Avery’s car has seen better days; it’s a 1982 Chevrolet Chevette, maroon
over beige, four door with a four cylinder engine. Every unhappy hamster
beneath the hood squeals and shrieks in protest when she starts it up.

“It’s okay,” she assures me, “It’ll stop in a second.”

I think that’s debatable, but hold my tongue and slide down in the seat
shoving my shades up my nose as she pokes it out into the traffic on 14th.
There’s a patrol unit in the parking lot of the Laundromat just across the
street from the motel’s entrance and exit, two cops inside leaning back in
their seats, eating a late lunch of burritos.

Avery glances at me as I slink down trying to not be obvious about it and
quirks her brows slightly.

“I take it some of the bad guys might be the good guys?”

“Yeah.”

Her smile is inscrutable and knowing and I feel suddenly much younger and
naïve than I know I actually am. When she speaks her voice is low and
soothing, as if to a child.

“They’re there because there’s an elementary school two blocks up. They
take their before-school-is-out break there every day and then go bust the
people flying ass through the school zone.”

That’s a relief.

“You know, if you don’t want to stand out in the Mission you ought to think
about doing something with that hair,” she tells me. “It’s not exactly
camouflage hair in a mostly Hispanic and black neighborhood.”

I turn slightly and look at myself in the rearview mirror which looks like
it’s been taken off once or twice and then wired back on.

“It does kind of stand out, huh?”

Her eyes slide in my direction and she snorts. “Yeah. And it catches the
eye too.”

She winks at me to take the sting out of the words and I stop the hand
that’s lifted in reflex to pat down my errant rooster tails.

“Don’t you have some kind of neat Batman undercover outfit you could put
on, make yourself look a little less like you?”

“Well, cute as I’d be in latex~~” I start, but she cuts her eyes towards me
and I stop, grinning. “No. I’ve got contacts in every color you can think
of, including purple. But no wigs out here and I hate dyeing it. Pain in
the ass.”

“Well, Cowboy,” she drawls, grinning and putting the left blinker on as she
changes lanes, “Sometimes we have to suffer for beauty. Of course,” she
adds, “Some of us would have to suffer more than others.”

I assume she’s taking me to the nearest ATM; instead she rolls the car into
the parking lot of a small, very weathered church. It’s rock, something
native that varies in color all the way from sand to a deep rose and the
thick, irregular tunnels of concrete between the stones lead one to believe
it was put together rock by rock, no doubt by the congregation itself.

The sign outside, words chipped out of a slab of cheap marble,
reads: Duboce Street Assembly of God, with a two by four dangling below
that by chain and “Pastor Yadon Pennybaker” painted on in a weathered black
script. A second plank below that one dangles advertising the times of
services but the paint is too faded to read.

“Oh fuck,” I say, looking at her. “You’re kidding me.”

“Oh come on. You can handle five minutes inside a church, can’t you?”

“No,” I say adamantly. “I can’t. Not unless you want to go back up the
block to that liquor store.”

She grins at me, eyes twinkling wickedly. “What? Do you start
melting? Maybe your head spins around and you puke? Poppy would love that.”

“No doubt,” I grunt and slide down in the seat until my ass is barely
resting on the edge, then cross my arms over one another and stare stonily
at an old star in the windshield that looks curiously like Woody Woodpecker.

“Cowboy,” she says, squatting on the driver’s side and laying her arms on
the open window.

“No.”

“Coo-per,” she wheedles.

“No.” I make it stern and turn to glare at her but she’s grinning and it’s
hard to maintain.

“Why?” I ask and then force my face into a furious frown to balance how
exceedingly whiny my last question had been.

“Because my dad’s in there and I need to tell him what I’m doing.”

“How old are you, Avery? Twelve? You think I buy that bullshit?”

She sighs, dropping her gaze so I know this part at least is
truthful. “Okay. Listen~~ He made me promise I’d bring you by.”

I swear and slam my fist into the already much dented and cracked dashboard
of the Chevette, then do the same thing with my boot into the floorboard.

The Chevette heaves a cranky sigh and something falls off the back end with
a muffled thunk.

“Now you’ve knocked off the jury-rigged tail-pipe, Cooper,” Avery says
straightening, crossing her arms and shaking her head theatrically. “We’ll
probably get pulled over ten times on our way over to Osage Avenue. And
every single one of them is going to see that bright blonde hair and cleft
chin and ask for ID~~”

“Fine,” I growl and throw myself out of the car, slamming the door shut so
hard I’m surprised the windows don’t shatter. “You want to do this? We
can do this.”

It takes her a couple of running steps to catch up with me.

“Well, you know,” she says, “as long as you’re up for it.”

“Oh, I’m up for it,” I assure her, grinning, pointing to the store on the
corner two blocks ahead whose marquis spells out COLD BE R, the letters
actually there mismatched in size and color. I wave the twenty dollar bill
under her nose. “Soon as I down a quart, I’m up for it. And I’m deducting
this little excursion off your paycheck, Bad Ass, so thanks for the beer.”

She stops and throws both hands furiously into the air and then thumps them
on her skinny hips.

“What am I supposed to do, Cooper? He’s my dad.”

“How the hell would I know?” I yell, walking backwards, glaring at
her. “I’m not the person to ask about dads or sister in laws or family,
Avery. Ask me anything about controlled substances. Ask me about any
brand of beer anywhere in the world. Ask me about guns and ammo and self
defense; I’m there. You’re on your own with the family shit.”

She shrieks something and stomps, giving me the finger several times,
emphatically.

I smile back sunnily and return the gesture, then wiggle my fingers at her
in a little wave before I spin around.

 The clerk in the liquor store id’s me. I know my feverishly brilliant
smile tells him it was pointless before I even have my plastic out.

I buy not one but two quarts of Coors and wander back outside with my two
brown paper sacks, give a homeless man outside one of the bottles and then
perch lightly on the top of blue plastic milk crates and discuss a myriad
of subjects with my new friend, Angelo, who tells me he is an artist and an
unemployed hair stylist. I have a straight visual shot down the street to
the church and the parking lot and Avery’s vehicle.

“I was always afraid of Nancy Reagan,” Angelo is telling me, because we are
hip deep in politics. “She had a very scary jaw line and very angry
cheekbones. Her eyes were sometimes quite maniacal, as well. And her hair
was reminiscent of a very early model of Barbie.”

“Hmm,” I muse, gulping Coors, marveling at how much more beer is in a quart
than a pint and eyeing the cars on the busy front street mentally ticking
off out of date registration tags and rear ends too low for the vehicle
indicating possible interesting cargo, calculating probable cause and the
evils and dilemmas of profiling. “You know, you’re right.”

“Yes,” Angelo says, face ancient and wise with knowledge and not a little
alcohol; there’s an empty quart at his feet and an empty bottle of cheap
Mad Dog 20/20. “And this new one, Laura Bush. What do you think of her?
Being from Texas you have had more years to observe her. I personally
think she would benefit from parting her hair on the other side. The part
she has now says ‘duty’, ‘convention’; I think she could free herself with
a different part on the other side. She is a woman who is in need of
liberation.”

I shrug, eyeing a silver Volkswagen that has turned into the self service
gas pumps catty corner from the liquor store and which is now parked at a
slant less than twenty feet from us. The license plate seems vaguely
familiar to me and I frown, pulling the shades down my nose and squinting
over them. 2RGB781; why the hell do I know that tag?

The second the top of the crutch pops up over the top of the vehicle it
hits me; the head of red hair in a tightly haphazard pony tail is superfluous.

I glance down the street where the Chevette is still nosed into the
church’s lot and there is no Avery in sight, then turn back to watch Andrea
hop and skip her way to the pump and then lean back against her car briefly
before furiously waving a ten dollar bill at the pimply clerk in the store
who shrugs and shakes his head. This leads her to angrily point and
gesticulate at her cast and hold the crutch up in the air vehemently.

“Angelo,” I say, cursing myself inwardly. “Hold my beer, please.”

I snag the ten out of her hand and watch her face go from annoyed to
speechless to furious and back to speechless as I pass it through the
little tray to the clerk inside who exaggeratedly leans to flick the toggle
and turn the gas on to her pump.

“Thanks,” I tell Angelo politely as I take my beer back and I’ve managed to
down a healthy gulp or two before she screws her tank cap on and then
crutches theatrically over to stand in front of us.

“Angelo,” I say, gesturing at Andrea, “This is Andrea Peyton, a police
officer with SFPD. Andrea, this is Angelo Manuel Villanueva.”

“Enchanted,” Angelo says gallantly, standing and elegantly reaching for her
hand which is jerked back out of reach.

“I’m filing charges on you, you know.” She tells me, smile smug and ugly,
head to one side.

“Really. I’m crushed.”

“No, my knee cap is what’s crushed,” she snaps back, then pops Angelo on
the hand because he hasn’t grasped she isn’t going to touch him. “Fuck off
Re-tard.”

Angelo looks at me sadly, eyes wet.

I frown at Andrea and make a shooing gesture with my hand. “Get outta here
Peyton. You’re ruining the beer mood.”

“Massey tells me he spoke with your Colonel. Isn’t that like the top dog
in your Department?” Her teeth flash in her grin as she shakes her hair
back happily. “You are so fucking fired.”

“And you are so fucking boring and predictable,” I tell her.

“And your hair, it’s too tight,” Angelo explains, helpfully rolling his
fingers just in front of his own ear. “This is why you have these
confusions and bewilderments.”

“You’re pathetic,” she hisses at me, smile malevolent and I hand my beer
back to Angelo and cross to her car which is unlocked, keys in the ignition.

I open the passenger’s door, lean in, turn the keys and then lay over the
seat and console and shove the brake down with my hand, then slide the
automatic gear shift into neutral.

“Uh oh,” I tell her as the car begins to roll forwards in slow motion on
the gentle incline towards the busy street in front of the store. “Now,
look what happened.”

“Asshole!” she shrieks, hopping furiously after her car and I let it get a
good two feet and then snag the luggage rack on top long enough for her to
get the door open and fall inside. I let go once I see she’s got it under
control then lean over and wave at her, thrust my third finger up and then
blow her a kiss with it.

She’s mouthing and shrieking still when I turn back to Angelo, but I’ve
caught several pertinent words including, “dead” “cops” and “phone”. It
doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out what small black plastic
electronic equipment she’s holding to her ear.

“Angelo, there are going to be police here soon. Her hair’s too tight and
she’s going to think I did something to hurt her. Could I suggest we take
our beers elsewhere?”

“I think that would be lovely, yes.” He slides off his crates carefully
and holds his arm out and I link mine with it and we march formally up two
blocks as if we’re in a wedding procession, then enter a McDonald’s by the
front door, exiting out the side.

“And now we need to run,” I tell him, tossing our quarts into a dumpster
and grabbing his hand. We hurtle down an alley back the way we’ve come,
headed for Pennybaker’s church and sanctuary.

“You know,” he pants, dark curls flying. “You couldn’t do this if you did
not have very liberated hair.”

There’s a door on the side of the church; we hit it running because the
sirens are screaming up very close on the road beside the building. I have
a moment of panic that it will be locked, but it’s not and we burst inside,
to coolness and quiet and stand leaning against the gray metal, panting.

I think we’ve lucked out but I hear gravel flying in the parking lot. I
say a very unholy word as I snag Angelo’s hand again and drag him bodily
down the hall in front of us. I realize halfway down I can’t see because
I’ve got my sunglasses on still and I yank them from my face, losing my
grasp and sending them skidding along the linoleum where they bounce
against a wall at the end. There’s no time to retrieve them; I hear mic
squelch and hands on the door we entered through and I shove Angelo in
through two wooden swinging doors which turn out to lead into the sanctuary
itself.

I stop, trying to see in the sudden gloom and hush and make out a short
aisle of red carpet, six wooden pews on either side lining it and at the
front a wooden pulpit and below a stained glass piece of art, a baptismal
area. Doors on either side of the tiny choir area lead into the changing
rooms and we enter through one, shutting the door quietly behind us and I
herd Angelo up the small metal steps into the baptismal pool, then hunker
down with him and lay a finger over my lips.

He grips my hand spastically when the voices become clear enough to make
out individual voices.

“I’m not crazy, you know,” he tells me breathlessly.

“Shh,” I whisper, patting his hand. “I know. It’s okay.”

“No. Because they always think I am. Police. Doctors. I try to explain
to them how I can look at someone and see what’s wrong with their lives
because of their poor choices in hair style; I try to tell them how to
better arrange~~”

“Angelo,” I grip his hand and lean forward. “Be very quiet. You’re not
crazy. I know.”

“I have medication,” he tells me sadly. “I take it sometimes.”

“I know. It’s okay. Be quiet.”

“The hair is very important. It grows even after we are dead. Our hair,
it can be immortal.”

Oh, Christ. I close my eyes as the voices get close enough to make out the
words.

“Angelo,” I whisper, “I want you to be totally silent and commune with
yourself about what I should do with my hair. Focus silently on these
cowlicks, especially these on the back of my neck. Okay? But totally
silent. We’re in church,” I finish and point upwards at the dark reds,
blues and greens of the stained glass.

“Shhhh,” I add and he nods reverently, makes the sign of the cross and then
rivets a rather calm yet focused gaze on my scalp and its unruly trappings.

“~~no one here except my daughter, Officers,” I hear Pennybaker say calmly,
voice gracious and mellifluous.

“That’s fine, sir, we just have to check.”

“Door wasn’t locked,” a second voice adds. “You leave it unlocked like
that all the time, Rev’rand?”

“This is a church, officers,” Pennybaker says slowly, a smile in his
voice. “Churches are not intended to be locked to deny shelter or peace or
comfort to any who might seek it.”

I blink, wondering if the words were intended to boom out quite so
reassuringly. Across from me Angelo relaxes slightly, hearing and I
squeeze his hand and wink at him.

“Two people matching the description were seen running up in this
direction,” the younger one says, voice arrogant. “The church is the only
building they could have disappeared into that fast.”

“I haven’t seen anyone,” Pennybaker says honestly, “And I’ve been here all
day.”

“Did you guys check those storage buildings?” It’s Avery, her voice
questioning. “There’s six or seven of them on that next lot, right
Poppy? They’re abandoned mostly but some of the doors are halfway up; kids
are always using them to get high, get laid.”

“Avery,” Pennybaker says reprovingly and I hear Sam Brownes squeak as the
cops shift their weight and then there’s a belch of static and a staccato
ripple of dispatcher voice.

“We’ll check those,” one of them says and I hear the wooden doors shoved
open and pushed back into place. “Sorry we bothered you, Rev’rend.”

“No bother,” Pennybaker says mildly. “Always a pleasure. Let me show you
out.”

“Not necessary. We can~~ What do we have here?”

On my mental video camera I see it; one of them, the young one, leaning
down and scooping my shades up off the linoleum. I lean forward and close
my eyes and squeeze Angelo’s hand.

“There they are!” Avery says, sounding happily surprised. “I told you I
dropped them in the hall, Daddy. Thank you, Officer…”

“Callahan, ma’am.”

“Callahan. Officer Callahan, thank you. I bet I dropped these four hours
ago and we looked all over Daddy’s office there.”

“Amazing how far plastic can bounce,” Callahan agrees, obviously besotted
with whatever almond eyed bat lash eye flirt Avery is treating him to.

“Would it be alright if I walked over with you two to check the storage
buildings?” I hear her ask, voice sounding so tremulous I have to roll my
eyes even though I’m grinning ear to ear. “We pay rent on one of the few
with a door and lock still and I just hate going over there alone. I know
they’re just children, but still~~”

“You shouldn’t be doing that alone, ma’am,” Officer Callahan says gallantly
and I have to put my whole hand over my mouth to hold in the raucous
laughter wanting to burst from me at his partner’s sarcastic grunt.

The doors creak again and I’ve loosened my grip on Angelo’s hand and leaned
back slightly when Pennybaker’s head pops up over the top of the foot tall
glass partition.

“You do lead a most interesting and hectic life, Miss Finn,” he says,
beaming down at the two of us, looking curiously but kindly at Angelo who
nods in agreement and cocks his head to one side philosophically before
pronouncing:

“It’s because she has very liberated hair.”


END OF FIFTY FOUR