Mac Fain locked up the Camaro and gave it a friendly pat, hoping he would see it again. Then he joined Lendl and Ivy Hurlbut on the sidewalk.
He looked up and down the block on Whittier Boulevard without enthusiasm. The stores were dark and locked, with folding steel grates pulled across the fronts. The only sign of life was the Sonora Café, which occupied the ground floor of the building where they had parked. A red neon sign in the window advertised Carta Blanca. Recorded salsa music could be heard faintly from inside.
Near the café entrance lounged several dark young men in muscle T-shirts and tight-fitting jeans. They wore colored shoelaces that identified their gang. The young men watched the three Anglos impassively, letting their eyes linger on Ivy Hurlbut.
Lendl led the way past the café and up a narrow flight of stairs to Chavez Hall, where members of the Eastside Social Club were holding their banquet. The spicy aroma of chilis was enough to bring tears to the eyes.
At the top of the stairs they were stopped by a scowling Mexican woman seated at a desk. Lendl identified himself and party. The woman checked them against a list and let them pass, not looking happy about it.
Inside, a trio of guitar, bass guitar, and mandolin provided non-stop music to which nobody seemed to be listening. Busboys hustled around clearing dishes off three long tables. At one end of the large room a smaller table stood on a riser at a right angle to the others. The men seated there wore suits and neckties, while the diners down below were more informal. A gray-haired man at the speakers’ table said something in Spanish into a microphone. The diners laughed and applauded, and the man sat down, looking pleased with himself.
The laughter died gradually, and the eyes of the diners turned toward the newcomers. The crowd was not what Fain had expected. He was looking for something like a Mexican Rotary dinner, but this was more like a Gonzales family picnic. Whole families sat together, from elderly grandparents to lively dark-eyed children who raced among the tables, paying little attention to their parents’ orders to sit down and shut up.
“Looks like a fun crowd,” Fain muttered to Barry Lendl.
When they had stood uncomfortably in the doorway for a minute, a chesty, pockmarked man got up from the speakers’ table and came over.
“You looking for somebody?”
“I’m Barry Lendl,” said the agent. “I talked to a Mr. Silvera on the phone.”
“That’s me. Frank Silvera, program chairman.” He looked Fain over with cold eyes. “This your man?”
“McAllister Fain,” said Lendl. “The man you’ve been reading about.”
“I don’t read that much.” Silvera nodded toward Ivy. “Who’s this?”
“Miss Hurlbut,” said Lendl. “She’s writing a book about Mr. Fain.”
“You didn’t say she was coming.”
“No extra charge,” Lendl said with a twinkle.
Silvera looked at him coolly. “We better get up by the microphone. The kids are getting restless.”
He turned and headed back toward the speakers’ table. Ivy and Fain exchanged a look.
Lendl nudged them along after Silvera. “It’s going to be terrific,” he said. “You’ll see.”
Behind the speakers’ table a young woman in pancake makeup and two men stood by a cluster of television equipment bearing the Channel 34 logo. One of the men balanced a Minicam on his shoulder. The woman talked briefly to Silvera, glanced over at Fain and his party, and signaled for the two men to start packing up.
“There goes TV coverage,” Fain said. “I guess I’m just no Thunder Thighs Lopez.”
At the speakers’ table an extra chair had to be brought for Ivy and squeezed in beside Fain. Frank Silvera stood up and clanked a spoon against a glass for attention. The crowd settled slowly. Silvera blew into the microphone, bringing a whoosh of static from the cheap suitcase speaker.
“Unfortunately,” Silvera said, “as you know, we couldn’t get Carmela Lopez at the last minute.”
Fain groaned softly. The crowd grumbled.
“But I was lucky in being able to get Mr.” — he checked his notes — “McAllister Fain.”
No response.
“He is the man who was in the paper for bringing a dead woman back to life.”
Small rustle of interest.
“Mr. Fain kindly agreed to come here to tell us how he did it.” Silvera shoved the small table microphone over in front of Fain.
Mac stood up and cleared his throat. Before he could speak, a piercing squeal cut through the room. Silvera rose and glowered toward the wall where the speaker was plugged in.
“Hey, you kids get away from there. Pronto!”
The children backed off a little, and the feedback squeal stopped. Fain looked around at the fifty or so people watching him and wished mightily that he was somewhere else.
“Buenos noches,” he said, using up all the Spanish he had prepared for the evening. The reaction was nil. “I know you were expecting Carmela Lopez tonight, and I hope you’re not too disappointed. Well … anyway, I’ll tell you a little bit about who I am and what I do, and then you can ask questions. Maybe we’ll all learn something.”
Fain looked around and saw not one smile on all those dark faces. Quit being clubby and get to the serious stuff, he told himself. He grabbed a water glass from the table and drained it, wishing it were something a lot stronger. Stealing a nervous glance at his watch, he began to speak, improvising as he went along.
“Life and death. That’s really what it’s all about, right? Where does one stop and the other begin? A question that has cudgeled the minds of men from the beginning of time. Down through the ages, that last dark curtain at the end of a man’s life has been the single greatest mystery. What lies beyond?”
He babbled on in this vein, growing increasingly nervous as he sensed he was losing the crowd. He should never have agreed to this. If it were possible, he would personally hand their money back on the spot and make a dash for the street. Maybe the gang out in front had not had time yet to strip his Camaro.
While Fain droned on about life and death without saying anything of substance, he saw Olney Zeno ease through the door, bedecked with his camera equipment. The lanky photographer raised two fingers in a small salute, and Fain could have kissed him. It was the friendliest gesture he had seen all night.
“There are stories,” he went on, “told by people who claim to have crossed over into the realm of death and returned. I guess we’ve all heard or read about them.”
Not a flicker of agreement from the increasingly restless crowd.
“Well, anyway, there are such stories. Books have been written on the subject. But do we believe them? How can we ever be sure?”
He gazed around and caught the glint of light off a number of crucifixes resting on brown bosoms. Better touch on religion, he thought. Might make them less inclined to rip my arms off.
“And what does the Bible have to tell us about this matter of life and death?”
A loud blap from the speaker, a shower of sparks, and the room went dark. For a terrible broken moment Fain thought God had spoken.
Silence for a slow beat of five, then a babble of voices. Chairs scraped back. Dishes clattered, feet thudded on the floor, bodies collided. Excited voices rattled a mixture of English and Spanish.
Fain stood where he was without moving, wondering if he was going to be blamed for this. He tried to remember where the exit was. Ivy Hurlbut grasped his hand.
Then the lights blinked once and came on. Everyone looked around a little guiltily. Several started to laugh. Then a woman screamed.
“Miguel!” she cried. “Miguelito! Ai, Madre de Dios! My little boy!”
There was a surge of people toward one corner of the room. For an instant, when no one blocked his view, Fain saw the prostrate body of a boy lying next to the overturned speaker. The boy’s eyes and his mouth were open. He did not move. A man ran up and yanked the speaker’s crackling electric cord from the wall plug. The crowd closed in around the fallen boy.
For the next few minutes the room was a confusion of babbling voices as the diners milled about. Women cried; men swore. Olney Zeno was standing on a chair, shooting over their heads.
The crew from Channel 34 hastily unpacked their equipment. The young woman fluffed her hair, and the man with the Minicam pushed his way toward the boy.
“Maybe we ought to get out of here,” Lendl said.
“No, wait,” Fain told him. “We can’t just walk away.”
“Why not?”
Frank Silvera whistled through his fingers for attention. “Okay, everybody, stay calm. The paramedics are called. They’re on the way. Stand back and give little Miguel some air.”
From the looks of the small, pale figure with the empty eyes, Fain did not think air was going to help.
A siren wailed outside, and footsteps pounded up the stairs. Two young paramedics rushed in with oxygen and first-aid equipment. They immediately started to work on the boy with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and CPR techniques. A stout woman, apparently the boy’s mother, stood by, wailing while friends comforted her and held her back.
The woman from Channel 34 was interviewing anybody who would talk, positioning herself so the Minicam could keep her in the frame with the rescue attempt.
“Let’s go,” Lendl said again.
“No.”
Lendl and Ivy turned to stare at Fain. He was surprised himself at the firmness of his answer. He had no logical reason, but something he could not explain held him there. More quietly, he said, “It would look bad if we ran out now.”
“I guess you’re right,” Lendl said grudgingly. He shot a cuff and checked his imitation Rolex. “I only hope this doesn’t keep us here all night.”
Some minutes later, one of the paramedics took Silvera aside. Fain heard him say, “There’s nothing more we can do. There was a drink spilled there on the floor. The boy was standing in it when he grabbed the bare wire. It was a massive electrical shock. There’s no respiration, no pulse.”
“You giving up?”
The paramedic chewed his lip. “We’ll keep working on him until the coroner’s man gets here, but I’m afraid the boy’s gone.”
Silvera expelled a long breath and nodded. He walked over to the boy’s mother and put an arm around her shoulders. He spoke to her softly in Spanish. The woman gave a keening wail and ran back toward her son. Several of her friends stopped her and held her before she could reach the boy.
“I don’t like this,” Ivy said. “Can’t we go now?”
“Okay, I guess we might as well,” Fain said.
“Well, thank God,” said Lendl. “Let me just talk to Silvera about our check.”
While Fain and Ivy waited for the agent to push through the crowd to Silvera, the mother of the little boy loomed suddenly in front of them.
“You!” she said, leveling a forefinger at Fain. “Why don’t you help?”
“Me?”
“You made that woman come alive again after she was dead. They said so in the newspaper. Do it for my boy now. Bring back my Miguelito.”
Fain held up his hands as though to fend her off. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You’ve got the wrong idea.”
By this time a dozen other people stood around the mother. Their eyes were on Fain.
“Believe me,” he said, striving for the right note of sincerity, “if there was anything I could do to help …”
A bright light hit him in the face, and the man with the Minicam pushed into the growing circle of people. The young woman thrust a ball-head microphone under Fain’s nose.
“Are you McAllister Fain?” She had a pleasant, soft Spanish accent.
He nodded, looking around for help from Lendl.
“You are the man who claims to have brought a dead woman back to life last week?”
“Well, there was this story in the Times….”
“And now this mother wants you to work on her son. The little boy the paramedics say they can’t save.”
“Help me, por favor!” cried the stout woman, moving into the bright light. She clutched at Fain’s hand. “Save my little boy.”
“There’s nothing I can do,” Fain said, sensing a growing hostility in the people watching. “The paramedics are doing everything they can.”
“They can’t help my Miguel. They say he is dead.”
“I’m sorry,” Fain said. “I’m really sorry.”
A thin man with dangerous black eyes stepped forward.
“How sorry are you, man? As sorry as me? I’m Alberto Ledo. The boy is my son.”
Fain looked around for some sign of support. He found none. “Mr. Ledo — ” he began.
“What is the trouble, man? You don’t like Mexicans? You only do your thing for rich Anglo ladies?”
Several voices seconded the accusation. Fain looked toward the exit and saw that his path was blocked.
“It’s not like that at all,” he said, fighting to keep his voice calm.
“Then why don’t you help me and my wife? You’re so good, let’s see you bring Miguel back to life like you did the rich Anglo lady.”
The man’s voice broke on the last word, and he looked angrily around at his friends, who voiced their agreement.
Barry Lendl squirmed past the Channel 34 crew to Fain’s side. “Come on, you people,” he said. “If there was anything Mr. Fain could do, he would. Make way now.”
The crowd moved closer. Somebody shoved Lendl out of the way. Ivy clung to Fain’s arm.
“He’s not going to do nothing,” somebody said.
“He wants to go home to his nice clean Anglo house.”
“Let’s teach him Mexicans are people, too. Teach all three of them.”
“All right … enough!”
Fain’s voice rang above the din in the room. The angry crowd fell silent. He looked slowly around at the ring of faces, giving them the gray-eyed stare. The Minicam moved closer. Alberto Ledo and his wife watched him expectantly.
“Take me to the boy,” Fain said.
Lendl grabbed his arm and muttered, “What the hell are you doing?”
Fain gently removed the agent’s hand from his arm and walked through a path made for him by the crowd. Close behind him came the Channel 34 crew.
One of the paramedics was still trying to force breath into the dead boy. He looked up as Fain approached.
“It’s too late, mister. He’s gone.”
“Just give me a minute,” Fain said.
The paramedic frowned, but he rose and stepped back from the boy’s body. Fain spread his arms, turned his face toward the ceiling, and closed his eyes.
What the hell was he going to do now? These people actually expected him to bring the dead kid to life. From the tone of the crowd it was a good bet there would be some kind of violence if he did not look as if he were making an effort.
But he had no props. No candles, no colored powders, no assistant. He didn’t remember any of the chants he had used or the symbols he had drawn on the floor. He vowed that if he got out of this in one piece, he would retire forever from the Lazarus game and go happily back to reading fortunes.
“Ralé Méné Vini” It was the only thing from the whole rigmarole that he could remember. Call. Bring. Come.
“Ralé. Méné. Vini.”
Fain stood for a painfully long minute with his arms spread, eyes closed, head tilted back. The unnatural silence in the room pressed down on him. He felt the sweat run from his armpits down his sides.
Someone screamed.
“Él es vivo!”
“The boy is alive!”
Slowly, Fain opened his eyes and looked down. Mrs. Ledo was on her knees beside the boy, palms pressed to her plump cheeks. Her husband stood behind her, frozen in position. Miguel was sitting up, looking around. The boy began to cry.
Fain heard Lendl mutter, “Holy shit!” somewhere behind him.
The Channel 34 Minicam pointed at him, but the young woman was transfixed by the revived boy. Zeno moved through the crowd, shooting in all directions.
As Fain watched, Miguel’s mother disengaged herself from the crying boy and came over to him. Before he could speak, she seized his hand and kissed it. She pressed the hand to her big soft breast and looked into his eyes.
“Gracias, sēnor, mil gracias,” she said, then added fervently, “Tu eres mi santo.”
McAllister Fain swept his gray eyes over the hushed crowd and gave them a gentle saintly smile.