Calling the Shots (11 page)

Even allowing for differences in earthly and heavenly time systems, I thought the Bloomfields had got work really speedily.

Rose was doing modelling, would you believe? (Don’t worry, she kept her clothes on! It was her ‘It’ girl face everyone was crazy about.) Grace had landed herself a magic job, playing the piano at a Hollywood movie theatre called the Golden Palace Picture House. And Ruby and Lenny worked in a Hollywood night club called the Top Hat Club. Honesty told me that the club was run by two brothers, Carlo and Luigi Franco, who owned a string of clubs all over LA.

Ruby was actually performing in the nightly cabaret. Lenny was just waiting on tables at present, but Honesty said he was sure to get his break really soon.

And guess what! I got a job the very next day! Over breakfast, Ruby offered to wangle me a few hours at the club doing washing up. Suddenly Honesty coughed and said, “What about me?” And Ruby just said, “Sure.”

So four nights a week, Honesty and I washed dishes at the Top Hat. This was way cooler than it sounds because we got to see all the cabaret acts for free, including Ruby’s. With Lenny’s help she had worked up a v. exotic acrobatic routine, with some fire-eating thrown in for added excitement.

On the club’s quieter nights, Lenny hung out with us, watching the other artists’ acts. He wasn’t impressed with any of them, I have to say. But he really hated the girl who played the musical saw!

“That stuff belongs back in the nineteenth century along with the - the barrel organ and horse-drawn carriages,” he insisted. “Times have changed. People today need danger and daring! They need speed, novelty and excitement. More than that, they need magic!” Lenny’s eyes went all misty. I could tell he was picturing himself and Ruby drawing oohs and aahs from the crowd with some death-defying manoeuvre.

Lenny might have to work as a waiter, but in his mind, he was a stuntman-in-waiting. He and Ruby spent every spare moment down in the courtyard devising weird and wonderful stunts.

“I like that mad stunt you do with the bicycle,” I said shyly. “That’s magic. It’s funny too!”

Lenny’s face lit up. “You really think so? Do you think maybe we could make the big time?”

“I know so—” I began.

A voice yelled, “Lenny! Get over here. Luigi’s got an urgent message needs to be delivered.”

I saw Lenny tense. “I’d better go.”

“Let them wait,” Honesty hissed at him. “They pay you to wait on tables, not to be Luigi’s dogsbody.”

I agreed with her. The Franco brothers treated Lenny like their own personal slave, constantly making him run stupid little errands. They were really picky too, like Lenny had to go to this one particular florist even if it was like, after
midnight
.

Lenny patted his sister’s shoulder. “You’re a good kid. But I know what I’m doing.” He was smiling but I noticed that he couldn’t quite meet her eyes.

Violet was what the Agency had decided I should be called. But like Shakespeare said, “What’s in a name?” My name might be bogus, but my friendship was totally genuine. And I know it showed, because now that we were hanging out together for real, Honesty finally started to come out of her shell.

They weren’t so big on security back then, so in our free time we would wander into the studio lots, and roam around the empty film sets. One was a ballroom with fake marble pillars. Cissie had taught Honesty a cool little dance routine to Putting on the Ritz. Honesty showed me the steps and we danced up and down the ballroom, singing out the lyrics.

On non-work nights, we went to the movies. The projectionist at the Golden Palace let us go up into the projection box, so we got to see all the latest films for free.

Honesty and I didn’t always share the same tastes. Like, I totally didn’t get the Keystone Cops and she was a huge fan. But no matter what movie they were showing, I was happy to go along. I just adored that whole Twenties movie experience. I loved being up in the projectionist’s room, listening to the atmospheric whirr of the projector. And I loved watching that flickering ghostly light streaming down into the dark auditorium, and miraculously transforming itself into moving pictures on the screen.

More than anything I loved the audience’s excitement. When the lights dimmed and the titles came up, I could literally feel people letting go of their troubles as the movie took them away from their hard-up, humdrum lives, into another more thrilling world.

One night we went to see a new Buster Keaton film. Honesty’s mother was in the auditorium playing the piano as usual. I thought she did a fantastic job. She had to keep one eye on the screen the whole time she was playing, ready to switch styles at a moment’s notice. She had to play comical plinky-plonky sounds for the funny parts, mad thunderous chords for the action scenes, and heart-rending music for the sad bits.

It was really cosy up in the projectionist’s box. Honesty and I sat on the floor, absentmindedly stuffing our faces with popcorn, totally caught up in Buster’s antics. Suddenly we heard a loud snore. The projectionist was quite old, and he’d just dozed off. Unfortunately he’d done it during the most thrilling part of the movie! There was a mad clattering unravelling sound, as the reel of film ran out. The screen went totally blank and the audience started to boo and catcall.

Grace saved the day, luckily. She stopped playing comical Buster Keaton music, and switched to a soothing classical piece - the Moonlight Sonata, Honesty said it was - while the old guy frantically replaced the reel.

On the way home that night, I caught sight of two figures on the other side of the street. They were sheltering in a shadowy doorway, and one was handing over a bulky package.
He looks a bit like Lenny
, I thought in surprise. Then I looked again and he’d gone.

I suddenly got a really iffy vibe. “Did you see those guys over there?” I asked Honesty.

She shook her head. “Uh-uh. And if you’ve got any sense, you didn’t either.”

I felt a shiver run through me. “How come?”

“He was probably delivering bootleg booze. Next time look the other way,” she said solemnly, “or you could get yourself into trouble.”

Honesty explained that America’s prohibition laws had led to a humungous crime wave. “Gangsters like Al Capone are making millions of dollars every year, selling alcohol illegally.”

“Al Capone!” I squeaked. “Al Capone lives in these times?”

She gave me a startled look. “Why, what other times would he live in?”

Yikes! I had just committed a major time booboo. I did one of my speciality airhead giggles. “I am such a ditz! My old teacher used to say I had pink fluff for brains. Sorry babe, you were telling me about the gangsters.”

“The real trouble starts when they think other gangsters are muscling in on their business,” Honesty explained. “After we got here, a famous LA mobster mysteriously ‘disappeared’. They found him at the bottom of the river. There was some big war going on between rival gangs over who ruled which patch. The government is so worried that they employ special government agents to hunt down anyone making, buying or selling illegal liquor.”

Honesty unexpectedly let out this incredibly infectious giggle. I giggled too, but out of pure shock. It was the first time I’d heard her laugh since she left Philadelphia. “What’s so funny?” I asked her.

“I was remembering something I heard about these prohibition agents, called Izzy and Mo. They’re so crazy to catch bootleggers, there’s nothing they won’t do. Play tricks, wear ridiculous disguises, they’re like - like comic-book characters almost. And do you know what they say every time they bust someone?”

I had to bite my lip so as not to spoil her story. “No, what?”

Honesty rocked with laughter. ‘“Dere’s sa-ad news’! Isn’t that hilarious! ‘Dere’s sa-ad news’!”

“Sounds like a sheep!” I spluttered.

We walked along still giggling.

On impulse I said, “You’re so smart, Honesty.”

She blinked with surprise. “How come?”

“You know all this stuff, and you take an interest in the world. You notice all the juicy little details, which pass other people by. You should be like, a reporter or something.”

Honesty looked spooked. “You scare me sometimes, Violet. I get the feeling you can actually read my mind.”

Whoops
, I thought. “Hey, I get the odd psychic flash,” I said aloud. “It’s no biggie, honestly.”

Honesty shook her head. “It’s a bit more than a psychic flash, or you couldn’t know my secret ambition.” She took a breath. “Up until last spring, that’s exactly what I wanted to be, a hotshot news reporter. You know the kind that report back from dangerous war zones?”

I was scared to breathe or change my expression.

Honesty’s voice cracked. “Papa never took Rose’s dreams seriously. It’s one of the things I feel bad about. But he really encouraged me. We used to discuss the news when he got back from work, and he’d buy me these notebooks. I’d record all the things I saw and heard, sort of training myself for the day I could be a real reporter.”

Keep talking
, I prayed.

She swallowed. “I’d give anything to have those books back.”

“Why? What happened to them?” I said casually, as if I hadn’t watched her diaries turn into a heap of curly black ash.

“I burned them. I couldn’t stand to look at them, after he, um, after he…”
Say it
, I thought.

“After he… he… he died,” she managed finally.

WHOOSH! I felt a surge of cosmic power go shimmering through our energy fields, as if for just a moment, Honesty Bloomfield and I were one.

She had done it! Honesty had somehow found the strength to disconnect herself from PODS FM. And I had this involuntary mental image of all the angel trainees on the GA hotline, clapping and cheering.

I could tell Honesty had no idea what had just happened. She just looked really spaced suddenly. I took her arm, and said gently, “Let’s go home.”

That night I heard a funny sound coming from her bed. I listened to her trying to muffle her huge racking sobs then I went to sit beside her.

“It’s OK,” I said, “it’s totally OK to cry when your dad dies. It’s normal. Actually it’s necessary.”

“You don’t understand,” she wept. “I’m not just crying because he’s dead. I’m crying because I killed him.”

“Don’t be stupid,” I said gently. “The poor guy was hit by a truck.”

“You don’t understand. I was such a spoiled brat, Violet,” she burst out. “I knew I was his favourite and I used it. I knew exactly how to twist him around my finger. Papa didn’t want to get a car, but I kept on and on, like Chinese water torture, until he gave in. I
killed
him! I murdered my own papa and now I’ll never see him again.”

I ached to comfort her - but then I thought of Caleb Jones saying how people sometimes need to go into the dark and come out the other side. So I just sat with her quietly, until she cried herself to sleep.

And then I took my mobile out on to the balcony. I sat down in a calming yoga pose in the Californian darkness, and with pink, green, purple and yellow advertising signs flashing all round me, I punched in the number of the GA hotline.

Honesty had remembered how to laugh and dance and have a good time. She’d started to grieve for her dead papa. She’d even remembered why she was here on Earth. In my opinion my work was done.

I waited for Orlando to pick up. “Come
on
,” I muttered.

“Hi, Mel. How are you doing?” said a familiar voice.

I actually dropped my mobile.

I imagined it
, I told myself.
I’m so completely paranoid about Brice being back in Heaven, that I actually imagined I heard his voice.

I held the phone shakily to my ear. “Orlando?”

“I’m afraid lover boy’s buzzed off on some secret mission, sweetheart,” the voice said calmly. “You’ll just have to make do with me.”

It was him. A fallen angel was manning the GA hotline. The entire cosmos had turned upside down!

Calm down
, I scolded myself.
You’re OK with this, remember? Trees, diamonds, evolution and whatever? Now try to act like a professional.

Unfortunately, when I’m shocked, my voice shoots up about two octaves. “Do you think you could ask the Agency to send me home?” I squeaked. “Honesty is pretty much sorted.”

“You reckon?” Brice sounded so disbelieving that I wanted to smack him.

“I’m telling you, she’s back on track,” I said sniffily.

“Oh, yeah? And how long will that last if her big brother screws up?”

I felt a sudden sinking feeling. “I don’t get you.”

“Think about it,” he said. “You did notice all those harmless little deliveries for the Top Hat’s special customers, didn’t you? Not to mention those late night trips to the florists, hint, hint.”

I found myself picturing the Lenny lookalike in the doorway. “Omigosh,” I gasped. “That guy didn’t just look like Lenny. He was Lenny!”

I had been so wrapped up in Honesty that I had totally failed to notice that the Franco brothers were actually dangerous Mafia-style gangsters!

“I am SO dense!” I groaned.

To my astonishment, Brice said, “You’re not dense, darling. You were just being extremely focused. Luckily you’re an angel, so you were still absorbing all the relevant info. Think back. What have Lenny’s vibes been telling you?”

This is an exercise we do in class to develop our angelic intuition; though I have to say that doing it with Brice felt deeply disturbing.

“I think Lenny feels like everyone’s doing much better than he is,” I said slowly. “Ruby’s doing her cabaret act and he has to wait on tables and see loud-mouthed customers throwing dollars around, like they’re big somebodies. I think Lenny wanted to make some fast cash so he could be a big somebody too.”

Brice didn’t say anything for a moment then he said quietly.“He forgot his dream. And when humans forget why they’re on Earth, the PODS are never far behind.”