laughed a little, then slanted a glance my way and grew quiet.
“When was that?” I asked.
“Not too long before he sobered up, I’d guess,” Corky said. “Few weeks ago.”
“Where’d Two Toes get the new nickname?” Rachel asked.
“Cut off two of his own toes,” Corky said.
“And ate them!” Blue said.
“I don’t believe that,” Corky said, looking as if he did.
“He’s been looking for Lucas? For the Prof?” I asked.
“Always. Thinks the Prof’s ring is magic,” Beans said.
“His college ring?”
“Yeah,” Corky said with a wheezy laugh. “I told him if it was magic, it would have been from my alma mater, not some lousy place like Las Piernas College.”
“Your alma mater?” Rachel asked.
“Yeah, UCLA. And if you’re a Trojan, I’ll just thank you to keep your mouth shut.”
The others stared at him. He looked down at his pair of stained Adidas, as if suddenly embarrassed. I began to despair of getting any further information from him.
“Where’s that five bucks?” Blue asked.
No one paid any attention to him. We were watching Corky.
When at last he looked up at me, his eyes were hard. “Keep your lousy five bucks.”
“He don’t mean it,” Blue said, but I was watching Corky walk away.
“Corky and Prof were good friends,” Rooster said. “Prof only hung around with the rest of us because he liked to talk to Corky.”
There was a lot of nodding on this point.
“Where can I find Two Toes?” Rachel asked, as I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out a handful of fives.
“It’s Sunday,” Blue said, not taking his eyes off the cash. “He’ll be out in front of St. A’s.”
“St. Anthony’s?” I asked.
He nodded. “He stays on his knees in front of that statue out front. Can’t miss him. He’s a big guy with a crazy kind of hat on, and a big beard. He’s been Catholic the last few Sundays. Better catch him before he turns Baptist or something. And watch out for them fists of his.”
ST. ANTHONY’S IS A BEAUTIFULold Catholic church. I like it better than my old parish church, which-after redecorating-went so ultramodern that I feel like I’m on the set of a cheap science-fiction film every time I set foot in it. (Which is admittedly so rare, it could have changed back to something more traditional since the last time I was there.)
But St. Anthony’s has stained-glass windows, mosaics covering the walls and parts of the ceiling, marble on the altar, and all sorts of alcoves and nooks and crannies with statuary and candles and holy water. If you’re the kind of Catholic who knows what it is to own a calendar with red fish printed on the Fridays, then St. Anthony’s is your kind of place.
I wasn’t going to see the inside that day, though, because the man we were looking for was right where Blue had told us he would be-outside, kneeling before a statue of St. Anthony of Padua. Patron saint of the poor.
The “crazy kind of hat” turned out to be a long stocking cap of rainbow colors-it vaguely resembled one an aunt gave me in the 1960s, the Christmas after she got a knitting machine. His beard, which was dark brown, was almost as long and pointy as the cap. There was a sort of symmetry in it, I suppose.
Inside the church, a mass was being said. I could hear the congregation singing the Gloria. “Glory to God in the highest, and peace to his people on earth,” they sang, a group of guitars strumming in the background.
Two Toes was a big man. I could see that, even while he was on his knees. He heard us approaching and suddenly stood. He turned toward us, his feet planted wide apart. He pointed at us, his eyes narrowed, and he sniffed the air, as if catching a scent.
Rachel immediately put me behind her, her own stance one of calm readiness. “Hello,” she said, watching him.
“Who are you?” he thundered.
“I’m Rachel,” she said in a quiet, but firm voice. “This is Irene. We just wondered if we could talk to you for a minute.”
He tilted his head to one side, tried to peer around to see me. “Tell her not to hide behind you,” he said to Rachel, not shouting now. “This is the Sabbath. A day of rest. Peace be with you.”
I stepped over to one side, but Rachel said in a low voice, “Whatever you do, don’t get between me and him.”
“Have you lost something?” he asked.
Rachel looked puzzled, but I said, “Yes, that’s why we’ve come to St. Anthony.”
“Good, good,” he said. “St. Anthony prays for those who have lost something. Then the Lord helps them find what they have lost. A saintly service, free of cost.”
“Of course,” Rachel said, her own Catholic days coming back to her.
“What have you lost, my dear? I have St. Anthony’s ear.”
“I’ve lost a friend,” I said.
He closed his eyes and swayed a little on his feet, began humming to himself. “Tell me more,” he said after a moment.
Any minute now, I thought, Toto will pull back the curtain. But if this was the way he was going to play it, there wasn’t much I could do about it.
“My friend is named Lucas. Some call him the Prof.”
His eyes flew open. He raised a fist over his head.
“Step back,” Rachel said to me in a low voice. “Slowly.”
“No!” he roared. “You are not worthy!”
Inside the church, the congregation began singing the Alleluia. It distracted him. He tilted his head again, listened. He lowered his fist.
“Our Lord loves sinners. He takes sinners and makes them winners. He wants me to tell you.” He lowered his head, then raised his eyes up to us again.“An angel watches over the Prof-watches over him all the time. Seen it with my own eyes at the Great Wall of China.” He smiled and started singing in a loud voice-to the tune of “Chattanooga Choochoo”-“Nothing could be finer, sittin’ in the diner, than eat your ham and eggs in good ol’ China.” He stopped singing and frowned. “Wall of China. An angel led me to him. Got to say it three times, when the bells ring. The ring, the ring, the ring.”
“What?” Rachel asked, though I doubt she had high hopes for an explanation.
“Amen, amen, I say to you.” He turned back to the statue and dropped back down to his knees. He began humming “Chattanooga Choo-choo” again.
“What angel?” I asked.
“Many angels,” he replied. “I follow the angels. Go in peace. Go while you can.”
We stood there for a while, but he only hummed. We gave up trying to get his attention. As we walked back to the car, I could hear the parishioners of St. Anthony’s singing again. The Lord’s Prayer.
But in an association of ideas perhaps only slightly less random than those of Two Toes, the singing of that prayer gave me an idea about where we might find Lucas.
13
STOP THE CAR,” I said.
Rachel complied, pulling over. “Do you see it? Over there. Look at the building across the street.”
“The one they’re working on?” she asked, indicating a scaffolded tower, where on a weekday, workers with
