C.B. glared, but I gave him a smile. “So … a graduate of the UCLA Film School, right?”

“Fuck you.”

I crossed my arms and leaned the wall as the others studied a script and ignored me. Several minutes passed and I heard Belafonte calling.

“Detective Ryder? You back there?”

Finished. As I started out the door I heard Belafonte utter an expletive followed by a howl of pain. I sprinted to an anteroom near the stairs, the director and crew on my heels. We found star stud curled into the fetal position on the floor, towel at his feet, face tight with pain and hands cupping his meal ticket.

“The bitch hit me in the balls …” he gasped. “With a fucking stick.”

Belafonte was folding the baton back to purse-size. “He exposed himself to me,” she said.

C.B. went ballistic. “Police brutality! My lawyers are going to eat you alive!”

“Really?” I said. “In one bite?”

“I’ll have your badge! I’ll have her in jail! I’ll sue!”

I leaned against the wall and stared into C.B.’s eyes, my hands in a weighing motion. “Let’s see, Director Boy … the word of a respected police officer, or the word of a porn actor? Which will a jury believe?” I gave him my most charming smile. “Plus, C.B., when the suit hits the news, your mama’s going to find out what you do.” I smiled. “What do you tell her … that you make dog-food commercials?”

A blind shot that hit something. C.B. looked down at his stricken star. “Just leave,” he whined. “You’ve ruined a whole day’s shooting.”

I declined praising a splendid double entendre, and we headed out into air untainted by sweat or stupidity. “He really exposed himself?” I said to Belafonte as we crossed to the Rover.

“I finished with poor Vera and thought you were toward the front of the hall. Only it was him in that grubby towel. He let the towel slip to the floor. The silly arse grinned at me and gave his willy a wiggle.”

38

I felt diseased after being in an enclosed space with pornographers and needed fresh air and sun to burn porno-bacteria from my soul. I suggested that before we got into Vera’s back-story, we pick up some chow and take it to Morningstar Park on the upper east side, not overly distant.

“That sounds splendid, Detective. I forgot to eat brekkie. I had some files on my kitchen table. I sat down to think about eating …”

“And got caught up in the case. Been there.”

We stopped for carry-out Cubano sandwiches, heading to the bay shore and finding a picnic table under a spreading jacaranda tree. Vivian Morningstar and I joked about the park being named after her, and they shared attributes, like packing so much natural beauty in a small space. We spread out our meals as a group of kayakers paddled by in bright boats. At our backs a quartet of Lycra-clad bicyclists whizzed past. Across the lawn a young couple sat a few feet apart as their new-to-legs toddler practiced walking between them.

I took a bite of sandwich and turned to Belafonte. “So what’s the skinny on Miz Garrido?”

“Vera and Darlene spent four months together, mostly in a druggy haze. When their pimp got shot, Darlene went one way – exotic dancing – and Vera met up with Kevin, who promised he’d make her a rich film star.”

“And introduced her to Director Boy. I’ll bet she’s not rich yet.”

“She’s still paying off the money he lent her for the breasts. I took some insight into the religious stuff. According to Vera, Darlene was from a strict religious family in Arkansas. We’re talking church four times a week, all day Sunday, no dates in high school, made to kneel and pray for hours for various infractions, beatings for others. She ran away the day she turned eighteen. When she first came to Florida she ended up at a place called Hallelujah Jubilee. Vera wasn’t sure what kind of work it was, except that Darlene dressed up in various costumes. Vera said, and I quote, ‘It was like those soldiers that act out old wars, except from the Bible’.”

“Civil War re-enactments, I think she means.”

“When Vera asked Darlene more, like exactly what she did, she’d always change the subject.”

“From there?”

“She left the Jubilee place after a few months and headed to the bright lights of Miami. We know what happened here – hooking – then she lifted herself up a rung into dancing.”

“And now dead. How about you give this Hallelujah, uh …”

“Jubilee. It’s southeast of Kissimmee. I’ll call and find out what she did and when.”

After their lunch, Harry Nautilus and Rebecca Owsley continued through the park, Nautilus noting the kid craning her head to take in every detail, as if absorbing sights and scents and colors, and he realized she was emulating him.

They were walking through the mock Bethlehem, past a rough-hewn wooden manger scene populated by actors portraying Joseph and Mary and the Magi. A camel grunted near the rear of the scene, its bridle firmly in the hand of one of the Magi. A tethered goat stood beside the crib holding the infant Jesus, a lifelike doll mostly hidden under rough cloth. The actors were mouthing scripted lines as cameras clicked and guests looked on with joy or wept.

Nautilus again noted how young the actors were – late teens or early twenties – Joseph and the Magi made up with huge dark beards to disguise their youthful skin. Makes sense, Nautilus thought. The pay was probably little above minimum wage, but budding actors got a line for the résumé and the gig had to be more fun than flipping burgers at Micky Dee’s. Nautilus wondered if the kids had to get their own lodging or the park carried that expense.

“Some of these actors aren’t much older than you, Rebecca,” he said as they passed the Nativity scene. “Maybe you could get a job here in a couple years.”

“I’d rather go to Disney World and be Cinderella. She escaped, right?” Rebecca saw the look on Nautilus’s face and gave him a sly grin. “Just joking. You don’t have to ask if I want an ice cream.”

The cobbled road ended at a sign saying Watch Your Step, Maintenance in Progress. A pair of uniformed maintenance men were kneeling and replacing stones in the road, a wheelbarrow of orange-sized cobblestones beside them.

“Looks like hot work,” Nautilus commented to a man sifting gravel between newly installed stones.

The guy wiped his brow on his shoulder. “Someone snuck into the park last week and pulled up two square yards of stones. Probably sold them on E-bay as holy relics.”

“Takes all kinds,” Nautilus said, turning back. He looked at his watch, then at Rebecca. “Ready to call it a day?”

“Can you watch me again tomorrow? This was cool.”

“Depends on what your parents need,” Nautilus said, thinking today beat driving Celeste Owsley from store to store as she filled the trunk with purchases, or ferrying Richard Owsley around, either ignoring Nautilus to talk on his phone or expounding on his religious views.

They reached the gate. Nautilus heard a voice over his shoulder.

“Did you have a great day with us? I bet you did!”

Tawnya of the bouncy curls. The all-smiles and fuzzy words Tawnya, not the face-slapping, threatening Tawnya.

“We had an interesting time,” Nautilus said. “Both of us.”

Tawnya accompanied the pair to the parking lot. “You employ a lot of actors here,” Nautilus said, making conversation.

“Over a hundred. Some are characters, others sing and dance in the shows.”

“They seem so young.”

“The average age is about twenty-five. The characters are younger, the regular show people are older.”

“Where do the kids stay? Rents have to be high in the area.”

“Dormitories. They stay free as our employees. We also provide meals at very low prices.”

“Got to keep the workers happy, right?” Nautilus said.

“Everyone’s happy at Hallelujah Jubilee,” the good Tawnya chirped, her smile verging on beatific. “It’s Heaven on Earth.”