Authors: Dianne Emley
Then there was the night Crowley had returned from his shift in the laundry and Jenkins had confronted him with a copy of the
Bloomsbury Quarterly
. He shoved it in his face, the pages rolled back to the title page of a story: “Call Me Diva,” by Bowie Crowley. It was about an angst-ridden male cross-dresser who has a vitriolic relationship with his overbearing mother and who slaughters a woman in a frenzy.
“What the fuck is this?” Jenkins demanded. He didn’t give Crowley a chance to respond.
“I open up to you,” Jenkins went on. “I open up to you and this is the thanks I get?”
“That story isn’t about you, Jack. It’s set in Paris in nineteen thirty-eight. The protagonist is African American.”
The magazine hid a shank, a sharpened piece of Plexiglas culled from a broken cafeteria tray. Crowley was able to prevent a lethal wound, but Jenkins managed to stab him in the shoulder. With the shank still embedded in his body, Crowley flung Jenkins across the room. Jenkins was smaller than Crowley, but built like a bulldog. He kept coming. The guards finally intervened after what Crowley thought was too long a time.
Jenkins wouldn’t reveal to anyone what had provoked the attack, but guys in nearby cells heard, and word got out. Crowley learned that the magazine had been passed to Jenkins by a bespectacled former financial advisor
who’d cleaned out the accounts of several elderly clients. He worked in the prison library, had literary aspirations of his own, and had finagled subscriptions to the
Bloomsbury Quarterly
and similar publications. When Crowley later confronted the financial advisor, the wimpy thief said he’d thought Jenkins would be proud of his cellmate. He wouldn’t cop to professional jealousy.
After Jenkins’s stint in the hole, Crowley and Jenkins were separated, and Crowley steered clear of him. He wasn’t the only one.
There were few secrets in the Q, and fewer still within the prison gangs. News of Crowley’s short story and how it was allegedly inspired by Jenkins spread among the Aryan Brotherhood. While the gang’s leader admired the frenzy murder attributed to the supposedly fictionalized Jenkins, he couldn’t go along with the cross-dressing. He ordered damage inflicted until tough-guy Jenkins came clean and told the truth about his double life. Jenkins was beat even longer for refusing to renounce it.
Once the secret was out, the Brotherhood had to take action or risk tarnishing their standing in the Q. Killing Jenkins was proposed. Crowley influenced their decision to simply spurn him. Now this was the thanks Crowley got.
Jenkins spent the last months of his sentence watching his own back. He was released a year before Crowley and that was the last Crowley had heard of him.
Crowley had wondered what had become of old Jack. Now he knew.
Jenkins’s Stop ’N Go market was easy to find. It looked just like Jenkins had described it.
It was early morning, and the place was shuttered. Crowley drove onto the property and circled past the
front door to see what time it opened. Eight a.m. He remembered Jenkins talking about the long hours his mother worked. He spoke often about Connie, a tiny yet tough woman who had saved the first penny she’d earned. His father, an affable, malleable man, had been dead for thirty years. Jenkins said his mother had a love/hate relationship with him, her only child. He had never succeeded in making his mother understand that Jill was not a part of him that he could shed like an outmoded fur coat.
Connie had learned of Jenkins’s alter ego years ago. Even though his only occupation was being a criminal, she didn’t mind him living with her. There was one condition—she lived with Jack, not Jill. She didn’t want to see or hear of Jill. Jill had been a source of distress and disappointment to Jenkins’s father and, Connie claimed, had led to his early death from a heart attack. She insisted that this was so even though, of his two parents, Jenkins felt that she was the more critical one. She was the one who had ridden his behind about Jill. His father hadn’t liked Jill but hadn’t been cruel to Jenkins about her. Yet Connie was his mother, the only blood relative he had. So he respected his mother’s wishes. Jill led a separate life.
In their cell, Crowley had listened to Jenkins pour out his heart without judgment. He had listened, and had taken it all in.
Crowley left Niland and drove on into the desert. The rising sun cast long shadows from the mesquite and Joshua trees. After several miles, he reached the remnants of a concrete guard station that had stood at the entrance to the long-decommissioned naval base. The squatters on the government land had fancifully painted the guard station: “Slab City. Welcome.” It was decorated with rough depictions of pine trees and birds, the
birds looking like a swarm of arrowheads, all in white and green paint as if purchased at a closeout sale.
Just beyond the guard station was where the snowbird retirees parked their RVs. They clustered together and didn’t venture farther in, where the oddball full-time residents lived. Permanent residents had laid claim to the coveted concrete slabs and especially the bunkers, which provided superior shelter from the sweltering heat. The domiciles, sun-bleached mobile homes and converted buses and trailers, were decorated with flowers and fanciful designs. Homesteads were established far apart. There was plenty of desert. No need to crowd. Scrub brush sprouted through the hard desert floor and cracks in the concrete slabs. Abandoned cars and cast-off car parts were ubiquitous. Tires made excellent flowerpots.
Crowley buzzed down Low Street, the main drag, aptly named as it crossed the flat land at the base of the mountains. He attracted the attention of residents who were just beginning to stir. A child on a plastic three-wheeler waved.
The vegetation was also low and sprawling, and added little color. What God had not bestowed upon the desert, a man had in the form of a mountain hand-painted in psychedelic colors.
Salvation Mountain rose from the flat barren landscape like a rainbow vision of Christian fervor filtered through an LSD lens. It was as tall as a three-story building and as long as a football field. The subtle desert aromas of dust and sage were overpowered by the commanding odor of paint.
“God Is Love” in red and pink cascaded down the face against a multicolored whimsical background. A giant red heart in the center displayed a sinner’s plaint in white letters, asking for Jesus’s intercession. Bright flowers, trees, birds, and hearts were in bas-relief across the hill,
made of straw coated with adobe and latex paint. Painted waterfalls of white and blue stripes coursed to the bottom, where they flowed into an “ocean” in shades of blue in which a dingy was partially submerged in the painted earth.
On the crest stood a giant cross of white PVC pipe. Beams from the rising sun broke around it. A narrow road of adobe-coated straw steps painted bright yellow traced precipitously across the face to the top.
At the self-styled entrance to the area, Crowley passed a large rectangular sign that announced, “Salvation Mountain,” decorated with the same primitive painting and bas-relief molding that adorned the foothill. The sign sat atop a base of tires slathered with adobe and painted to look like a tree trunk. Above, branches of real trees were arrayed as if growing out the top. A wooden sign bore the message: “God never fails.”
Crowley circled the area on his Harley, not seeing anyone. The back of the hill was plain dirt and clay. He got off his bike, took off his leather jacket, and tossed it across the seat. He looked around, looked up at the hilltop and at the bright yellow steps that led there. He spontaneously began to climb them, the steps barely broad enough for his boots. The painted adobe had broken away in spots and tore further with his weight. Patches of paint were thick and tacky, sticking to the soles of his boots.
He was breathing heavily when he reached the top. The “God” from the “God Is Love” message protruded above the summit, the letters open in the middle, revealing blue sky.
Bracing himself against the cross at the crest, Crowley turned to face the rising sun.
Today he once more found himself at a crossroads, as if he was again poised to throw his knife into Dallas
Baker’s heart. Everything could change again. This was the time before the time.
He still struggled with the fact that Baker’s blood had been the source of his own rebirth. With the warmth of the morning sun upon him, he visited this dilemma anew.
There was good in the world and there was evil. Crowley wasn’t an evil man. He’d done bad things, but he wasn’t evil. Jenkins was evil. And just as good will out, so will evil.
If he terminated Jenkins’s life, was that any different from how he had ended Baker’s life? Did motive matter in the end? Were his motives regarding Jenkins clean? Must good fight evil with evil? Does a killing carried out under the auspices of a higher motive make it good?
Crowley didn’t know. These were eternal questions. He was mortal, merely a man.
He dropped to his knees and prayed.
THIRTY-SIX
V
ining and
Kissick arrived at Jenkins’s Stop ’N Go market at 6:50 a.m., more than an hour before opening. Kissick drove slowly past while Vining cased it through binoculars.
“Jenkins’s mother has a shotgun,” Kissick said. “She made no bones about showing off Betsy.”
In a town where the majority of dwellings were mobile homes with chain-link fences to mark the kingdoms’
scruffy boundaries, Connie Jenkins’s house and business constructed of red stone looked as imposing as boulders in a field of tumbleweeds.
Vining took digital photos of the house and its detached garage, which were set off the main road behind the gas station and mini-mart. Using the telephoto lens, she zoomed in on the collection of wrought-metal sculptures and the rows of discarded airplane and movie theater seats near the firepit. She commented, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”
Kissick drove a hundred yards past the location before making a U-turn and coming back. He parked on a small street that intersected the highway just north of the Jenkins complex, where they had a view of the mini-mart’s front door, the gas pumps, and the house.
Kissick cracked the truck windows a couple of inches. There was no shade, and it was already approaching eighty degrees.
Using the bottle opener on his Swiss Army knife, he popped open two bottles of root beer. He handed one to Vining, who stuck a straw in the neck.
“Why don’t you drink it from the bottle?”
“Because I like straws.”
He took a long drink, then another, and then indulged in a long, gassy burp.
She made a noise of disgust. “Already we’re burping and farting in front of each other.”
“I haven’t farted.” He looked askance at her. “That was
you?
I thought that was the stink off the Salton Sea.”
She demurely sipped the root beer. “Carne asada. You know I can’t eat that stuff, even though I love it.”
He set the empty bottle inside the cardboard carrier and set it behind their seats. Turning back, he picked up
the Rolaids and held the roll out to her. “Maybe you’d better take a few dozen more.”
She glowered at him.
Smiling, he opened the boxes of candy one by one, tipping some of each into his mouth and crunching noisily.
She gave him a reproachful look.
“What?” he protested.
“You just ate breakfast.”
“This comes from Mrs. Count Chocula.” He shook the box of Boston Baked Beans at her. “Last chance.”
“They’re all yours.”
He emptied the box of candy into his mouth and again noisily crunched as he rummaged in his duffel bag. He took out a copy of
Razored Soul
.
“Not you too,” she complained. “I caught Emily with it.”
“It’s great. You should read it.”
“No thanks.” She took the book from him and looked over the author biography.
“You and Jenkins,” said Kissick. “Did I tell you that when I was here with Detective Arnold, I saw a copy of this book half burned in the firepit? It’s probably still there. Connie complained about it. Said if Jack didn’t like the book, he could have sold it on eBay.”
Vining tapped the book jacket back flap. “Says here that Crowley was in San Quentin. He would have been there the same time as Jenkins. Think they knew each other?”
“That’s a big place.”
“They’re both Caucasian tough guys.”
“Aryan Brotherhood? Guess it’s possible. Maybe we should talk to Crowley and see if he has any intel on Jenkins.”
“I bet you could get Lieutenant Beltran to go with you.”
“I bet I could.” He took his book back from her.
She grinned as she took out her cell phone. “I’m gonna check in with Sarge.” She punched the speed-dial number for PPD dispatch and got through. After a few seconds, she was saying, “Hello … Can you hear me? Shoot …” She scowled at the phone’s display.
“Call dropped?”
She called again, getting through only to growl with frustration. “Try your phone.”
He did. The call connected briefly before dropping. He tried again, first rolling down the window. The reception was so bad, he finally said, “Forget it. We’re okay. We’ll call in later.”
“I’ll get out.” The passenger side was not facing Jenkins’s property and she was able to slip out without being seen.
He heard her talking to dispatch.
She returned shortly. “At least they know where we are.” She raised her chin in the direction of a phone booth in a corner of the gas station. “We have that in a pinch. Assuming it works.”
He opened his book and started reading.
She flipped through
People
magazine. After a few minutes, she looked at her watch. “How long do you want to stay?”
“One o’clock. It’s supposed to be over a hundred here today. If anyone’s around, they’ll come out before then or wait until night. We could get a room and come back after dark. Maybe go up to La Quinta. Palm Desert. Have a nice dinner.”
She gave him her dubious arched eyebrow.
“We’d get two rooms.” He blithely returned to his book. “For our expense reports.” He shot her a sideways glance.