close beard. I paused and waved for him to pull out first; he'd been there ahead of me. But he didn't move, so I pulled out. When I turned east on Beverly, so did he, which didn't have to mean a thing; I barely noticed. But when I turned north on Fairfax and he turned too, I wondered, so I doubled back west on Rosewood; if he'd done the same, I'd have been pretty sure. But he didn't. He had the chance but continued north on Fairfax.
He could have been innocent, or he could have recognized that I was testing him. Whatever. He was gone.
5
HAMILTON
Two calls were recorded on my phone when I got home, with numbers to call the next day, a Saturday. They were from two of the ex-Gnosties, but not Hamilton. I didn't really know why I wanted to talk with Hamilton anyway. He'd been out for three years. I guess because I'd liked his frankness and intelligence when I'd talked with him before.
Tuuli would bawl me out for working on weekends if I didn't really have to. So I waited till she went out for groceries, then called them back. The first exile had worked on the church's in-house magazine, and simply deserted. He was totally soured on the church, but totally devoted to Christman. When I told him the missing person I was interested in was Christman, he told me he was sure that Christman was too psychic to be abducted or physically harmed! His view was that the great guru had withdrawn from the church 'to punish it for its degeneracy and aberrations.'
He hadn't heard anything about a power struggle, though he was aware of the rash of expulsions and cancellations. I got the impression he wasn't very bright.
The second exile was a 'technical compliances enforcer,' who got kicked out when he refused to coerce the San Diego church to suspend counselors for what upper management had decided were technical errors. I had no idea at all what he was talking about. My reading hadn't dealt with 'technical' aspects.
He was aware of two factions, one led by Lon Thomas, president of the church, and the other by a Frank Evanson, who was 'the director of technical practices.' The guy was very cynical about both the church and Ray Christman, whom he considered had abandoned 'his crusade' and was only interested in how rich he could get. Nothing I'd read, including Christman's book for beginners, had said anything about a crusade, either.
The guy believed that Christman was probably dead, most likely assassinated by an insider with a grudge. He didn't think that either faction would have Christman killed, even if they wanted to, because 'with Christman dead, the great moneymaking machine will grind to a halt.' The claim that Christman had gone off to do research, he said, was a fraud, to hide his death. 'But it won't work forever. When the church doesn't come through with procedures leading to Freed Being, people will get smart and see through it, and leave.'
Killed by an insider with a grudge! He'd only been guessing, but it could be. And the church would probably hide it. I had virtually zero chance of finding out, from an organization like the Church of the New Gnosis.
When Tuuli got home, we took a commuter airbus to Santa Barbara. I love L.A., but in Santa Barbara the air is softer than anywhere else in the known universe. We strolled around and snacked and shopped, neither of us actually buying much. Tuuli likes to look, and I kind of do too. One place we went was Nielsen's Dairy, where we sat outside under an awning and had about a dozen different flavors of rich, rich ice cream. I could almost feel myself getting fat. Tuuli can eat like that and stay tiny, but that's not how it works with me at all.
When we got home, Fred Hamilton had called and left his number. A local number. I called him right away, Tuuli notwithstanding. He was living in West Hollywood, working as a stockbroker, and admittedly was out of touch with what was going on in the church.
I asked him how a would-be abductor might have gone about getting his hands on Christman.
'Look,' he said, 'I have a friend with me now, from out of town. Will tomorrow be all right? I'd like to meet you. We'll eat out somewhere, on me.'
'Sure.' Obviously he'd come a long way from the Gnostie exile who needed to bum a phone call, to ask his parents for bus fare.
'There's a little place on La Cienega,' he said, 'near Willoughby. Called Yolanda's. It's hard to miss; got a conspicuous sign, and tables with awnings out front for nice weather. Suppose I meet you there at noon, for brunch?'
'Um. Would earlier be possible? On Sundays my wife and I usually eat lunch together at home. It's gotten to be sort of a tradition.'
'Actually, earlier would be better for me, too. My company's heading out early tomorrow, flying back to Seattle, so I'll be up at seven anyway.'
* * *
We settled on breakfast at eight-thirty. It turned out to be a good hour; there weren't a lot of people there, and most of them were eating outside. We took a booth in a back corner. Yolanda's was a health food kind of place, though the food turned out to be excellent. I ordered black coffee, a stuffed bell pepper, and buttermilk, trying to make up for yesterday's ice-cream binge. 'Real buttermilk or cultured?' the waitress asked. When I lived with my half brother, Sulo, after dad and mom were killed, I used to drink real, homemade buttermilk. Eila made it when she churned butter. I hadn't realized you could get it in L.A. It came from Altadena Dairy, the waitress said. She looked Hispanic, so I told her, 'Real then.
She laughed. 'I think I'd better bring you
Which left me unsure whether I'd made a real mistake, or if it was a matter of dialect. L.A.'s got about every Spanish dialect there is, plus usages all its own. While we waited, Hamilton and I talked, and I told him what I had to work with. Mainly speculations.
He stirred honey into his herb tea. 'Christman has, or had, three residences,' he said, 'each of them well guarded. He moved from one to another at irregular intervals by sky limo. The main one was a luxurious penthouse apartment at the Campus, on top of the Administration Building. He was there more than anywhere else, sometimes for extended periods. His office was in the penthouse too. It would be nearly impossible for outsiders to get at him there; there were too many people around. Including his bodyguards, who were chosen for utter loyalty and obedience. They were security-checked on the psychogalvanometer. He dressed them well, in civvies, and they were trained to be totally unyielding. They carried guns, too. I know that for a fact, because I saw one of them take off his jacket in the restroom, and he was wearing a pistol in a shoulder holster. Supposedly they practiced on a pistol range somewhere beneath the Admin Building.'
The theory of a gangland hit, never very compelling, began to shrivel.
