until the December morning of her death. The Sunday after she passed away, Ty returned to the complex to pick up his Grandma’s things. He stayed on to play a few hours of cards and had been returning every Sunday since. Referring to Mabel, Matilda, Betty, and Janis as "the girls" was something Johnny had come up with the Sunday Lena was in the shop and he’d offered to drive him over to the center. It had been love at first sight. Johnny had charmed the socks off them and they stole his heart. Johnny was an even worse rummy player than Grandma had been. He’d been coming down with Ty to see the girls for over a year now. He came at least twice a month. "Tyranda Malcolm Alexander," exclaimed Mabel as Ty entered the rec. room. "Afternoon Mabel, afternoon ladies." "Hello Tyranda," said Mabel's younger, 73 year-old, sister Matilda. "Afternoon Tyranda," said Janis. "Who's here?" asked Betty. "Tyranda," said Janis. "Who's Tyranda?" Betty had been having memory problems lately. "You know Tyranda," said Janis. "Sam's boy, Henry's grandson," said Mabel. "Henry's son? Sure I remember Henry's son." Betty had also been having hearing aid problems. "This is Sam's son," corrected Mabel. "This is Tyranda, you remember Tyranda." "Sam, Henry's boy. Sure I remember you Sam. Nathaniel used to get his hair cut every month at your shop over on Beach Street and was one of them Civil Barbarians."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "This isn't Sam," snapped Janis, "this is Tyranda. He comes in here every Sunday to play cards, and every Sunday you think it's Sam. Sam wasn't here last week and he ain't going to be here next week. Sam ain't never been here and he ain't never coming. This is Tyranda for Christ's sake!" "Hush now Janis," said Matilda. "You know better than to be taking the Lord's name in vain, especially for something the woman can't be helping." "I know, I know," said Janis. "I'm just thinking about Tyranda, that's all. Every Sunday he has to come in here and be called Sam. Every Sunday we have to explain that this isn't the Sam Alexander who owned the barbershop on Beach Street. I just hope she don't be starting with Sydney Portier like she did last Sunday." "Who's that?" asked Betty, strange insect noises singing out of her left ear as she fiddled with her hearing aid. "What's that? Somebody say that Sam looks like Sydney Portier? I've always said that Sam looks like Sydney Portier. Not like what Sydney Portier looks like now but what Sydney Portier looked like when he was Sydney Portier. How' bout it Sam, anybody ever tell you you look like Sydney Portier?" "This isn't Sam," said Mabel, "this is Sam's son, Tyranda." "Tyranda? Why didn't anybody tell me this was Tyranda? Come closer Tyranda, let me get a good look." Ty stepped up to Betty. "Why you don't look anything like Sydney Portier. You're handsome enough, just not in a Portier type of way." "Thank you Betty," laughed Ty. "I see a lot of the King in you. Same cheekbones. Do something with that wet dishrag atop your head and you'd be the spitting image of Martin. Now Sydney's still tops in my books but Dr. King wasn't no ugly man. I saw him once in a rally in San Francisco. I wasn't there for no speeches." "You done lost your mind woman?" asked Janis, "talking about a man of God like that. Shame on you." "Shame on yourself. A man of God is still made up of flesh and bone. All I'm saying is that Dr. King had some pretty good looking flesh on them bones." "I do declare," declared Janis, "you'd think a Negro'd show a little more respect than that." "Are we going to play cards or what?" asked Mabel. "Let's get started," said Matilda. "It's not me holding up the show," said Janis. "It's Betty and her Tyranda as Martin Luther King that's holding everything up. Sam and Sydney Portier I can tolerate. This Dr. King thing better not be some new fixation that we have to be a hearing about every Sunday." "What was that?" asked Betty, shrill hornets buzzing out of her hearing aid as she played with a knob. "Sam is here? I can remember Nathaniel getting a cut at your shop for a dollar. A dollar, can you imagine that?" It was another fifteen minutes before Mabel dealt cards for rummy. Betty talked about haircuts and Sydney Portier and Sam's barbershop on Jefferson, but nobody paid much attention. Matilda began complaining about pains in her lower back, which reminded Mabel of when they were kids in Mississippi and a cow had run into their schoolhouse. Ty was amused by the story but didn't quite understand the connection between a cow running through class and knocking a fish bowl off Mrs. Knight's desk and Matilda's lower back pains. Janis remained absorbed in her cards until Betty began to further explore Dr. King's sex appeal. At 3 o’clock Ty had a couple of the staff help transport the two TVs, CD player, and VCR from Lena's trunk to the rec room. He explained to the girls that the stuff was excess goods left over from a sales promotion that his bank had put on. He

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels got the idea from a free toaster/car loan story that Betty had been going on and on about last month. The girls ooohed and aaahed over the Silo merchandise like hens clucking about an out-of-farm rooster. By 3:30 the equipment had been installed in their various rooms and they’d all returned to the table. A few minutes after sitting back down, Joyce, a stout woman resembling a black striped bowling pin in her white nurse's uniform, came into the room. Joyce said, "Ty, sorry to interrupt but Johnny is on the phone." "Johnny? He phoned here?" "Yes, he's on the phone. Follow me." Ty followed her to a hall phone. "Yo Johnny, what up?" "It's your father. You'd better get over here." Ty listened as Johnny explained. Joyce, who was across the hall in the room of a withered old black man who lay motionless on a soiled bed, looked up startled when Ty exploded with, "He did fucking what?!" His hand was trembling when he hung up the phone. He couldn't believe what Johnny had just told him. He seemed drugged when he said goodbye to the girls, as the walls of the retirement center seemed to twist and blur with his spinning vision. He waved to Leticia at the front desk and walked out to Lena. Pulling onto the 405, Ty was still having problems believing that Sam had done what Johnny had just told him.

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Sherman Sherman was walking out to the rented Cadillac, heading to the office, when Sally screamed that her water had broken. By 1:10 they were pulling into the parking lot of the Santa Monica General Hospital, where they put Sally into a regular hospital room. Her contractions were fairly mild and about eleven minutes apart. Sherman rang for a nurse, who said that Sally wouldn't be moved into a delivery room until the contractions were five minutes apart and her cervix had dilated another four or five centimeters. These things took time, said the nurse, many hours usually. Sherman chewed on an unlit Pall Mall as he sat in a chair next to Sally’s. He looked at his watch and realized he’d been sitting next to his wife for nearly an hour. He’d have to leave soon or postpone his 3:00 Saxena appointment. “How you holding up?” asked Sherman, as he thought over various schemes to tell Sally to get him to the Saxena application on time. “Wish I could be with you in the delivery room but you know how I am around blood.” “So you tell me.” “Serious honey, the sight of it in any amount makes me faint. In fact I'm feeling a little squeamish right now just thinking about it. Would it be O.K. if I get some fresh air and a cigarette. I’ll tell the nurse to page me if anything starts to happen.” “Things are happening asshole,” grimaced Sally as a contraction hit her. She breathed though it before adding, “I guess you didn’t realize that I’m in the middle of having your baby.” “Yes you are love melon. I don’t have to go. I just thought that fresh air would clear my head.” “Sorry honey. I’m just scared. Go have your cigarette, but hurry back.” “I will,” lied Sherman as he got up and walked out of the room.” He was going to have a baby the old-fashioned way. He hadn't gone to any Lamaze class to become a breathing coach. He figured he’d done his part nine months ago. Men were men and women had babies. Sherman found the nurse and asked, "Any idea when my little girl's going to pop out and say hello?" "’Fraid Mother Nature doesn't wear a watch. As I told you before Mr. Peters, it could be an hour, it could be ten.” “Hospitals make me nervous. I’m going to go outside for a smoke and walk around the block. Here's my card. Could you page me if my little girl starts to get impatient and things get serious?" "I guess," frowned the nurse, "but don't be too long. You can never tell. It might be a question of minutes rather than hours." "Thanks, and sorry for the trouble. Page me the minute you think the show has really started." It took Sherman 25 minutes to get to the office. The Saxenas showed up on time. After a few pleasantries, Sherman asked, "Before we get started, would you like something to drink? Coffee, water, soda?" Dennis had water, Joan a soda. As they sat down around Sherman's desk, Joan asked, "Do you do jumbo adjustable loans?" "Certainly. You thinking of putting less money down and not going conforming? Or are you inquiring for a friend?" "My brother, actually," said Joan.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Is he a pilot as well?" smiled Sherman, trying to get a handle on her brother's financial situation. "He and his wife are both accountants. They're with B of A now but have been thinking about changing mortgage holders and pulling out some cash for some remodeling. His neighbor is refinancing through a Mr. Beckman at another Cal. Gold office and he was going to give him a ring, but then I told him about you. He lives in Westwood. Could he go through you instead of Mr. Beckman?" "He can go with anybody at Cal. Gold he chooses. I suggest he goes with who he's most comfortable with. Has he talked to Bob, er, Mr. Beckman yet?" "I don't think so. Why don't you call him? You should do it today, he's flying out to Salt Lake on business tomorrow." "Utah, does he ski?" "He's nuts about skiing. His number is 213 area code, 738-1123." "Thanks. I'll call him as soon as we're done." It was 3:40 when the Saxenas left. Sherman punched Joan's brother's number. "Hello," came a nasally voice. An accountant's voice, not a skier's voice, thought Sherman. "Paul Turner?" "This is Paul." "Mr. Turner, hello, this is Sherman Peters, your sister's mortgage banker. She tells me you're headed to Utah. Hope it's not all business. Great fishing out there." "No fishing, it's all business." "Oh well, the fish up in our own mountains are no slackers. But the snow sure doesn't compare. I guess Snowbird would be closed this time of year anyway." "Actually it's still open." "That a fact?" Sherman spent the next five minutes discussing various ski resorts he lied about having gone to. When talk turned from skiing to mortgages, Paul asked, "Can you come to my house for the application?" "Sure, when are you getting back from Utah?" "I'm with the Mormons for a whole week. Any way you could swing by and get the ball rolling today?" Sherman hesitated, then felt a stab of hemorrhoid pain that reminded him that he would be stealing Paul away from Bobby-Fucking-Beckman. "I can be there in forty minutes." "Come on up." As Sherman was writing down Paul's address and getting directions, his pager went off. He hit his voicemail speed dial button. It was Mary Proundstone. Sherman called Mary and gave her a full report on the Saxena application. It was ten past four when he got back to the reception area at the Santa Monica General Hospital. "There you are," said the nurse. "I was just going to page you. Sally is getting close, another centimeter and we move her to the delivery room." "How much longer?" "Again, I can't say. It could literally be any second or a few hours yet." "From your experience, how much longer would you say?" "Probably two hours." "Two hours. I got to go for another walk before I vomit.” Sherman thought of giving the nurse his cell phone number but decided it more prudent to stick with the pager. It was unlikely that she’d pick up on background phone noise and realize he wasn’t walking around the block, but why take the chance? “Could you tell my wife that I’m feeling sick but I’m out in the lobby cheering for her?" "I guess, but stay close," said the nurse.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Paul's house was only fifteen minutes away from the hospital on the post-riot, traffic-light freeways. Paul and his wife Eva lived in a small bungalow that Sherman estimated at over $500,000 easy. They only wanted to borrow $250,000, and the preliminary credit report he’d run while talking to Paul on the phone was spotless. A 50% LTV easy qualifier, the second slam-dunk of the day. Eva demanded that Sherman join them for some beef stew, fried rice, and salad. The food was excellent and Sherman didn't get out of their Westwood home until 5:30. During German chocolate cake his pager had gone off. Probably Mary again, thought Sherman, as he put the device on mute. He got out his mobile phone while starting up the Cadillac. He had three messages. The first was Mary Proundstone explaining why she was switching title companies. The second two messages were from the hospital. The first asked him to please come immediately to the delivery room - they were having complications of some sort. The second said that they had decided to go caesarian.

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Tyranda "I was able to save most of your stuff, but your phonograph and records were gone," said Johnny. "So the bastard was just having a yard sale with my Grandpa's records and gramophone?" "I couldn't believe my eyes when I pulled up. He had a big sign saying ‘Yard Sale’ and was out on the front lawn selling all your shit. I immediately stopped him, but the records and player were already gone. Sorry man, I know those things were fucking priceless." "Where's he at now?" "He disappeared when I was moving all your stuff back up to the apartment. He reeked of booze." "Figures. I still can't believe it. My Grandpa lugged that gramophone with him all the way from Paris, across the Atlantic on boat, across America by train. Some of those record jackets were signed. I'm talking Parker and Ellington. Shit, I'm going to kill that fucking drunk!” "He was acting rather strange, maybe we should call the cops." "Give it an hour or so. He'll probably show up." "If you go looking for him take me along. I don't want his blood on my conscience." "Sure Johnny. And thanks." "I'll be next door if you need anything", said Johnny, walking out of Ty's apartment. Ty starred vacantly at where his Pathe gramophone should have been, remembering all the times he and his grandfather had listened to Miles Davis and Porter and Gillespie and Horne and Reinhart and Goodman and Parker and Ellington and Holiday and Waller and Armstrong. He sat down on the living room carpet and contemplated the enormity of his loss. Emptiness as poignant as a Miles trumpet solo washed over him. He got up and walked to the bathroom sink. An empty bottle of Scope lay on the counter. The bastard had started his binge with a bottle of Ty's own mouthwash. Ty felt a wave of heat creeping through his capillaries, veins, and soul. Seizing the Scope bottle, he smashed it against the shower wall. In the reflection of the bathroom mirror, Ty saw Sam's beat-up suitcase in the hallway. He kicked viciously at the Samsonite before picking it up and hurling it into the living room. He opened the sliding glass door to the balcony and kicked the suitcase against the leather sofa. He kicked, screamed and cursed and flung it through the open slider. It slammed into the railing and popped open. It was a picture of his mother that stopped Ty from casting the old case into the deepening blue of the summer beach afternoon. The suitcase was full of photographs, newspaper clippings, and various mementos: a picture of Ty in diapers pointing a toy gun, a newspaper article about his rushing for 123 yards in a high school football game, Darci's nursing graduation announcement. A photograph inscribed “ Christmas 1968” was under the graduation announcement. In the picture Sam was dressed as Santa Claus and held an infant Ty under his long white beard. His mother and Darci stood next to Santa Claus. Ty sat down and slowly looked through the contents of the battered suitcase. A seagull sailed over the balcony as he leafed through articles and pictures outlining Sam's involvement in the civil rights movement of the 60's. Blue evening sky began

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels to darken into night as he still read on, piecing together the past, learning what caused Sam to crawl into a bottle and self-destruct. After nearly an hour he brought the suitcase back into the living room. He set the story onto the carpet, arranging photographs and newspaper articles into a chronological square, a structure of words and images that spelled out a history of which Ty had been completely ignorant. He walked slowly around the square before sitting on the sofa below his Grandpa's three Paris sketches, and he pondered the new knowledge, the new image of Sam that the battered suitcase had imparted. Ty learned that during the 60’s Sam had been a civil rights leader with a militant dislike of two L.A.P.D. officers. The dislike was vociferous, as testified to by all the clippings outlining Sam's charges against the two officers: racism, corruption, abuse, and murder. From the picture Ty was able to piece together, the two officers weren't factors for the first five years of the "Civil Rights Salon", as Sam's barbershop had come to be known. The "Barber of Civil" and "Beach Street Crusader" were labels pinned on Sam by various papers. His shop doubled as a civil rights think-tank, a group informally referred to as the "Civil Barberians". What focused the group's attention on officers James Kennedy and Robert Rutherford was Sam's private investigation into the murder of Malcolm J. Cobbs, one of the brightest and most vocal of the "Civil Barberians". The old clippings told of how, one hot summer night in 1969, Sam had driven Malcolm over to his brother Michael’s house to borrow his car. Malcolm's own car was having starter problems and he wanted to make sure he had a working vehicle to take his wife to LAX for an early morning flight to Detroit. Sam had waited while Malcolm obtained the key, got into Michael's car, and backed it out of the driveway. He was behind the car when Malcolm turned onto Jefferson Street and was met by a barrage of bullets fired by two gunmen. Sam swore he recognized one of the assailants as James Kennedy, a face he’d become acquainted with from various civil rights rallies. The burly Irishman had become infamous to the "Civil Barberians" for his zealous use of the baton. But despite Sam's public charges, no formal police investigation was made into the matter. Four days after the murder, Michael Cobbs committed suicide in a Las Vegas hotel room. Sam began his own relentless investigation into the deaths, discovering that Michael had been involved in a protection racket that had begun dabbling in heroin trafficking. Sam claimed to have found evidence linking Michael Cobbs to James Kennedy and Robert Rutherford, two crooked officers who had been double-crossed in a lucrative heroin operation. Michael Cobb’s double-cross failed in one of its objectives. It cut the officers out of their expected cash, but failed to eliminate the possibility of reprisal by not succeeding in its design of claiming their lives. Sam concluded that Kennedy and Rutherford had then enacted a swift and brutal vengeance on the wrong Cobbs brother, a mistake they corrected four days later by hanging Michael and making it look like suicide. Sam's evidence was burned in a blaze that destroyed the barbershop, ended his involvement in the civil rights community, and killed Ty’s mother. The charges that Kennedy and Rutherford were behind the fire met with sympathetic criticism in the papers. Both men had solid proof of their whereabouts the night of October 28, 1969, and both had indisputable evidence that they’d been far away from the tragic events at Beach Street Barbershop. But Sam believed otherwise. He claimed a late night phone call had lured him to the barbershop - a call from a soft-spoken Negro, saying he’d been a friend of Michael Cobbs and knew of his connections with the L.A.P.D. The caller said he feared for his life but wanted to bring Sam something that would prove the link. He

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels wouldn't elaborate over the phone, but said it was urgent that they get together soon. Sam suggested the barbershop and they agreed to meet at midnight. Janel, Ty's mother, must have been listening on the bedroom phone, must have had her doubts about the man behind that soft-spoken voice, must have driven down to check on her husband's safety. What else could explain why her charred remains were found in the smoldering ruins of Beach Street Barbershop? Sam couldn't vocalize his thoughts until four months after the fire, when the doctors that had wired his shattered jaw together thought it safe to allow their patient to move the mending bones of his face. Perhaps it was bitterness over nobody believing his story of being beaten at the hands of Kennedy and Rutherford that drove him to drink. Perhaps it was the loss of the woman with Vivian-like beauty that caused him to publicly attack the two officers with a baseball bat and receive a ten-year prison sentence. Perhaps his shattered dreams caused him to vanish after prison and not reappear until after Ty's high school graduation. Ty sat on the sofa and studied the cube of pictures and newspaper clippings. His eyes focused on the date of an article about an evidence tampering investigation that resulted in the dismissal of veteran officers James Kennedy and Robert Rutherford. It was three weeks before the Sunday he’d rushed for 123 yards against Carson High, a year and a half before his father suddenly drove to Grandpa's house and re-entered his life after a sixteen-year absence. He got up, put away the cube, snapped shut the suitcase, and walked out onto the balcony. Blue had been replaced by gray, and two stars had become visible in the darkening sky. "You O.K.?" asked Johnny, coming out onto his balcony. "Yeah, I'm O.K.. I think it's time to go father hunting." "Any idea where he could be?" "Yeah, I've got an idea." "We'd better go then." "Thanks, but it's a trip I've got to make by myself. When Darci comes, could you tell her that we went out for a bite to eat and that I'll bring Sam by her house later on? She doesn't need to know about the records." Ty walked down to Lena and drove out of the underground lot. He put a Billie Holiday tape into the cassette player. Twenty-five minutes later he was driving past burned-out buildings and machine gun- wielding soldiers in green fatigues, standing out against the gray of cement and the black of fire-gutted shops. He stopped in front of a Watts cemetery, his intuition and a suitcase photograph compelling him to visit the site. The photograph reminded him that today was his parents’ anniversary. Sam was slumped against Janel Alexander's tombstone, a bouquet of flowers in his lap, a bottle of rum in his right hand. Sam looked up, smiled, and asked, "Howdy Lone Ranger, tonight your night for rounding up deadbeat nigger drunks?" "No, tonight is the night for a son to give his father a helping hand. Do you mind if I have a seat?" Sam motioned for Ty to sit down. They sat in gentle silence before the grave. Ty reached for Sam's bottle, took a long gulp, and handed it back. Sam looked at the bottle in Ty's outstretched hand, moonlight and streetlight glowing inside the glass like pale marble. He took a gulp and handed it back. The process was repeated until the bottle was emptied. "Why didn't you tell me?" asked Ty into the silence. "I didn't want the event to poison your mind like it did mine. I wanted you to grow up without my hatred." The silence returned before Sam added, "I planned to tell you when you got older, but found I couldn't get past the thing that had built up between us in the years I wasn't there for you."

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heart."

"I guess I did build up some pretty big walls." "You weren't the only one wall building. There's a ton of stone around this old

"Why the records, why the gramophone?" "I think I was trying to rupture the only link left between us. It was unforgivable and I guess that's why I did it. I wanted to destroy myself completely in your eyes." "It was fucking unforgivable. At least now I have a legitimate excuse to be bitter." "I'm sorry, son." "I'm sorry too, Sam, sorry the records are gone and sorry that I've never given you much of a chance. Now let's leave Mama to rest and get home." Ty helped his father up. They walked to Lena and began the drive to Darci's apartment.

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Virgina Drinking her lemonade, Virgina thought back to the night of Chuck’s overdose. Somebody had tipped off Tad about her son’s condition. Tad and a doctor friend had driven down to central LA, and found Chuck in a graffiti-laced building of dilapidated walls and crumbling heroin addicts. They’d found him on a stained mattress, quivering, and drenched in vomit. The doctor administered a shot after checking Chuck's pulse and listening to his breathing. He told Tad that the worst was over and that Chuck would be as safe rehabilitating at home as he would be at a hospital. They’d carried him out of the building and brought him to the guestroom adjacent to Tad’s huge study. Tad had then called Virgina with the news. It had been a rainy Thursday night, a week before Thanksgiving, when Virgina received Tad's call and drove over to see Chuck. His body was feverish and he was covered in sweat. As she leaned over his bed and felt his ebony forehead, Chuck's eyes had slowly opened. He lifted his arm, feebly clutching Virgina’s hand, and slowly slurring. "I'm sorry Mama, I'm so sorry", before falling back into feverish slumber. Virgina had stayed at his side until morning. He groaned and twisted and spoke ceaselessly through the fever and dream-tormented night. Covering up for Clark's car crash tumbled from his troubled lips. Anger and confusion over being unjustly accused of the Hawthorne choir fund robbery twisted into musing over the actual identity of Beth Montgomery's child. Then his words grew incoherent as the babble of nightmare and fever overtook him. Strange images and beasts and falling bodies and trips to Chicago and dead bodies floating down freeways all jumbled out of Chuck's mind in a jerky torrent. In the morning the fever had broken. Chuck was weak but whole. He left Tad's place Saturday and Wednesday he’d stopped by the office. Virgina never forgot a word that he’d spoken. "Mama," Chuck had said, "tomorrow is Thanksgiving and everybody will be getting together. But I won't be there Mama. Not this year, not next year, maybe not ever. You've grown your boys up to be proud and honest. Last Thursday was only the tip of the iceberg. Mama, I've gotten involved in something that needs to be stopped. It's bad Mama, real bad. Now I'm going to ask you to swear to something, swear by every Christian value you believe in, swear on the honored memory of our departed father and brother." "What is it Chuck?" Virgina had asked. "Whatever you have to say, it'll be safe with me." "I know that Mama. I trust you but I don't trust myself. Before last Thursday, I thought overdosing was the only escape. But I now see another way. It's going to be tough but I must choose this path. I need your help to give me strength, I need you to vow that you will help me." "What can I do?" "Disown me." "What?" "Turn your back on me, disown me, refuse to talk to me." "I don't follow." "I'm not asking you to follow. Things are going to happen to make you think that disowning me was not such a bad idea. But things won't be what they seem Mama. You must vow not to speak, or in any way acknowledge my presence, until

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels the day I come and tell you that the charade is over. Do this and I can walk out your door a Cooper man with a chance of redeeming my soul. Make the oath Mama.” "Is this truly necessary son?" "As truly as I am your son, this is truly necessary." "Then I shall make two oaths. First, I swear that you will always have my love and prayers. Secondly, I swear by my Christian faith and in the memory of Eddie and Clark, that you will cease to exist until the day you release me from this oath." Virgina sipped lemonade and thought about the second vow. Eight Thanksgiving turkeys had come and gone without Chuck. Friday’s lunch with Leslie Jacobs helped Virgina understand why Chuck felt it necessary to have her make such a vow. The illusion of maternal disapproval helped in persuading whatever organization was behind the South African con that Chuck wasn't the one who had talked. The illusion also served as the crutch Chuck thought he needed to first turn the A.A.I. in and then to sever ties with the organization behind the con. Reconciliation wasn't possible unless the A.A.I. syndicate was broken and he himself was sent to prison. Perhaps, now that he was becoming involved in Tad's center, he felt fully redeemed and worthy of the Cooper name. The back gate opened and Chuck walked through. Virgina set down her glass. Her heart was racing like the birds darting between trees in Tad's orchard. As Chuck reached the gazebo he began to speak. His voice cracked. Virgina opened her arms and they embraced. Weird patterns of light danced from the half-empty lemonade jug, sunlight reflecting off of tears rolling down black cheeks. Virgina was the first to talk. She asked, "Would you like a glass of fresh squeezed lemonade?" "Provided there's no pulp," laughed Chuck through his tears. Virgina had always teased Chuck about being as pulp-less as his father. She grabbed a strainer that was lying against Tad's cabinet and poured lemonade through it. It had retained a surprising amount of pulp by the time Virgina handed a full, pulp-less glass to her son. They sat and talked until it grew dark.

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Sherman Sherman stared down at the big-headed, tiny-fingered, wrinkled miracle laying on her back and kicking at the strange reality into which she’d been recently introduced. Funding contests, A.L.F. numbers, $15,000 bonuses, and Bobby-FuckingBeckman, were all forgotten in the fragile perfection of baby Jane. "Go ahead, pick her up," said the nurse who was wheeling her out of the maternity ward. It was the same nurse who had informed him that Sally was sedated, but stable, after a not-so-routine caesarian. "Do you think it would be O.K.?" he asked. "Yes, Mr. Peters, I think it’ll be O.K." A look of sheer terror gripped Sherman's granite face. He forced his fingers up from the plastic sides of a crib not much bigger than the box he kept his Italian shoes in. He slowly lowered his beefy hands towards the baby. A foot no bigger than his thumb suddenly kicked violently upwards and Sherman whipped his fingers away from the crib. The nurse smiled and Sherman tried again. A benevolent radiance swept across his face as his hands closed around the 7lb. 8oz. miracle. He slowly lifted Jane out of the small crib and held her up to his face. Sherman kissed the tiny head and watched tiny fingers worked by tiny hands reach out towards his nose. After a few minutes the nurse said, "Sorry Mr. Peters, but I need to get back to my rounds. Nobody's allowed into the ward. Your little girl has a front row crib and you'll be able to look at her quite closely from the viewing window." Sherman reluctantly put Jane back down and watched as the nurse wheeled her back into the ward. A man wearing tan utilitarian shoes and matching leather belt stood in front of the maternity window next to him. Silver-framed bifocals hooked around the man’s hairy ears and reflected the maternity ward cribs. A silly grin sprouted through a short ungroomed beard. "They look just like cherubs in shoe boxes," grinned Sherman, his face radiant with the innocence of boyish wonder. "Boy or girl?" asked the man, in a soft measured voice. "Girl", said Sherman, "my first. She's the second from the left on the front row." "That's my boy behind her to the right. He's my third, all boys." "Plan to raise them all to become engineers like their father?" asked Sherman, taking a calculated risk. Engineers had a certain quiet quality to their voices, were often bearded, and had little fashion sense. The man's light blue shirt, with a portion of its polyester and cotton tail hanging carelessly out of washable Hagar slacks, spoke of an engineer. "Engineer?" asked the man. "I work with a lot of engineers in my line of work and thought I recognized the business cards in your shirt pocket." The man pulled a pair of baseball tickets out of his shirt. "Dodgers verses Padres next Saturday. I wish baseball was my line of work, but I'm afraid my job is a little less sporting." "You must be a lawyer then. Not many fair playing sportsman in that line of work." Sherman knew lawyer-bashing would be safe, no lawyer would have a hinge screw missing from his glasses with a wad of scotch tape holding in a makeshift plastic pin. The man worked in a lab, thought Sherman, or some science-insulated

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels place were unkempt shoes, dilapidated glasses, and ungroomed beard were badges of indifference to the petty superficiality of the outside world. "Coroner. Here they bring them into the world, there I examine what caused them to check out." "I've never met a Sherlock Holmes of the medical profession before," said Sherman, looking for a way to steer the conversation towards mortgages. "It must be fascinating work." "In reality there's not much Quincy Jones intrigue. My life wouldn't make for much of a TV show." "Sure it would. It sounds like you're going to be living in a `My Three Sons' sitcom. Glad I've got just the one pint-size wonder to worry about. These shoebox cherubs are expensive. I had to refinance my house and sell my dog's wooden leg just to make ends meet." "Kids are expensive, damn expensive. I don't own a dog, but I was thinking about taking out an equity line." "I was going to go with an equity line myself," lied Sherman, "but refinancing the whole enchilada made much more sense after I played around with the numbers. I'm just glad I still have a house to pull cash out of. The riots got a little too close for comfort. How about you, the riots give you a scare?" It was too early to talk about mortgages. Sherman didn't even know the guy's name yet or where he’d grown up. He assumed baseball would be a good place to start building a rapport with the coroner and slowly steered things that way after learning the prospective borrower was Ian Buck - not a bad name for a sitcom coroner with three sons. Moving things from baseball back to mortgages turned out to be tricky, but after fifteen minutes of standing in front of sealed-off newborns, Sherman finally got Ian Buck around to asking him about his profession. Five minutes later they’d moved over to a table to discuss mortgage numbers. Sherman took out his HP calculator and punched in various calculations as he and Ian wrestled with the pros and cons of refinancing. Sherman scratched his wig and worked his fingers into the chin of his granite face as he pondered over whether an adjustable or a fixed mortgage would be better for Ian. After much thought, they decided upon an adjustable, and an appointment was set up for Wednesday. After jotting down the social security numbers of Ian and his wife, Sherman accompanied Ian back to the viewing window. He tapped on the window but baby Jane took no notice, so after a few minutes, Sherman walked down to the Cadillac and began the drive back to the office. He wanted to run the Bucks’ credit report and make sure everything was in order for dethroning King Bobby tomorrow. Despite a sudden jolt of hemorrhoid pain, Sherman grinned wolfishly at the thought of certain victory.

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Tim Janet was drowsy with drugs and kept looking down to the breast swollen fabric of her t-shirt, as Tim walked her from the medical office to his car. They drove out of the mini-mall, taking Silver Spur to PCH Once in her apartment, Janet turned on her TV and began watching “Entertainment Tonight.” "I'm sure glad the stupid riots are over," she said . "TV is finally getting back to normal." "How do your tits feel?" "Like an elephant’s sitting on them." "How long will that last?" "Not too long, a few days I guess. Want to see them?" "Sure." She slid off the t-shirt. She wasn't wearing a bra. Two large Band-Aids covered her nipples like the bars printed across girls on the covers of cheap porn magazines. "The Band-Aids come off in a few days." "They're nice," said Tim. "Thanks," said Janet, putting her shirt back on. They watched “Entertainment Tonight” for a while before Tim said, "I think I'll go back to my place." "You don't want to stay here?" "I just need to be alone for a bit." "O.K." They kissed and Tim walked out to his Acura. He stopped for gas at a nearby Arco before driving out to the Wayfarer's Chapel. It was closed and no tourists were about, so he walked aimlessly along garden paths before sitting on the same cypress-framed bench he’d sat on earlier that day. He listened to the birds and the rustle of the wind-ruffled leaves as he watched the sun exit the day. Stars began to appear in the sky as Tim walked to his car and took his parents’ teak angel from the trunk. He walked across Palos Verdes Road, following a path that cut down a steep bluff to the small beach where he and Janet had first screwed. In his right hand was the 8lb.angel. In his left was the container of gasoline he’d got at the Arco, a few blocks from Janet's apartment. He took off his shoes when he reached the beach and walked out to where sea flattened earth down to a smooth slate. Mud-dappers ran about the beach, their footprints leaving haphazard hieroglyphics on the wet sand. Dropping the angel, he gathered brush from scrubby trees flanking bluff walls, made a brush throne, set the angel down on it, and doused the pile with gasoline. As he lit the brush, he looked at the ivory angel eyes in his hand, rolling them in his palm like marbles. Tim planned to mail an angel eye to each parent. Fire reflected in the sheen of water that the sea left upon the sand. Red and yellow and orange danced upon the slate only to be transformed into isolated pools of pink and purple as beach sucked water into its porous hide and wiped the slate into blackness. Moonlit waves and ocean gray tumbled against earth and slid back into oblivion. Tim put the angel eyes into his pocket and sat down. The fire warmed him and the sound of waves comforted him. He grabbed a stick and poked it into the angel’s pyre. Its tip caught fire and he pulled it out, watching the flames fade to embers, only to be reborn into flame by new gusts of wind-borne oxygen. Tim felt separated from his anxiety. A sense of peace pervaded him.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels He got up and threw some driftwood onto the fire as he pondered what it meant to be Tim. The driftwood was damp and he poured on more gasoline. The fire drank it in and roared back into its angel consumption with renewed spirit. The weight of the teak caused the angel to collapse into the heart of the burning scrub brush. Mirror reflections. I am eye and eye am I. Just mere reflections. Tim smiled to himself at the memory of a haiku he’d written years ago. He sat back down and studied the parental divorce controversy burning before him, his mind wandering many paths at the same time. What God did Moses see when he talked to his burning bush those thousands of years ago? He put the stick back into the fire, poking at the angel and thinking about the philosophical tenets he’d been developing over the past years. Where did tit jobs and abortion fit into his reality framework? What did his philosophy advise concerning the phenomena of Frank Paulson and Janet Jensen? Were all his mental gymnastics - aimed at grasping a moral and factual understanding of reality - just a waste of time ? Just the crashing of waves on an uncaring earth? Tim thought and thought and came to a series of conclusions, conclusions validating his right to exist in the universe of his own understanding. He would let Frank Paulson known that he wasn't interested in his sexual orientation and would end his relationship with Janet. The existence of either possibility, homosexual love or heterosexual sensual superficiality, were realities that didn't resonate with his inner sense of self. Just as he’d taken action in the teak angel controversy, so he would act upon his inner perceptions in the reality of his relationships with Janet and Frank. He’d call both on Monday and validate to the external world his internal realizations. Only through the action of one's will did inner reality become actualized, did visions of things hoped for become the substance of things gained. Tim sat and thought about his decisions until wood became embers and the teak angel was no more. He could see the ring of the dying fire glowing below him as he climbed back up the bluff to his car.

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Monday Virginia Tim Tyranda Harry Sherman

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Virgina Virgina moved aside a white, syrup-webbed plate to flatten out the rolled-up LA Times resting against an empty pulp-spotted glass. Before she could begin reading, the doorbell rang. It was Isaac Masters. "You're up early Isaac," said Virgina. "No Virgina," said Isaac, weariness lining aged eyes, shoulders stooped with a crushing burden. "I'm not up early. I'm up late. I wasn't able to get any sleep last night." "I hope it wasn't yesterday's chicken." "It ain’t my stomach that torments. It’s my mind. Can I come in?" "Not if you’ve got another Redd Foxx story." "Virgina, be serious. This thing I must unburden from my soul is of the utmost seriousness." "Isaac, your soul has been manufacturing things of the utmost seriousness for the last month and a half." "All my other stories were just cover-ups. Don’t be poking fun. It takes courage to come before you like I am. I think you’ll agree once you hear my story. It involves African Arts International." "Isaac, I don't want to hear your story." "Virgina, you might as well just spit in my face as insult me like this." "Something tells me that your story is going to sound like a cross between ‘The Jeffersons’ and ‘The Godfather’." "Will you hear me out or not?" "I'll tell you what. If you promise to never tell me the fiction you're about ready to tell me, I'll go to Chuck's wedding." "What?" "You heard me Isaac." "You'll go to the wedding if I shut up?" "That's the bargain. Your eternal badgering has broken me down. I can't take it any more. I'll go to the wedding just to get you to stop pestering me." "You will?" asked Isaac in disbelief, chest swelling with pride, shoulders straightening. "I will, and you can hold yourself personally responsible for forcing me to patch things up with Chuck." "I can?" asked Isaac, eyes glowing with a newborn vitality. "Now go home and let me get back to my morning paper." Isaac grinned and walked away. Virgina chuckled to herself as she watched him cross the street. Returning to the kitchen, she poured herself a fresh cup of coffee and began reading the paper. It was half past eight by the time she left the stillness of her kitchen and drove to the office. At 10:00 she called Sherman into her office to implement the first of her two-part plan to protect Harry. "Yes?” Sherman, hearing Virgina’s voice over his intercom. "Could you come to my office when you get a chance?" asked Virgina. "What's up?" "I think you'd better come to my office." "Be right over." Sherman walked into Virgina's office. "What's up?" "Sit down. I'd like to discuss a few of my ideas for the 1:00 meeting with Harry." "How do you know about that?"

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "Never mind how I found out about it. I just want you to know that I think the idea is a good one and that if there's anything I can do to help, just let me know." "You support my actions?" "Wholeheartedly. It's about time Harry got some recognition around here. He might be a cantankerous old mule but I've never known him to cheat a client in the 22 years I've worked here. Becoming the all-time funding loan officer is quite an achievement." "All time funding loan officer?" "You know, number 2628." "Number 2628?" "With number 2628, Harry passed the retired Brad Nichols as the loan officer who’s funded the most Cal. Gold loans. I hope you're honoring him with something more substantial than some cheap watch." "Virgina, I think you’re mistaken about the nature of the meeting with Harry." "Oh?" "I'm afraid Harry got himself into some rather hot water over Bernie Baluchistani. The meeting is a disciplinary hearing that may very well cost Harry his job." "Oh that. Perhaps somebody forgot to tell you, the Bernie Baluchistani business has all been ironed out." "It has?" "Yes it has," said Virgina as she picked up a file from her desk and handed it to Sherman. "Everything is pretty much outlined in this file. Have a look, a very close look." Sherman opened the file and began leafing through it. Virgina sat and waited as an ugly scowl spread across Sherman's face. After a few minutes he said, "This is blackmail." "Blackmail? I'm merely showing you some interesting documents that needn't involve anybody else, provided Harry gets the recognition that I'm sure you've had Melissa Powell and Barry Waters come down from corporate to bestow upon him." "Why’re you being Harry's white knight? Besides being a racist bigot, he's the weak link keeping us from beating Beckman." "You let me worry about my reasons. Now go and buy Harry a decent watch." "What makes you think I'm going to play your game?" "Perhaps I should add a few things to the file. The Blackmont jumbo that you and Nicole keep sweating over might interest Sally." "You wouldn't." "Try me." Grim eyes raged at gold-framed ebony eyes. Walls seemed to vibrate in the unseen clash of wills. Sherman broke the harsh silence. "Perhaps I can honor the drunk with a new tie.” As Virgina watched Sherman leave her office, Tina's voice came over the intercom, "Virgina?" "Yes." "I have a Tyus on line one." "Send him over." She paused before picking up the phone, "Hello, Tyus?" "Hello Virgina.” "If you're calling about the wedding …" "Yes Virgina," said Tyus, cutting her off. "That's why I'm calling." "Look, before you get started …" "Virgina, as a man of the Lord, I respectfully ask you to please shut the hell up."

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels "But …" "No buts Virgina. All I ask is that you give me ten minutes of your time, just ten minutes. Can you give me that?" "Yes, but …" "Virgina, please, let me talk. I must get something off my chest before the sin of pride binds my tongue. I know why you and Chuck haven't reconciled. Something I did in the past that Chuck got blamed for has kept you two from coming together for all these years." "Tyus look …" "Virgina, will you hear my story or not?" "Yes but …" "Yes or no?" "O.K." said Virgina, taking off her reading glasses with a sigh. She rubbed her eyes and settled into her chair to hear Tyus's story.

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Tim Tim woke feeling renewed and at peace. In his kitchen he sliced up a banana into a bowl of cornflakes and milk. He put two AAA batteries into his pager and was greeted by high pitch beeps informing him he had messages on his voicemail. Business could wait for the office; now was the time to eat his cereal and compose letters to his mother and father. It was a quarter to nine when he left his house. Prior to reaching the Harbor Freeway, he dropped two envelopes into a Gaffey Street postbox. Each envelope contained an ivory eye and a letter outlining the reasons for the angel's destruction. It was past nine when he walked into the office and said “good morning” to the processors. He waved to Ty as he entered the loan officer’s room and sat down at his desk. "You taking phone calls today?" asked Tina through the intercom. "Sure am. Who is it?" "Frank Paulson." "Patch him through." Tim looked at the blinking red of line four for a few seconds before connecting himself to Frank. "Tim Daniels." "Hello Tim, Frank Paulson. Glad I finally caught you.” "Hello Frank. Sorry about the voicemail run around. What brings you to LA?" "I work for a men's clothing outfit that wants me to move to Long Beach and manage a new store that they’ll be opening in October. I heard through the grapevine that you were in the area working as a loan officer. So I thought it would be a good idea to get in touch with you. I’d also like to thank you for that night we spent together down at Lake Berryessa.” "Before you say anything," said Tim, "I think that you should know that I'm not inclined towards your orientation." "What?" "I'm not gay Frank. I won't cast judgments on your lifestyle, but just know that I don't share your views." "That old rumor," laughed Frank. "How or why that got started I'll never know. Don't worry Tim, my reason in calling is not to try and seduce you, but to see if you could help me and my wife get a mortgage if we decide to move here and buy a house." "Your wife?" "Yeah, my wife. She's a clinical psychologist and has been out scouting for job prospects in the area. We've been married for two years now." "I didn't know." "Most people in my old life don't. I get this gay thing from them all the time. Of all the problems I've had in sorting myself out, my sexual identity has been one of the few things I've never been confused about. Religion, God, and guilt have been my hang-ups. With the help of Katie, my wife, and insights gained in Christian Cult Anonymous, I've been able to get in touch with myself and the path to wholeness. All the nonsense running amok in my skull that precipitated my suicide attempt at PUC, I've pretty much worked out. And I have you to thank." "Me? How?" "It was something you said that night down at Lake Berryessa - your whole philosophy about creating realities that are valid metaphysical identities as long as

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels they’re in harmony with the universe of what is. That insight resulted in a Copernican awakening that eventually brought me out of my post-suicidal depression. Your insight got me to explore the discrepancy between what I thought I should think about God and what I actually did think about God. To make a very long story short, that led me to Christian Cult Anonymous, which is where I met Katie. For all your help, I am profoundly grateful." "I had no idea that I was making any rational sense that night. Any philosophical truth you found should be credited to yourself and not to whatever babble I was preaching." "Well you babbled something that changed my life. The least I can do is buy you dinner. Could you join me and my wife tonight?" "I’d like that." Tim jotted down the name and address of the restaurant where he was to meet Frank and his wife for dinner. He thought about the night he and Frank had spent together on the shores of Lake Berryessa as he punched his voicemail speed dial. "Hello son", came his father's voice, "just finished eating a Shaver Lake bass. Bill's a lousy fisherman but he sure can cook. I've been thinking about what you said about the angel and I think you’re right. I am acting rather silly over some stupid chunk of teak. It would be downright un-Christian for me to let my selfish desires stand in the way of all your hard work in handling this divorce. It's time to settle this whole thing once and for all. Leave the angel where it is and let your mother keep her family heirloom. Wish you were here to taste this fish. Bye son." Brian was next. "Sorry to bother you Tim but I can't get a hold of Lillian. I don't know what to do. I'm at my house with the movers right now. It's seven in the evening and I don't know what to do. Oh, sorry, I forgot to tell you that my duplex has burned down. Well at least it has partially burned down. The smaller unit isn't too bad. I do have insurance don't I? I don't know what to do. Maybe you have some advice for me? I don't know how you'll reach me because I don't have a phone yet. I was hoping Lillian could help me but I haven't been able to get a hold of her. Do you know where she is? I guess my place caught on fire Friday night. There's a lot of riot damage around here." His mother followed Brian's disjointed message. "Hi Tim, this is Mom. Santa Barbara was just what the doctor ordered. I feel totally relaxed and recharged. I've also had time to think about the angel and I've decided that it is something I should give up. I think my dogmatic demand for the thing was one last attempt to try and punish your father. I need to get beyond blame and get on with my life. I don't really like the stupid piece of wood all that much anyway. And besides, it will still remain as part of my heritage when your father passes it along to either you or Carol. Time for me to stop being so petty. Give it to Troy and let's finish this thing." "I'm in Palm Springs, Tim. It's just fantastic here," came the fourth message. It was Lillian. "I just called to let you know that Brian won the collage contest. I'm afraid your friend Jed didn't do so well. Brian's collage was absolutely fantastic. It really captured the whole dynamic goal-centered outlook that is Positive Wealth. It feels so good to help people. Goals are so wonderful, Positive Wealth so liberating. I will be out in Palm Springs for the next five days. I’ll be accomplishing one of my goals, the goal of actually meeting and talking with Bob Hope. When I get back to town I want to see your list of goals. Remember Tim, a goal unwritten is not worth having." Following Lillian was Brian's panic-struck voice. "Tim, it's..er..morning,..er..it's..er..Sunday morning. I spent the night in a local Motel Six. The movers stayed here as well. Last night their van was broken into and all my stuff stolen. Everything is gone Tim. My house, my computer, my bicycle, my bed.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Everything. I still can't get a hold of Lillian. James Elkston says there is nothing he can do and that I should talk to the police. I've already done that. Do you have any ideas? Call me at 373-4712. Oh, and I'm in room number 27. Please call." Janet was the sixth and final message. "Hi Tim, call me when you're done with work. We need to talk. I know going through your voicemail is a chicken shit way of doing things but it does make it easier to say what it is that I have to say. We're going nowhere, we need to break up. Things have no depth between us. It's all sex, sex, sex, with no communication or nurturing. There, I said it and I can't take it back. Call me." Tim took off his headset and dropped it onto his desk. Ty was no longer in the room and he was alone. "Tim," said Tina through the intercom. "Yes ?" "I've got a Joe Star and a Mrs. Washington on hold. Who do you want to speak with first?”

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Tyranda Ty sat and stared at his glass of Earl Grey with milk. For fifteen minutes he didn't move it from where it sat in his bathrobe sleeve-covered right hand. He felt as empty as the void in his living room where his gramophone and records should have been. The tea was lukewarm when he finally took a sip, and with a heavy sigh he got up poured it down the kitchen sink. He didn't go out to the balcony to drink his morning mug of milkless coffee. He drank it in the living room gloom of Monday dawn. Sitting on the sofa with the lights turned off, he watched the morning slowly spread itself through the apartment. He needed to see the Pathe's turntable spinning above the rich walnut; he needed to hear static and soul sounding through brass Morning Glory. Drinking his coffee, Ty sunk into the depths of his gramophone and Vivian emptiness. Perhaps he was just fooling himself, perhaps Paris was just the reckless dream of naive youth, perhaps he needed to wake up and smell the fumes of his unattainable pipe dream. He walked down to the underground garage and got into Lena. Fingering the steering wheel he contemplated her odometer before turning the ignition. He put in a Cole Porter tape and thought of moonlit emptiness as he drove to work. Only Sherman was in the office when Ty came in. Sherman gave him a cigar and told him about the baby. Ty tried to show enthusiasm but failed. He walked into the silent loan officer's room, sighing as he sat at his desk. The girls hadn't arrived yet and the phones were still on answering service. Ty’s pager went off after five minutes of sitting at his desk and doing nothing. It was another five minutes before he put on his headset and hit his voicemail speed dial. Nicole was coming into the office as Ty's phone connected him with his message. It was Vivian. "Hi Ty, call me as soon as you can," came the message. "I should have called you yesterday but at first I was too mad to talk over the phone and then I had to go to work. I still should’ve called you and eased your mind. I hope you didn't trash any trashcans or do something completely psychotic when you found out about your records, because I have them. “At around three yesterday”, she continued, “I drove over to your place to give you a piece of my mind, and found your father out having a drunken yard sale with your stuff. Not knowing exactly what to do, I bought all your Grandpa's records and phonograph. I thought I'd better make sure they were safe before trying to stop the man or calling the cops. While I was putting the records into my car, Johnny pulled up and put a quick end to the sale. He didn't see me, and I decided to play the mean and stupid trick of making you think that your records and phonograph were gone.” "I’m sorry Ty. I know two stupid acts don't make something right, but I was so pissed at you that I wasn't thinking straight. I think it's time we have us a good bottle of wine and make up over Cole Porter. I want to hear all about what we're going to do for all those months in Paris. I've got a few ideas, but then we can do what I have in mind right here in LA. Call me baby. Bye now." Ty took off his headset, a smile spreading across his face in a gentle wave that seemed to ripple through his whole body. He lit the cigar Sherman had given him and thought about cobblestone streets, the Eiffel Tower, and Vivian. He closed his eyes, seeing a black pearl in a pink oyster, caressed by arms of milky moonlight filtering through the window he’d nearly put a garbage can through. The cigar was half-smoked when Ty punched in Vivian's number.

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Harry Harry sat in his cellar, fingers stroking the brown tie that Natalie had knotted for him yesterday. It was nearing nine in the morning. He poured a touch of whiskey into his Brazilian hazelnut coffee, and sipping it, he smiled, despite the near certainty that he would soon lose his 27-year career with California Gold. He would show Sherman a thing or two about playing games, about destroying one's livelihood with illusion. His planned lunacy might not succeed in toppling the whole Cal. Gold edifice, but it sure as hell could dislodge The Wig from his Lawndale branch throne. Harry scratched at the hairs beneath his gold and silver medallion as he sat and thought about his doomed pension. He briefly thought about calling the Baluchistanis or somehow using Sherman's affair with Nicole against him, but decided against either action. He had his pride and his crazy vision. He walked out of the cellar and headed up to his bathroom sink. It took ten minutes to shave his beard down to a small white caterpillar. He turned the inch mustache black with some of his wife's hair coloring. Pondering the semi-balding, half Hitler/half Charlie Chaplin face in the mirror, he applied black dye to his whole head. He grabbed a Nazi cap from his hat collection and returned to the mirror. Charlie had dissolved into Adolf. He put on the Brownshirt uniform he normally wore only at Halloween. He’d ironed the shirt and pants yesterday afternoon, so a clean and pressed Adolf saluted him Nazi-style in the bathroom mirror. Singing Mel Brooks’ spoof "Springtime for Hitler", he punched Moses' work number. "NAACP, may I help you?" asked a young woman. "Moses Jones please," said Harry. "May I ask who’s calling?" "Harry Haroldson." "Just one moment." Harry sang "Springtime for Hitler" until Moses came on the line. "How was Catalina Mr. Haroldson?" "Great Moses, just great. Sorry to call you on such sort notice but I was wondering if it would be O.K. to bump our appointment back an hour. Would 1:00 be O.K. with you?" "As long as I'm out the door in a half hour. I've got a meeting at three." "You'll be out the door in twenty minutes." "One it is then. How are interest rates?" "The same as Friday, lower than a Democrat’s IQ." "Hopefully they'll stay on their downward path. Maybe they'll even sink to Republican IQ levels. See you at one." "Bye, and thanks for accommodating me.” Harry hung up his phone and walked out to his backyard deck. He smoked a Kenji Yakomoto cigar while twisting a red Nazi armband around his sleeve. At 12:15 he walked down to his Explorer and began the drive to the office. On impulse he stopped at a local florist and bought flowers for the office staff. He saluted the bewildered clerk Nazi-style before climbing back into the car. He pulled into California Gold's parking lot and goose-stepped into the office. Still singing, he placed a dozen red roses on the desk of Nicole, Cheryl, and Tina. Without knocking, Harry burst into Virgina's office and set a huge potted plant onto her desk. Virgina was on the phone and looked at Harry Hitler without the slightest sign of shock.

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels Stabbing her mute button, Virgina said, "Hello Harry, Moses is at your desk. Before you get too carried away, we've got to talk. Don't speak to anybody until …" but before finishing she stabbed her mute button and said, "For Christ’s sake, not another confession! Look, before you get started, just know that I'm going to Chuck's …" Harry seized his opportunity and escaped Virgina's office. Her complete nonchalance unnerved him. He decided to confront the inquisition gathered in Sherman's office while still gripped in the power of the absurd vision that had come to him aboard Pacific Pride. In the vision he would prove himself a racist in the eyes of Melissa Powers and Barry Waters before so publicly demeaning Moses Jones with racial epithets that he would elicit a lawsuit. If done shrewdly, he could tie Sherman in with his racism and so enrage Moses that he’d bring the full power of the NAACP's legal wrath against California Gold for hiring such a man as himself. Walking directly into Sherman's office without knocking he asked, "So what makes you think I'm a racist?" Melissa Powell, Barry Waters, and Sherman gaped like freshly caught fish. Melissa managed to say, "Harry, I think your dramatics are a little overboard. You should know that …" Harry cut her off, the shock on their faces driving him toward his vision. "This costume I'm wearing is to remind you hypocrites what a real racist looks like. You've all heard the tape of me referring to Bernie Baluchistani as a ‘raghead camel sodomite.’ Just because I called that sand nigger a bad name doesn't turn me automatically into Hitler. I think that if each of you will be honest with yourself, you'll admit to playing the same hypocritical race game you're trying to crucify me for engaging in. We think one thing but say something else because society demands it. Sherman talks about the ‘niggerization’ of credit and we all know what he's talking about. It's not that we're prejudiced, it's just that blacks as a whole have bad credit. Maybe it's not their fault due to weak genes and their slavery history, but you can't ignore facts. And the fact is most blacks handle their credit like a Watts man does his penis - irresponsibly. Now don't think I'm lumping all niggers together. There are exceptions and that's why we run credit reports. As we speak, I've got an appointment with Moses Jones, a black whose credit is as tight as the ass hole of the most anal-retentive chink you'll ever meet. So I called Bernie a bad name. What's the big deal? It's not like I forced him into an oven or advocated turning him into soap." Harry noticed that his last comment had gotten under Barry White's Jewish skin. He felt his vision reaching out and consuming them, molding reality to his ironic self-destruction. Harry continued his speech with renewed vigor. Soon he would leave Sherman's office and march his parade of hate out to Moses Jones. Soon he would finish weaving the noose with which to hang himself and, hopefully, Sherman along with him. The possibility that his racist charade could cost California Gold millions made Harry grin stupidly as he resumed his tirade with all the vitality and evil of the man he resembled.

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Sherman "Have a look, a very close look," said Virgina, handing a folder to Sherman from across her desk. Sherman leafed slowly through the various photocopies contained in the folder, photocopies giving ample proof of fraud committed on a number of his past loans, photocopies that could cost him his job if placed in certain hands. He’d destroyed all of the pre-doctored Lee bank statements, yet copies of the originals were in the folder. His face broke into a scowl as he wondered how Virgina could have gotten the information. How did she find Jerry Jones' actual credit report run with his actual social security number? How did she get her hands on all the incriminating evidence contained in the file? He thought he’d destroyed it all without leaving a trace. "This is blackmail," he finally managed to say. As Virgina talked, Sherman tried to think of a way out of his dilemma. He was so close to both firing Harry and beating Bobby-Fucking-Beckman, that he’d nearly scheduled a hair transplant and a hemorrhoid removal operation in celebration. Perhaps he could still save the day by threatening to bring Virgina down with him. Even though she hadn't been involved in any of his shady dealings, he could sure as hell implicate her and make it look like she had been actively involved in the fraud. "What makes you think I'm going to play your game?" asked Sherman, deciding to call Virgina's bluff. Currents of frustration and rage stormed through him when Virgina revealed her knowledge of his ongoing affair with Nicole. His fingers trembled, unable to control the situation, and his eyes lashed out at Virgina, only to be beaten back by the iron gaze framed in gold bars and prescription glass. He managed to smile as he left Virgina's office and said, "Perhaps I can honor the drunk with a new tie." Returning to his office, Sherman locked his door, dropped his pants, and applied a healthy dose of Preparation H to his swelled polyps. Before sitting down at his desk, he ran a funding report. Nothing had funded yet but the number of Lawndale branch loans in status five, compared to Encino loans in status five, made him smile with pleasure. Despite his being foiled in his attempt to fire Harry, today was a great day. Besides being a new father, he was about to become the manager of the top rated Cal. Gold branch. He would have to go out and buy champagne to accompany the cigars he’d passed out earlier. At 11:00 a fax came from corporate saying that the funding contest was being extended for another week due to an unforeseen consequence of the riots. The LA county recorder's office had shut down due to fire damage and California Gold thought it best not to fund any LA county loans until the situation got sorted out. Since funding on LA county loans was to be suspended for a few days, the quarter would be extended for all branches by an extra week. Sherman grabbed at his artificial hair and nearly tore off his wig when he read the announcement. He pounded his desk with clenched fists before crumpling up the fax and throwing it at his closed office door. He lit a Pall Mall and picked up the status report he’d been gloating over earlier. By the time he crushed the filter-less butt into an ashtray, he realized the inevitability of Bobby having a higher A.L.F. number by next Monday. The affable little man with the full head of hair just had too many loans in status four. Sherman had pulled every rabbit out of his funding hat in

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels order to sneak past Bobby by noon and take the quarter. With the contest extension, he would slip back to second place within the week. Sherman grabbed at a cigar lying on his desk, destroying the surrogate Beckman in a snarl of fingers. He swept the battered heap of strangled tobacco off his desk and into a plastic wastebasket. Lighting another Pall Mall, he tried to think of how best to handle defeat. When Melissa Powell and Barry Waters showed up at 12:50, Sherman informed them that Bernie Baluchistani had miraculously decided to drop all charges against Harry and had even signed a document clearing California Gold of any involvement in the matter. They were sitting in Sherman's office, exchanging company gossip, when Harry burst in dressed as Hitler. "So what makes you think I'm a racist," demanded Harry. Sherman's glee over Harry's tirade slowly changed to alarm as he began to see that Harry was attempting to take him down with him. Sherman sat in his leather swivel chair, trying to get his Beckman-defeated mind working on how best to handle Hitler. "So I called Bernie a bad name," thundered Hitler. "What's the big deal? It's not like I forced him into an oven or advocated turning him into soap." Harry briefly paused in his tirade. Barry Waters turned pale and Melissa Powell chewed on her lower lip in the silence. Sherman felt a jolt of hemorrhoid pain as Hitler resumed his raving. "It's time for the Caucasians of the world to unite against the yoke of selfinflicted hypocrisy. As Sherman has repeatedly said, niggers, blacks, spades, shovels - names change but the ditch-digging equipment remains the same. It's about time you stop punishing a man for calling a spade a shovel. It's about time …" "Harry," interrupted Virgina, entering the office, "it's about time you stop your charade, you've had your fun." She handed him an envelope as she talked. "Here are your tickets to the masquerade charity fundraiser that we talked about. It starts at seven tonight. I still think going as Hitler isn't one of your smarter ideas. Now why don't you go and attend to Moses and worry about your accolades after the application." "Accolades?" asked Harry. "Don't play dumb, Harry" said Virgina. "You know that Melissa and Barry are down from corporate to honor you for becoming the top funder in Cal. Gold history." "I do?" asked Harry. "Never can stop playing your little games, can you Harry? I warned Moses about your Hitler costume. Now go and take your loan application." "Top funder," muttered Harry. "You're down here to congratulate me on becoming top historical funder?" "Harry, quit playing dumb and get out of here" said Virgina. "I know the Bernie Baluchistani business ruffled your feathers but you've had your revenge. Now get out of here before we begin to think your act was for real." "Heil Hitler," said Harry, saluting Nazi-style and leaving the office. "He's dressed up as Hitler because of some masquerade fundraiser?" asked Barry Waters. "Leave it to Harry to attend an ACLU fundraiser as Hitler," said Virgina. She turned to Sherman and asked, "Did you buy him that tie yet?" "Not yet," said Sherman. "Do it," said Virgina as she left the office. Barry Waters and Melissa Powell left a few minutes after Virgina. Sherman sat in his leather swivel chair and stared at his massive hands. His fingers clasped and unclasped and his knuckles bent and straightened as he reviewed loan files in his head. No matter how he worked things, no matter how he juggled the numbers, he

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Beating Kings and Burning Angels fell three loans short of beating King Bobby by next Monday's extended deadline. Minutes ticked into an hour and still Sherman sat slouched in his chair, fingers repeatedly choking nothingness. "I've got a Mrs. Lee on the line." Tina's voice was an epiphany. Surely the 23rd Street Convenience Store must have been severely damaged or destroyed in the riots. Surely the Lees would be in a cash flow crisis and understand the necessity of refinancing their other three investment properties to low adjustable mortgages. Surely he could strong-arm or bribe Larry Wright to get the appraisals done within the week and Jerry could be convinced to do another set of pre-approvals. A wolfish grin curled across Sherman's lips as the realization of how to beat Bobby dawned across the blackness of his mind. Provided Paul Lee hadn't died over the weekend, he still had a chance at beating Bobby-Fucking-Beckman. He picked up the phone and began talking to Mrs. Lee. His voice was poignant with concern, gentle with shared anxiety.

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Lewis James lives in Monrovia California with his wife and three children. His writing diversity reflects his diverse life experiences. Lewis has been a dairy worker in Israel, a mortgage broker, an Alaskan fisherman, a Beverly Hills nanny, and a solar sun-screen salesman. His travels have taken him from the top of Norway to the bottom of Chile, and around Australia by van. He has traveled into the remote Borneo jungles by handmade raft, to monasteries of Tibetan Buddhists and the arms bazaars of the Afghanistan Mujahidin.