Authors: Dianne Emley
She was tired and stressed, and fatigue and stress were triggers, but they weren’t the only things that had tipped her over. It had been a long time since anyone had listened to her with such sincerity, had really cared about what she was saying.
Crowley reached across the short space that separated them and laid his hand upon hers.
One could have heard a pin drop in the crowded studio, but what one heard instead was audience members snuffling.
“I’m sorry, folks. You know me.…” She wiped her eyes with her fingers. Someone sped from backstage with a box of tissues.
Crowley began telling his story, directing the cameras, which loved him, onto himself, giving Hale breathing space.
“Dena, you’re right. The hero in my book is a very bad boy. That was me. I was the kind of guy my West Texas grandmother would call a ‘no-account.’ I grew up in Central California near Lake Nacimiento. People have weekend homes there or come up for the day to use
the lake for boating and fishing. But me and my buddies, we were lake locals. You mentioned I dropped out of high school. Dropped out … kicked out, more like.
“My uncle got me a job as a journeyman welder in the San Ardo oil fields. Every day after work, me and my buddies met under a grove of live oak trees by the lake. We’d sit on picnic benches there or on the beds of our trucks and we’d get drunk on the cheapest beer we could buy and smoke store-brand cigarettes, the cheapest ones we could find. The women would come for a while, but they’d take off early, having to deal with the kids, or they just got sick of us.”
Crowley started sniggering at a recollection.
The camera again went to a quickly touched-up Hale, who was smiling with anticipation.
“We used to watch people back their boats onto the landing. Sometimes one of those guys would show up. You know the kind. Brand-new boat. Brand-new truck. Brand-new trailer. Old wife.”
The audience giggled.
“The wife would be driving the truck, trying to back the boat into the lake. The husband would be out giving directions, and they’d be cussin’ and screamin’ at each other. My buddies and I would sit there, drunk off our behinds. We’d hold up cardboard signs that we’d written numbers on and yell out the scores we’d given them for how well they did backing in the boat.” He laughed and shook his head. “We’d yell out, ‘Six and a half! Seven!’ ”
The audience laughed along, vicariously participating in that slacker lifestyle, imagining sidling up to Crowley and his unsubtle sexual energy.
“Stupid stuff. Every day, we’d do this.
Every
day. My best buddy, Dallas, was a lake local. Dallas Star Baker. His father was a die-hard Dallas Cowboys fan. One July
evening, about eight years ago, shortly after my twenty-third birthday, we were under the oaks, raising hell. Dallas wasn’t there. He was a psych tech over at Atascadero, the state hospital for the criminally insane. A couple of the lake locals were psych techs. Good job, but crazy hours. I had the next day off, so I was more loaded than usual, and it was late. We’d been at it for hours.
“I took off walking home to get some pot I had. My wife, Traci, and I rented this little house a few blocks from the lake. I went inside. The house was dark. Figured my baby boy, Luke, six months old at the time, and Traci were in bed asleep. Traci was in bed all right, but she wasn’t asleep and she wasn’t alone. When I got to the bedroom door, I heard all this scampering around and whispering. I flipped on the lights and—”
Crowley grimaced and made a noise through his teeth. “There was Traci in bed, naked. There was Dallas, naked with one leg in his jeans. I always carried a bowie knife on my belt. It was my trademark. Spent hours throwing it at targets, wasting time. One day on a dare, I split an apple on Dallas’s head with it. When I saw Traci and Dallas that night, I didn’t think about the knife. But then Dallas got this look on his face. Sort of, ‘I got you good, didn’t I?’ Like this was just another of our practical jokes. Something in me snapped. The knife was out. I threw it. Hit him in the heart. He stayed on his feet a couple of seconds and then, boom, he went down. My baby, Luke, was in his room next door. Slept through the whole thing, even with Traci screaming.
“I got six years for voluntary manslaughter plus one for carrying the knife. Sent to San Quentin. The Q. I spent a long time being angry and unremorseful. Then I opened my heart to a different way.”
Hale had been listening with rapt attention, as had the audience. “Are you truly a changed man, Bowie?”
“I’ve been clean and sober for eight years.”
There was robust applause.
“But I’m the same man inside. I’ll always be the same man. That’s the human condition, the struggle between good and evil. All of us have light and dark. Right inside us. Right here.” He tapped his chest.
“Most people fight that evil side some of the time. Most people, their evil side is so quiet and weak, it’s nearly not there. Then there are people like me. Every day, every minute I’m awake, I struggle with that demon. But I don’t walk alone anymore. That’s the difference.” He pressed his hand against the crucifix.
“That’s powerful, Bowie.”
“That’s the way it is.”
They gazed into each other’s eyes too long, and Hale knew it. When she finally spoke, her voice was hushed. “How’s your son, Luke? He’s eight now, right?”
“Yes. He’s great. He helps keep me centered.”
“I know what you mean. I have an eight-year-old son too.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ludlow. Named after his grandfather. We call him Luddy. I have a seventeen-year-old daughter too. Dahlia.”
“Great names.” Crowley nodded. “Cool.”
“Thank you, Bowie, for being with us today. I want everyone to know that we got you before Oprah and the national morning shows because you didn’t want to be on the road and away from Luke.”
“That’s part of the reason. I’m a big fan of yours, Dena. You project such a generosity and honesty of spirit. It comes right through the television. I see how people react to you. Warm to you. You can be anything you want to be. Don’t let anything stand in your way.”
Hale’s lips parted. “That’s so nice. Thank you.” She recovered and made a trademark joke. “I already bought
your book, Bowie, but now I’m gonna go out and buy ten more.”
Everyone laughed.
“Does anyone in the audience have a question for Bowie Crowley? Yes, you in the red.”
A woman stood and took the microphone handed to her. “Hi, I’m Laura from La Crescenta. Are you still married?”
There were titters among the crowd.
“I was divorced while I was in prison.”
Hale revealed, “Your ex-wife married one of your close friends.”
A gasp went up.
Crowley shrugged. “That was tough, but no hard feelings. He’s a good guy, and Traci had to do what was right for her and our son. Hey, I was no prize. I still have my doubts.”
“Are you working on another book?” Hale asked.
“I am.”
“Something similar to
Razored Soul?
”
“Similar but different.”
“Okay.…” Hale pointed to another woman. “You in the flowered blouse.”
The woman said, “I’m Cynthia from West Hills. What’s the significance of that tattoo on your arm?”
Crowley bent his right arm, flexing his biceps, displaying a large, ornate tattoo rendered in blue ink culled from Bic pens, typical of prison tattoos. It said: 23:4. The cameraman zeroed in on the money shot.
“My homeboy, Kiko, did this for me in the Q. He’s a real artist. Props to you, my man. Kiko told me I couldn’t leave the joint without some ink. This stands for Psalms twenty-three, verse four.”
“Remind us, Bowie, please. What is Psalms twenty-three, verse four?”
“That’s a homework lesson for you.” Crowley playfully wagged his finger at Hale.
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …”
They all turned to look at the heavy-set man who had spoken. He pushed himself to his feet. “I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”
“Hi, Donnie,” Crowley said. “I saw you sitting there.”
“Who comforts my son, Bowie?” Donnie Baker unfurled a poster that bore a photograph of Dallas Star taken at his sister’s wedding shortly before his murder. He wore a tuxedo with a white rose boutonniere. The photograph had been widely broadcast after Crowley’s recent notoriety.
“This is my son, murdered by that man.” Baker held the poster above his head and turned to show everyone. “In all the hoopla over the great Bowie Crowley, everyone forgets the life he took. He murdered my twenty-two-year-old son in cold blood, and a few years later, he’s a free man.”
The audience grew anxious. Guests near Baker left their seats. Security closed in.
Hale clutched her throat as Crowley stood and tried to calm the situation. “Let him have his say. He’s earned it. He’s not gonna hurt anybody, are you, Donnie?”
The security guards grabbed Baker but he continued to rage. “You’re a free man, Bowie, but my son isn’t free. He’s rotting in a box six feet under, and me and his mother have to live with you going around like a rock star. You’re one of us, Bowie. You’re no better than us.”
The poster was crumpled on the ground as security dragged Baker away.
Crowley stood at the edge of the stage and raised his
hands. “Could you hold up for a minute, please? Can I say something to the man?”
Hale, not wanting to miss this opportunity, joined in. “Please, security, let Bowie speak.”
“We’ve heard enough from you,” Baker protested.
“Donnie, I’ve said it a hundred times and I’ll keep saying it until my last breath: I am truly sorry for what I did to Dallas. If I could take back that moment, I would. Just because I’ve walked out of prison doesn’t mean I’ve paid that debt. I’ll be paying my debt to you and your family the rest of my life. The only way I know to do that is to live in the light, to love and care for my neighbor, and to serve as an example to some other guy out there who’s acting like the idiot I was.”
“Bullshit,” Baker spat. “It’s all bullshit to sell books. Amazing what a person can accomplish sitting in a cage. Next they’ll be giving you the Nobel fucking Peace Prize.”
Hale hoped the censors had bleeped the bad words in time.
“Donnie, you’ll never find peace until you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
“Don’t preach to me, you good-for-nothing, murdering drunk—”
Baker kept cussing as security dragged him out.
Hale quickly wrapped up, well past the time for the scheduled commercial break. She moved to stand beside Crowley. “My goodness.… Thank you, Bowie, so much for joining us today. To our audience, you’ll find a copy of Bowie’s book underneath each of your seats. We’ll be back after a break.”
The camera scanned the unnerved but enthusiastically applauding audience. The cameraman quickly moved past an unattractive individual with a prominent Adam’s apple who was wearing a yellow dress.
Laura from La Crescenta, sitting in the next seat clapping away, hissed into her friend’s ear. “I told you that’s a man. Look how big his hands are.”
The friend leaned forward to sneak a look at the careful clothing, wig, and elaborately made-up yet homely face. Her attention was then drawn to the extra-large hands with pink nail polish and a large school ring. It was too small for the friend to see, but the ring was inscribed with the initials O. M.
“You see what he’s wearing?” the friend whispered. “That’s a USC class ring.”
Laura, a UCLA alumna, took delight in this. “Yea-ah! Go Trojans.”
NINE
I
t was
almost noon on Labor Day in Old Pasadena. The disheveled young man with the backpack didn’t look out of place. He was unthreatening. He was rumpled, but people had seen worse. No one paid him any mind. He wasn’t the type of person to draw attention.
His short, fine hair, blond to the point of near-whiteness, but with brown roots, jutted from his head at odd angles. He wore dark slacks with a white dress shirt tucked into them. A tightly cinched leather belt gathered excess fabric around his thin waist. His clothes were soiled, and his cordovan penny loafers were scuffed and worn. The ruthless late-summer sun had burned his pale skin, making his cheeks and nose rosy and scouring his
bone-white scalp. Other than his purple backpack, the sunburn was the only color he had. He looked like a missionary gone astray from his brethren, his pamphlets lost.
Old Pasadena was crowded. People had come from all over to visit the shops, restaurants, movie theaters, and clubs in the restored historic buildings in the neighborhood surrounding Colorado Boulevard between Marengo and Pasadena Avenues. There was always a scattering of panhandlers, many familiar with the locals and the cops. However, the pale man, crisping in the sun, was known to no one. He didn’t have the street-hardened look of the homeless about him, yet he shared their disenfranchised mien.
He went into a mini-mart on Fair Oaks. The shopkeeper gave the man a suspicious look when he took a plastic bottle of water from a refrigerated case, twisted off the cap, and drank it down. The shopkeeper was prepared to confront him as he headed for the door, but relaxed when, without a word, the pale man reached into his pocket and set a five-dollar bill on the counter. When he scooped up the change, the shopkeeper noticed his delicate, tapered fingers, soft hands, and shaped, if dirty, fingernails.
Back on the street, he crossed Colorado Boulevard. He cringed from the crowds that jostled him, bumping into the backpack looped over his shoulders. He turned onto Miller Alley, where the tables and chairs on the pavement in front of Jake’s were filled with people lunching on diner food served in red plastic baskets. Farther down, the tables in front of the Equator Coffeehouse drew a different crowd.
The pale man looked and watched, scuttling away whenever anyone came too close. He watched as children played old-time arcade games in front of a shop.
An awning over cluttered windows gave respite from the sun. A sign of painted carved wood suspended by two chains said:
YE OLDE CURIOSITY SHOPPE
.