Victor Koman - The Jehovah Contract

I needed a professional opinion.

The wind died down as I walked over the Fourth Street Bridge, to be replaced by a thin autumnal fog. The overhead lamps glowed with the light of another age. My feet scuffed concrete, heels tapping against cracks, soles grinding over rubble. In the distance, traffic roared along the Hollywood Freeway. Only a whisper of engines reached me through the fog. A thin crescent moon rose in the east. It would be morning soon.

At the Fourth Street onramp to the southbound Hollywood Freeway stood the Church of St. Herman of Alaska. Actually, it was a run-down slum hotel that a priest friend of mine had converted into a mission. He usually kept the front door unlocked, so I let myself in.

Father Joey Moreno leaned forward in one of the church's two pews. His thick right hand grasped a bottle of Chianti that he snorted down lovingly. A pink stain colored most of his white collar.

"Hey, Joey. Too much sacrament."

He belched, twisting around to see me. His rust-hued locks blended into his beard to frame his dark face in a soft triangle of frizzy hair.

"Dell! How goes? Come to convert? Or converse?"

I smiled and sat next to him. "I'm looking for God, Joey."

The bottle slid from his fingers into the next pew. He twisted around. "Won't find Him, Dell. Been looking for Him for years."

He peered down at the floor, then stamped his foot. "God's a cockroach, hombre. Split Himself into myriad parts to keep an eye on us."

I could tell this would be a conversation at cross-purposes. "How's the congregation?"

"Sinners still sin. And bingo Saturdays."

"You can't give me a lead on God's whereabouts, though?"

He stood to his full six-foot-two and bellowed, "Go thee forth to the highest, for the highest shall become the lowest and the lowest shall become the highest!"

He dropped to his knees, begging St. Herman to eliminate the liquor tax, compulsory education, and foods fried in Crisco.

I stashed the bottle behind the card table altar and left. So much for the voice of authority.

Sunlight splashed the northern Arco Tower remains with smeared reds and oranges as I returned. Rosy fingered Dawn had not yet touched the streets. I walked in a dreamy morning world where light filtered down indirectly from the sky, softening every shadow. An occasional spear of sunshine lanced into the street, reflected from a high window.

On the corner of Figueroa and Fourth stood a man in a dark suit. He held a bunch of magazines close to his chest like a shield. The covers faced outward. He spoke quietly to the bums that passed him and he didn't seem to mind being ignored. He was portly, short-haired, and a little nervous. I didn't blame him, considering the locale.

I wandered over to him to check out the `zine. Sure enough, it was one of those religious societies. Maybe it was worth a try.

"Say, pal. Know of a way I can find God?" I judged the direct approach to be best.

He wearily handed me a copy of the magazine. "Simply accept Jesus into your life. He is the path from sin to salvation."

Salvation wasn't exactly what I was looking for. "No. Thanks. I mean, I want to see God. In the flesh. Or whatever."

He sighed and answered without looking at me. "Give me a break, Mac. I've got a long day ahead of me, and I don't need sarcasm."

I nodded. He was right. A breeze almost tugged the magazine out of my fingers. That was when I noticed it was a Hallelujah House publication.

"Say-this is Emil Zacharias's group, isn't it?"

"Yeah." He didn't seem too pleased by the association.

"Do you think we're in occupied territory?"

He shrugged. His gaze never crossed mine for more than an instant.

"You might say that Satan has a foothold in this world. C. S. Lewis thought so too, and you wouldn't call him nuts."

"I wasn't calling anyone nuts," I said. "Do you think God will accept his challenge?"

"Christ the Lord will return to implement the Kingdom of God. It's in the Book." He flinched once or twice while speaking. His gaze darted about to search for someone else to rescue him from the grilling.

I was just getting interested.

"Do you think Zacharias was trying to send an SOS to God? Trying to hasten the Second Coming?"

He slowly shifted from one foot to the other. "Look, brother. I don't know why you're so intrigued, but no man can hasten His return. Not even Emil Zacharias. He flipped out. It happens sometimes. There was a guy twenty, twenty-five years back named Jim Jones. He flipped out lots worse. Everybody's entitled to crack a bit, especially in Southern California. That doesn't invalidate two thousand years of philosophy and prophecy."

He coughed. The eloquence may have been too much for him. "I gotta go now. Quotas and such."

He walked away from me with short, tired steps. It was going to be a long day for him.

I climbed the stairs to my office and spent the next hour pacing around, searching for a lead, some method of bringing me closer to the Supreme Recluse. None of my previous contacts would be of any help. And Zack was unwilling to offer any assistance.

While stretched out on my couch to catch a doze, an idea hit me during that moment between dreamy slumber and drowsy waking. After allowing a minute or two for my sense to catch up with my thoughts, I seized the phone and punched up information.

"City?" a raspy voder asked.

"L.A. I need the number of God Almighty."

The computer searched for a moment, then replied in mechanical deadpan. "Not listed, sir. Would you like an operator?"

"No, thanks. Connect me with the Bautista Corporation on Cordova."

The line rang for a couple times, and a soft voice on the other end answered.

"Bautista Development."

"Ann Perrine, please."

"May I ask who's calling?"

"Dell Ammo."

She put me on hold for a few minutes, then I heard a click.

"Dell?" Even over the phone, her voice reminded me of satin and soft lights.

"Yeah. Look, I know this is out of line, but you told me to call you if I ever needed help."

"Of course."

"Yeah. Well, this'll sound like a crazy old man talking. I need some… help in researching, uh, religious matters."

Her voice betrayed a sudden interest.

"I minored in philosophy at UCLA. What do you need?"

I tried to ease it to her. "It's sort of nuts, but there's this guy who's offered me lots of money to find God. He's convinced that God exists somewhere and can actually be-hunted down."

Silence shot back and forth over the line for a dozen heartbeats.

"You're looking for god," she said. "For real."

"In the flesh. Or whatever He uses."

"Why?"

"The money."

"And you want me to help you defraud this man?"

She asked the tough ones. She'll either think I'm a crook or a psycho. I preferred the latter. I'd rather be thought of as insane than dishonest. I cleared my throat.

"I don't think it will be fraud. This guy seems convinced that I can find Him." I switched on a gizmo attached to my phone that checks for listeners. The lights flashed green-the line was secure.

"He gave me a contract to track down God and kill Him."

"Kill god? "

I gave her credit for not laughing out loud. When I didn't answer, she said nothing for a long time. Convinced that she had hung up, I softly muttered a "damn" and lowered the receiver.

"Dell," said a small voice in my hand.

I raised the horn to my ear. "Yeah?"

"I told you that if you ever needed help, I'd do all I could."

"You will?" It was my turn for incredulity.

"I can't stay on the phone much longer-"

"Meet me at Auberge tonight." My heart pounded faster than the old thing had a right to. "Cocktail lounge of the Hope and Anchor. At eight."

"Right." She hung up without a good-bye.