and daughter moved into the high-rise in Century City. Now Sally’s first priority
was Meggie.
And Meg’s priority was the girl. She had to protect Gia from being permeated by evil like
she
was; she had to make that child’s life worth living, as hers was not. It was her mission, she knew, and God had now sent
her the cross, the talisman that would enable her to do it.
She’d read about the auction in the trade papers and she went to Sotheby’s, and there it was. The multicolored cross that
tied her youth together with Gia’s, that drove the spirits out of the fictional child of Jack Nathanson in the movie, and
wouldnow keep them from invading the child born of Jack Nathanson in life.
Zahna tailed the little red Fiat out to Malibu until it came to a stop on Seashore Drive, and the Davis woman stepped out.
To Zahna’s amazement, they were just a few doors away from Debra Angelo’s house, the house where Jack Nathanson was murdered.
She caught up with Meg, who motioned her to be quiet. The two walked down a path to the beach, and Meg led the way to a formation
of jagged rocks almost directly in front of Debra’s house. Meg reached into her tote bag and produced a blanket, which she
spread out on the sand in front of the rocks. Zahna saw the newly purchased crucifix in the bag. The two women sat on the
blanket, but Meg Davis did not face the roiling ocean, she faced the house.
“Who lives there?” Zahna asked.
“Gia.”
“Gia, Jack Nathanson’s daughter?” Zahna pressed.
Zahna, of course, knew the house well. She remembered the first time she’d come here. It was after Jack and Maxi Poole had
split up, and she was seeing a lot of Jack. He had taken her along one Saturday to pick up his daughter. When they’d pulled
up out front, he told her to wait in the car. She’d asked if she could come in, she would love to see this charming old home
and the beach beyond, but he’d insisted that she stay put. He was gone nearly an hour. He’d sent her a message that day: Even
though he was now a single man, Zahna was still a second-class broad, good for hot sex, but not important enough to shield
from the blazing heat and boredom of an hour wait in a closed car. And not good enough to introduce to his ex-wife once removed.
Yes, Zahna knew this house.
“Gia lives here,” Meg Davis was saying, “and I have to protect her—”
“Excuse me?” Zahna said.
“God wants me to keep Gia from being hurt by evil spirits,” Meg returned, her eyes riveted to the big, ramshackle house with
the wraparound sundeck, lights coming on in its windows now.
“Uh… why?” Zahna asked, studying the other woman’s hypnotic gaze.
“Because if I don’t keep the demons from stealing her soul, Gia will be spirited to hell with her father.”
“Uh-huh,” Zahna said guardedly. She lit a marijuana cigarette, its tip glowing red in the gathering twilight, and took a deep
drag. “How often do you come here?”
“As often as I can,” Meg responded. Then she removed the
Black Sabbat
cross from her tote bag and held it out toward the house with both hands, like a priest holding the sacred chalice toward
the altar as he’s saying Mass.
Zahna watched Meg’s bizarre behavior in fascinated silence. The woman seemed oblivious to her now, in a trance, and she began
uttering some sort of singsong chant, softly at first, then louder: “…
May this cross compel redemption, may it frustrate Satan’s evil ends.
…”
Whoa,
Zahna thought,
this chick is loony-toons.
She passed her the joint. As darkness fell, the two women sat silently on the beach, pondering their own private torments,
and getting stoned.
20
G ood morning!” Alan Bronstein said, looking up from the Sunday
Times
as Janet came out onto the poolside patio. The Monogram Studios exec was wrapped in one of Jack’s blue terry-cloth robes,
drinking coffee, the remains of a toasted bagel on a plate in front of him, a bud vase
was Meggie.
And Meg’s priority was the girl. She had to protect Gia from being permeated by evil like
she
was; she had to make that child’s life worth living, as hers was not. It was her mission, she knew, and God had now sent
her the cross, the talisman that would enable her to do it.
She’d read about the auction in the trade papers and she went to Sotheby’s, and there it was. The multicolored cross that
tied her youth together with Gia’s, that drove the spirits out of the fictional child of Jack Nathanson in the movie, and
wouldnow keep them from invading the child born of Jack Nathanson in life.
Zahna tailed the little red Fiat out to Malibu until it came to a stop on Seashore Drive, and the Davis woman stepped out.
To Zahna’s amazement, they were just a few doors away from Debra Angelo’s house, the house where Jack Nathanson was murdered.
She caught up with Meg, who motioned her to be quiet. The two walked down a path to the beach, and Meg led the way to a formation
of jagged rocks almost directly in front of Debra’s house. Meg reached into her tote bag and produced a blanket, which she
spread out on the sand in front of the rocks. Zahna saw the newly purchased crucifix in the bag. The two women sat on the
blanket, but Meg Davis did not face the roiling ocean, she faced the house.
“Who lives there?” Zahna asked.
“Gia.”
“Gia, Jack Nathanson’s daughter?” Zahna pressed.
Zahna, of course, knew the house well. She remembered the first time she’d come here. It was after Jack and Maxi Poole had
split up, and she was seeing a lot of Jack. He had taken her along one Saturday to pick up his daughter. When they’d pulled
up out front, he told her to wait in the car. She’d asked if she could come in, she would love to see this charming old home
and the beach beyond, but he’d insisted that she stay put. He was gone nearly an hour. He’d sent her a message that day: Even
though he was now a single man, Zahna was still a second-class broad, good for hot sex, but not important enough to shield
from the blazing heat and boredom of an hour wait in a closed car. And not good enough to introduce to his ex-wife once removed.
Yes, Zahna knew this house.
“Gia lives here,” Meg Davis was saying, “and I have to protect her—”
“Excuse me?” Zahna said.
“God wants me to keep Gia from being hurt by evil spirits,” Meg returned, her eyes riveted to the big, ramshackle house with
the wraparound sundeck, lights coming on in its windows now.
“Uh… why?” Zahna asked, studying the other woman’s hypnotic gaze.
“Because if I don’t keep the demons from stealing her soul, Gia will be spirited to hell with her father.”
“Uh-huh,” Zahna said guardedly. She lit a marijuana cigarette, its tip glowing red in the gathering twilight, and took a deep
drag. “How often do you come here?”
“As often as I can,” Meg responded. Then she removed the
Black Sabbat
cross from her tote bag and held it out toward the house with both hands, like a priest holding the sacred chalice toward
the altar as he’s saying Mass.
Zahna watched Meg’s bizarre behavior in fascinated silence. The woman seemed oblivious to her now, in a trance, and she began
uttering some sort of singsong chant, softly at first, then louder: “…
May this cross compel redemption, may it frustrate Satan’s evil ends.
…”
Whoa,
Zahna thought,
this chick is loony-toons.
She passed her the joint. As darkness fell, the two women sat silently on the beach, pondering their own private torments,
and getting stoned.
20
G ood morning!” Alan Bronstein said, looking up from the Sunday
Times
as Janet came out onto the poolside patio. The Monogram Studios exec was wrapped in one of Jack’s blue terry-cloth robes,
drinking coffee, the remains of a toasted bagel on a plate in front of him, a bud vase
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