Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

“Thanks, fellas,” Sydney said. “I’ll take a rain check.”

When they were back in the car, Sydney said, “Well, he was here.” She looked at her watch. “Where to now? I have about two hours before I pick up Cheryl. I’m taking her to the studio.”

Hunz was studying the email printout. “He calls himself The Rev,” he said. “Reverend, right?”

“Probably. Though it might be The Revolutionary.”

“You think?”

“It’s possible. Everybody’s political out here. Many of them are still stuck in the sixties. Long hair. Tattered jeans. Tie-dyed shirts. The whole thing. But given the fact that he claims to talk to angels, ‘The Reverend’ is probably our best bet.”

“So, besides alleys and parks, what places would a homeless man with a religious streak frequent?”

“The rescue mission,” Sydney said.

“Is it close?”

“Five or six miles.”

“Let’s go.”

The Gospel Rescue Mission was located on East Fifth Street in Little Tokyo. Once a thriving Japanese community, the downtown area was in transition. Only a single block of the original Little Tokyo was still intact with oriental markets, clothing shops, and Japanese-language businesses. The surrounding city blocks were a juxtaposition of new development and skid row.

The sleek new Disney Hall was just a few blocks away, while the ten-story Higgens building, built in 1911 and now an eyesore, was an abandoned shell of a bygone era.

Also in the area were the Los Angeles Times building, the county courthouse, and city hall with its distinctive sandstone tower, the longtime symbol of Los Angeles, constructed with sand from every county in California and water from the state’s twenty-one missions.

Fifth Street had already surrendered to shadows when Sydney turned onto it. Stripped of sunlight the buildings looked even older than they were. Many were boarded up with weathered sheets of plywood and tattered posters several layers deep. The wind toyed with the trash in the gutters, stuffing it in corners. A good number of ragged, colorless, homeless people lined the sidewalks. The luckier ones were camped out in doorways.

“There it is.” Hunz pointed to a red brick building.

Protruding at a right angle from the building was a white neon cross with red letters: JESUS SAVES. Beneath it, in block letters:

GOSPEL RESCUE MISSION.

Sydney drove half a block farther before locating a parking place. A shadowy chill greeted them as they climbed out of the car.

Hunz Vonner’s European-cut suit and Sydney’s brilliant blonde hair and clean complexion made them an instant spectacle on the street. Eyes followed them with the detachment of people watching television.

“Have you come to volunteer?” A happy man with short, thinning red hair and wearing a sweater-vest greeted them as they walked into the mission. They stood in a large room filled with wooden chairs lined in rows. A massive wooden pulpit was at the far end of the room facing the chairs. Next to the entrance was a table with stacks of religious tracts. There was an open passageway on the side wall. Kitchen sounds and smells came from it.

“Actually, we’re looking for someone,” Sydney said.

Happy man’s smile turned defensive, but not unfriendly. “Many of our guests prefer not to be found,” he said. “May I ask about the nature of your inquiry?”

Sydney handed him her card. “I’m with KSMJ,” she said. “This is Hunz Vonner, a visiting newscaster.”

The man’s eyes lit up in recognition. “I saw you last night on the news,” he said to Hunz. “That man in Pasadena who died. The death watch victim.”

“It’s the death watch notices that bring us here,” Sydney said. “Are you familiar with them?”

“I wish to God I wasn’t.”

Sydney continued: “This morning I received a message from a man who identified himself as The Rev. He said he wanted to meet me, that he had some information on Death Watch.”

“Billy?” the man said.

“You know him?”

The man in the sweater-vest nodded and then gestured for them to follow. He led them between a row of empty chairs, through the side door, past a brightly lit kitchen where a dozen workers were stirring steaming pots, lining rolls on baking sheets, and replenishing saltshakers. The end of the hallway opened up to a large dining room set with tables and chairs. They didn’t go that far. Halfway down the hallway they entered an office.

“By the way, I’m Ken Overton.” His voice was deeper in this room, as though a mantle of authority had been placed over his sweater-vest as he entered the office. He shook Hunz and Sydney’s hands crisply, then sat behind a desk that nearly filled the room, not because the desk was that large, but because the room was that small. He offered Sydney and Hunz a pair of old wooden chairs that swayed when they sat down.

Overton interlaced his fingers and placed them gently atop the desk. “Billy Pepper’s a good man. Hardworking. Intelligent. Homeless by choice.”

“What do you mean by that?” Hunz asked.

“Billy could secure employment. He’s been offered jobs. He’s chosen to turn them down for religious reasons.”

“Working is against his religion?” Hunz asked.

Overton laughed. “No. Billy feels he’s been called to minister to the homeless. He’s a street preacher. A Samaritan. And a volunteer here at the mission. He does everything we ask of him without complaint. He serves food. Sweeps floors. Makes beds. Preaches. And washes feet.”

“Washes feet?”

“Once a month Billy oversees a foot-washing service here at the mission. It’s a worship experience. Jesus washed his disciples’ feet the last night he was with them. It teaches humility to those who are ministering and reminds all those who participate of the humanity of the homeless, including the homeless themselves. Following each foot-washing service we provide medical checkups by certified podiatrists.

“In fact, when it comes to available services, Billy is something of a roving ambassador for us. You see, we not only hold worship services, serve food, and provide emergency shelter, but we also make available medical and legal services to those who can’t afford them. We offer health clinic services through UCLA School of Nursing, dental services through USC School of Dentistry, and legal aid through Pepperdine University. Whenever Billy Peppers comes across someone with a need we can fill, he brings them to the mission.”

“The man who contacted me calls himself The Rev,” Sydney said. “You’re certain he and Billy Peppers are one and the same?”

“I don’t recall who first started calling him that, but it’s stuck.”

“Have you seen Billy lately?” Hunz asked. “Will he show up here tonight?”

“That’s hard to say. As a rule, street people don’t keep to a routine. I can tell you that he’s not scheduled to preach tonight.”

“Where else might we find him? Does he have any other places he frequents?” Hunz asked.

Overton rubbed his cheek in thought. “Tell you who might know . Here, let me get him.”

He disappeared for a few minutes, leaving Hunz and Sydney alone in the cramped office. When he returned, he brought a Hispanic man with him—small, swarthy, muscular arms, mustache. He smelled of dish soap.

“This is Lony Mendez,” Overton said, making the introductions. “Lony, these are television reporters. They’re looking for Billy.”

“Ain’t seen Billy for a couple of days,” Lony said with a heavy Hispanic accent. “But that’s not unusual. Sometimes he’s gone for two, three days. A week. No one knows where. He just disappears.”