Chapter 3
the Moon Job
The road crawled halfway up the mountains north of Pasadena. The switchbacks would have been fun, almost like flying, if I’d been on my motorcycle. Rocinante lumbered into each curve, and every time I swung her through another hairpin, the dead weight of the motorcycle lashed to the stern rack yanked at the rear axle, trying to drag the whole rig sideways into the canyon.
Somewhere along the way, a billboard rose out of the scrub: VILLA VIEJO, A COMPLETE RETIREMENT COMMUNITY BY DEL AMO PROPERTIES. The architect’s hallucination showed glass-fronted shops and stucco boxes laid out in perfect radiating lines, roads like spokes running from a shopping hub into carefully anesthetized suburbs, all of it smeared across the mountain’s verdant flanks. Looking at the rugged, untouched terrain, it was clearly still a paper project.
Half a block past that glossy promise, a smaller, beautifully hand-painted sign tilted in the weeds: WELCOME TO THE TEMPLE OF THE RISING MOON. The letters arced around a crude emblem of a yellow moon circling a blue-and-green planet, like a bumper sticker for cosmic sincerity. A dirt driveway veered off the main road and crept uphill through ragged ivy and scrub. Rocinante barely fit the track, her broad flanks brushing dried vines as if the mountain were closing in on her.
Up ahead, a jumble of structures came into view: old houses, sagging sheds, garages that looked one bad storm away from becoming ruins. Floey’s wood-sided station wagon sat in a dirt lot in front of a tired-looking house, the same car that carried so much family history. A staircase nearby climbed a knoll toward a green-painted building with carved doors and stone gargoyles hunched over the eaves at each corner, leering down as if they knew something the rest of us didn’t.
I slid Rocinante in beside the wagon, then waded through the trash my friends had deposited all over her cabin to reach the side door and step down into the scene.
I caught my reflection for a split second in the station wagon’s side window: tall and thin, early twenties, bluish-gray eyes staring back from a face framed by healthy hair that somehow never looked as wrecked as I felt. Handsome? Hell no. Just another lanky intruder with windburn and questions.
Also in the lot, a small, compact man in his mid-thirties was directing the loading of duffel bags into Floey’s station wagon. He wore slacks and a tight black turtleneck stretched over a soft frame. His face was sharp and ascetic, the kind of angular bone structure that, with longer hair and a beard, would pass for Jesus in a low-budget religious film. The two men hauling the bags had hair and beards straight from a hippy commune dress code, but they were built like mafia bar bouncers, not hired for their conversational skills.
“Nice car you’ve got there,” I said. Better to come in straight. Any demand to know why he was using my sister’s car would just glance off the commune doctrine he had armored himself with. “Looks like a ’59 woody, maybe.”
“It’s too late,” the ascetic said. His voice was flat and composed. “I’ve already sold it.”
“Pink slip and everything?”
“It will be delivered to the new owners after they take these things to the Rising Moon,” he said. “Our sailing ship.” The way he said our suggested divine clearance. Then he looked at me with calm brown eyes and a judgmental expression that said: you can leave now.
“This looks like my sister’s car,” I said, letting my gaze travel over the wood panels and worn chrome.
“Your sister is a member of our Brotherhood?”
“Maybe. Her name is Floey Magnin Braughn.”
“Ah,” he said, as if that explained something. “The silent one. Everyone who joins the Brotherhood must give up all material possessions, of course.”
“She sign the pink slip over to you?” I asked. It was impossible to picture her surrendering this particular classic. It had been our father’s. “Let me see it.”
He straightened slightly. “I am Ayer Dada, the founder of the Temple of the Rising Moon. All mundane matters, money, documents, are handled by my followers. This…” He spread his arms to encompass the ragged acreage and scattered structures. “All this was my vision, my dream. But I am only the dreamer. The people are the reality. We are a family, sharers of space. Your sister was an important part.”
The two large assistants watched me with unpleasant interest, a sharp contrast to the serene smile crinkling the corners of Ayer’s eyes.
“Was?” I said.
“She left a week ago,” he said. “She is exhibiting paintings she created while with us, in an art gallery in Hollywood.”
“I know,” I said.
The lie sat between us. Floey had nowhere else to stay in Los Angeles, and she had handed over every cent she had to this outfit. If she left, it was through some door he did not want to name.
“Mind if I look around before I go?”
The two bearded musclemen stepped forward as a unit, ready to close the option, but Ayer made a small signal and they held.
“The Brotherhood is open to visitors,” he said. “You cannot enter the temple.” He gestured toward the green building on the knoll. “But we welcome new members. Ask any of us about the peace found here.”
“I’ll do that,” I said.
I walked toward the brooding main house. As I climbed the creaking steps, I glanced back and saw Ayer talking to his two helpers. A moment later he slid into the station wagon with one of them and drove off, leaving the larger one planted in the lot, his gaze fixed on me with a guard dog’s tense expectation.
Inside, the house reeked of damp wool, old dust, and incense. The front room centered on a gray stone fireplace that had been converted into a makeshift altar. A row of candles lined the mantel, wax spilling down the stone in frozen drips of red, blue, and white, forming slow-motion lava flows. Set inside the fireplace opening was a silver-framed photograph of Ayer himself, grinning as if he had just closed a deal on somebody’s soul.
Pillows ringed a large rug in the middle of the bare floor. The walls were cloaked in tapestries and framed photographs of gurus, religious figures, and politicians, many of them with Ayer obligingly included in the shot, smiling beside them. Between them ran a series of glossy posters: stylized Mayan pyramids at Palenque and Tikal with luminous saucers hovering over the temples, beams of light hauling stick-figured humans up toward helmeted “gods.” A caption about ancient astronaut technology was underlined in red, as if the Maya had been waiting all this time for Ayer to explain their space program.
A small procession of people shuffled past me as I stood in the doorway. Heads bowed, they moved through the room like sleepwalkers, the afterimage of a crowd. Near the end of the line, a woman about my age looked up long enough to nod and smile. Behind her, a man with long hair tied back and a wispy beard said in a warm, practiced tone, “Hello, welcome to the Temple of the Rising Moon. Enjoy your visit. I hope you decide to join us.”
“Sure,” I said, as if that were on my list.
I drifted through the building looking for any sign of Floey, trying to grasp her attraction to this place. At the far end of a large room lined with dining tables, I found the kitchen, a cavernous setup with huge pots on an iron stove and the smell of grease and beans hanging in the air. Copper pans and ladles dangled over a counter stacked with trays. Two hollow-eyed girls and a skinny kid of about eighteen were untying aprons in a hurry. A bell clanged in the distance. Above the doorway someone had tacked a cheap plaster crescent moon flanked by three tiny chrome flying saucers.
“That’s the temple bell,” the boy said. “We gotta go.”
The girls nodded in unison. They did not need the explanation. They already lived by the chime.
I continued down a dark hallway, glancing side to side as I passed two closed doors on my right. An open one revealed a small room with a cot. A girl sat on the edge of it, shoulders slumped, staring at nothing. I started to walk on, then something about the exposed, unfinished way she occupied the space made me stop and back up.
She was blonde, but not the plastic television-commercial kind. More of a soft, pink-toned blond, sun-faded rather than manufactured. A small arc of freckles crossed her nose. She had a good body, but the way she folded in on herself hid most of it. Wrinkled Yale University Law sweatshirt, faded jeans, no effort at display.
“How come you’re not heading up to temple with the rest of them?” I asked from the doorway. “Choir kick you out, or what?”
She looked up, blue-gray eyes sharp under the tiredness. “What’s it to you? You the new prophet?”
“Just a guy looking for someone,” I said, stepping inside and leaning on the frame. “Cutty.”
“Paula,” she said. “You look like trouble on a bike. Road-burned and underfed. What do you want, Cutty?”
“Couple of things,” I said. “That woody wagon outside? My sister’s. Floey Magnin Braughn. You know her?”
Paula straightened, a smirk ghosting across her mouth. “Yeah. The one with the vow of silence and the crazy paintings. We were roommates. Ayer calls her the devil’s rep. You here to rescue her or what?”
“Stirring things up is kind of my hobby,” I said. “But you don’t look like the chanting type. How’d a law school brain end up here?”
She combed her hair over one ear, her gaze flicking away and back. “Third year I figured out I believed more in billable hours than justice. My sister dragged me up here, said it was real purpose, no partners to impress. I stayed a week, met Ayer, bought the routine.”
“And now?” I said.
“Now there’s a five-hundred-dollar check from Florida with my name on it that he doesn’t want to let go of. My parents sent it. My aunt’s idea. Supposed to be for traveling. I told him that. He says the devil scrambled my soul segments, so I’m off duty and not supposed to talk.”
“Call it a bad contract,” I said. “You can cancel it.”
A quick small, reluctant smile slipped out. “You’re very sure of yourself for a guy in thrift-store jeans,” she said.
“I fake it well,” I said. “Listen, Larry the ex-accountant handles the money, right? Office behind the garage?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“Because if you want out, we get your check back. Then you’ve got choices. Bus ticket, plane, whatever isn’t full of true believers.”
She studied me another beat, then stood. The motion made it clear she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts shifted under the shirt, and when she saw me looking, she pulled her shoulders back just enough to underline the fact. It was a small, instinctive test. Let’s see what the rescuer does with this.
“Fine,” she said. “If we’re caught, you’re carrying me out bridal style.”
“Deal,” I said. “Though you should know I’m more of a fireman-carry romantic.”
“Figures,” she said, brushing past me into the hall. Her shoulder bumped mine just hard enough to register. “Lawyer in a cult, man wearing biker leather. This is either fate or really bad casting.”
“We’ll fix it in rewrites,” I said.
She glanced around the hallway like a defendant checking for the jury. “Everyone’s gone to temple,” she said finally. “Two hours of chanting, three hours of numb legs, lifetime of brain damage.”
“Perfect window for a little white-collar crime,” I said. “Lead on, Counselor.”
The big man Ayer had left behind was still stationed outside, tracking us. Paula and I headed toward the far side of the dirt lot, parallel to the low hill with the temple on top. The goon fell in behind us with heavy, deliberate steps, close enough that I imagined I could feel his breath at my neck.
I turned and smiled. “How’s it going? You know you’re missing meditation.”
He grunted. Up close he didn’t look particularly bright, but there was an animal gleam in his eye, a glint that suggested he was capable of acting on his own, beyond whatever simple orders he’d been given.
“What do you do in there anyway?” I asked. “Meditation’s supposed to be a big step on the spiritual ladder around here.”
“Paula was talking,” he said. “I heard. She’s not supposed to talk.”
“I canceled her vow of silence,” I said. “Cosmic clerical error. We’re appealing.”
“Only Ayer can do that,” he said.
“See, that’s the problem,” I said. “One-man customer service department. No wonder you people are tense.”
Paula flicked her eyes toward the stairs to Larry’s office, confirming that was where we needed to go. I started up.
“You can’t go up there,” the big man said.
“How am I supposed to understand the Brotherhood without seeing the whole operation?” I asked, about a third of the way up. “We’re talking about my eternal soul here. There’s probably a form.”
“You’re not allowed,” he said. He lunged.
I dropped sideways off the stairs, hit the ivy-covered slope, and rolled. Roots snagged my clothes. Somebody’s discarded sandal skittered away in the loose dirt. Dirt smarted in my eyes.
“You okay?” Paula called.
“Yeah,” I said, blinking and brushing dirt and leaves off my shirt. “Next time I’d like a stunt double.”
The big man had smashed the banister in his rush. Now he was coming around the hill, closing with that same steady menace.
“Cutty,” Paula said under her breath, edging back toward the garage. “This isn’t where we get killed?”
“Not if we move,” I said.
Logic said run. My brain, in its usual helpful way, threw up a memory of a German shepherd that had once come at me the same way, growling, advancing. I had stopped that dog by roaring back and charging it.
I decided to see if the same principle applied to cult enforcers.
I let out a yell from the bottom of my lungs and ran straight at him. He stumbled backward, startled, and nearly fell over the edge of the ivy bank. While he was still off balance, I snapped a kick at his solar plexus, the kind I’d been taught in a karate class as a kid in Reno.
The kick landed lower than planned.
He folded as if someone had hit a kill switch, hands flying to the point of impact, and collapsed to the ground in a tight, agonized knot. For a second I worried I’d done something permanent.
Paula stared, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You really do your own stunts,” she said. “Remind me never to argue with you about anything important.”
“Let’s grab your check and get out of here before he remembers how to walk,” I said. “He doesn’t look like the forgiving type.”
“Lead on, Sensei,” she said, already turning for the stairs. “And for a guy who claims he’s not a hero, you’re having a very good first act.”