The City of Angels
Christian Church was located on Wilton Place in Hollywood, not far from CTM
Broadcasting. The large, traditional church had nine thousand members in the
congregation. There were three ministers and two associate ministers who led
the large flock. Two Sunday morning services were scheduled to handle the
volume of worshippers.
Paul joined the
large church upon his arrival to Los Angeles. It was a vibrant congregation
with a large mission support, not only internationally, but locally as well.
Several movie stars had even placed their membership. Of course Paul never saw
them at services, and when a new guru appeared, some of the movie stars dropped
their memberships and followed the religion of the month.
Paul had seen Cory
Stilling at services. She was a celebrity of sorts. He had seen her in a few
movies, but Cory wasn’t a superstar. Word was out that she was difficult to
work with. Wayne Hampton had made sure of that. Paul didn’t know anything about
that. He did know that Cory had a “Doris Day” image. She was “Miss Squeaky
Clean” as called by the mainstream movers and shakers. But Doris Day-type films
weren’t being shot these days.
He had hoped to
show Cory one of his scripts. Maybe she could get a worthwhile producer to read
it. Cory was very active in the church’s work, but Paul was shy about
approaching her. Maybe she would laugh at him. Yet, she seemed nice enough. And
she seemed approachable.
Cory Stilling
wasn’t in his thoughts as he approached Minister Wooley after services.
“I like your
history lessons,” said Paul as he shook the older man’s hand.
“Thank you Paul. I
take that as a compliment from a former history major.”
The two of them
had worked together on various projects. Minister Wooley’s sermons were heavy
laden in history. He not only studied the Bible, but the geography and
traditions of the middle east in the 1st century. When he spoke of
Jesus, in the temple as a boy, Minister Wooley spoke of the carnival-like
atmosphere of Jerusalem during Passover. Wooley showed his congregation the busy
streets of out of towners, and the fear that Joseph and Mary felt when they
couldn’t find their son.
Minister Wooley’s
best sermon was when he was in the book of Revelation. “In the sixth chapter,
as the sixth seal was opened, there was a great earthquake.”
At that moment, an
earthquake hitting four on the Richter Scale shook the huge auditorium. For a
moment, the lights blinked and some of the mosaic glass shattered. There were
screams of surprise, especially from those in the balcony, but no one panicked.
After a few moments, it was still. The good minister smiled at the
congregation. “I would like to thank our dear Lord for the special effects
today.” This brought on relieved laughter, and he continued his sermon.
Paul’s mind wasn’t
on Biblical history, or earthquakes as he spoke to Minister Wooley. He was
thinking of his upstairs neighbor, Senta. He had only seen her that one time,
but he knew he was head over heels in love. In high school he dated
infrequently. In fact, the girl he dated most was George Tobin’s cousin,
Marsha. But theirs had been a friendship more than a romance. Paul had never
truly felt smitten by the opposite sex. Not until he ran into Senta. He could
not stop thinking about her.
“Minister Wooley,
do you know of anyone who plays the piano? I know someone who’s looking for a
rehearsal pianist.”
“Well let me see.
Mrs. Hanspard, our organist has a son who toured with Pat Boone. Maybe she’ll
know someone.”
He found Mrs.
Hanspard coming down from the balcony. “Mrs. Hanspard?” He offered his
hand. “Paul Morgan.”
Her eyes searched
his mutilated face with fascination. “Good morning Paul. How are you?”
“I’m doing great.
And your organ music is very beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“Minister Wooley
said that you might know someone who could serve as a rehearsal pianist.” Mrs.
Hanspard looked up in thought, furrowing her brow.
“Sure. There’s Amy
Davis, my assistant…Carl Helper, Donna Jenkins…oh, are you an actor?” Paul laughed to himself. Didn’t they see how
deformed his face was?
“No ma’am. This is
for a professional singer though.”
“I know someone
who’d probably work out. Over at the Christian Church on 4th in
Pasadena, there’s a pianist…what was the name…Zeke. Zeke Rosnowsky. I’ve never met him, but I
heard a gospel album he did. And I think he’s a professional accompanist. Zeke
Rosnowsky, I’m sure that’s the name. He might be related to Claude and Cynthia
Rosnowsky. They’re in the choir. You might go over and see him.”
“Thank you Mrs.
Hanspard. I appreciate it.”
“You can tell him
that I recommend him, but since I’ve never met him, he won’t know who I am.”
Paul gave a polite
nod and headed towards the exit.
The Christian
Church on 4th Street was a lot smaller than the City of Angels
Church. It was a modest building with a faded sign, peeling in the sun. Where
do they have Sunday school, Paul wondered as he turned into the gravel
driveway. The building was a low, one-story affair, made of red brick. The
auditorium was about the size of two large living rooms.
As Paul walked up
the short concrete walk, he heard the melody of “How Great Thou Art”. Although
it was an hour after services, he was in luck. Zeke Rosnowsky was apparently
still there.
He entered the
front door and immediately found himself in the auditorium. And it was just as
he imagined…about the size of two large living rooms. There were about nine
rows of pews on each side. It reminded Paul of an old country church he’d been
to in Louisiana.
Up on the platform
was a dark, oak pulpit. To the left was a young girl playing the piano. Not
Zeke Rosnowsky. She looked to be about fourteen. She was thin, with a pageboy
cut to her brown hair. Her pants were army fatigues and her shirt was a
checkered flannel affair with patches on the elbows. She wore glasses over a
small nose. Her hands were delicate and slender. She seemed to be lost in her
song.
Paul walked deeper
into the auditorium. She seemed so focused, he didn’t want to startle her.
“Hello?” he called out. She continued to play,
oblivious of his presence. The song was familiar to him, but the tune seemed
more inspiring in this empty, little church. Maybe it was the solitary figure
of the girl, but he felt like she was talking to God and Paul was an intruder.
“Hello there!” he called out a little
louder this time. She stopped playing and looked over at him. The face behind
the glasses was unafraid, but cautious. Sometimes people gasped when they got a
look at Paul’s face.
“Can I help you?”
“I was looking for
Mr. Rosnowsky.”
“He’s not here
right now.”
“I’m Paul Morgan.
I worship over at the City of Angles on Wilton.”
“Welcome Mr.
Morgan. I can give you his number. He’s my dad.”
“That’d be great.”
Paul walked up to the piano. The girl scribbled down a number on the corner of
some sheet music, then tore it off and handed it to him. “I didn’t mean for you
to tear your music.”
“It’s okay, I can
still read it.” She smiled and Paul looked for braces on her teeth, but it was
an even, white smile. “Have you got a job for Dad?”
“I think so. I’ve
heard he’s very good.”
“He’s the best.
How did you hear about him?”
“Mrs. Hanspard,
our organist.”
The girl took off
her glasses and furrowed her brow in thought. Her eyes were hazel, leaning
towards aquamarine.
“Mrs.
Hanspard…doesn’t sound familiar.”
“She said that her
name wouldn’t mean a whole lot to him.” She noticed that he was looking deeply
into her eyes.
“Is anything
wrong?”
Paul was scrunching up his eyebrows. “No,
I…are you wearing contacts?”
She put her
glasses back on. “No, I have glasses.”
“Of course,” he
laughed. “That was stupid of me. I just thought your eyes were an unusual, but
beautiful color.”
“Thank you Mr.
Morgan. Call Dad at that number. He’s probably at home watching the ball game.”
Paul turned
towards the door, and then he turned back to the girl. “Does he mind working at
night? I think that’s when he’ll be needed.”
The girl looked
puzzled. “Night? I don’t know. I don’t think he’s ever worked at night.”
This was odd.
“He’s a musician and he’s never worked at night?”
She was shaking
her head. “Dad’s a house painter.”
“Zeke Rosnowsky?”
She laughed. “Oh, I’m Zeke.”
She was a week
past her 22nd birthday when Paul first met her. Zeke had a skinny
little body of a tomboy and the face of a teenager. He was shocked to learn
that she’d earned a business degree at Cal-State Fullerton, and was working at
an accounting firm in downtown Los Angeles.
“What kind of
music does this person sing?” she asked.
Paul thought of Senta’s repertoire. “Just
about anything, although I don’t think she’s ever sung a hymn.”
“Hymn’s are the
best, but I play just about anything”. He’d heard her play “How Great Thou Art”
and it was soulful. Could she play the other types of music with such feeling?
“Could I hear you
play something popular, Zeke?”
“Well I haven’t
auditioned for about ten years, but I think I could play you something. But not
here. I live about a block away. We could go over there.”
“Sure.”
Zeke’s apartment
was cluttered with sheet music. A couple of her albums lay on the coffee table.
Would you like some tea, Paul?”
“Please.” He
picked up an album. On the cover was the cross. The title was “In His Shadow”.
On the back were the lyrics to the fifteen hymns on the album and a tiny black
and white picture of Zeke at the piano. With her pageboy hair cut and youthful
features, she looked like a young boy. He wouldn’t tell her that, but if this
was the album Mrs. Hanspard had had, he could see how the woman thought that
Zeke was a male. Of course the name helped. “How many albums have you done?”
Zeke was entering
with a tray and two glasses of iced tea. She set it on the coffee table.
“That’s my newest one. I did two more.”
“Did you sell
many?”
“A few. Mostly
through the church network. A Christian bookstore carried “Gospel Time” which
was my first one, but it wasn’t a big seller.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah, the
bookstore went out of business.” She
feigned a worried expression. “Gee, I hope I didn’t cause them to go out of
business.”
“I doubt that,” he
said.
Zeke went over to
the piano in the corner and picked another album off of it. On it was a manger
scene. The title was simply, “Noel”. “This Christmas album that I did, sold
well at a record shop in Fullerton. And just about everybody and his brother at
4th Street Church and the City of Angels bought a copy.”
Paul gave a low, impressed whistle. “That’s a
lot of copies.”
Zeke sat down at the piano. “What would you
like to hear?”
Paul shrugged as he took a seat and a sip of
the tea. “Surprise me.” Zeke nodded.
She stared at the
keys like she was planning to make a chess move. Then she put her glasses on her
head and closed her eyes. Paul had remembered how lost she was in her music at
the church. She had that same lost expression.
Paul, himself,
felt like he was going into a trance as he waited for Zeke to play. He was
about to say something when her long, slender fingers started their magic. Her
first selection was Rachmaninoff, which flowed into “Rhapsody In Blue” which
flowed into “Killing Me Softly”. Mesmerized, he listened to classical, jazz,
songs from “My Fair Lady” and “Man of La Mancha”, several Beatles songs, Elton
John, Blood, Sweat and Tears, then some slow love ballads.
Zeke finished with
“Summer Breeze”, leaving Paul limp. He had not moved from his chair for
forty-five minutes. Had it been that long?
Then he realized
Zeke was talking to him. “I’m sorry Zeke, what?”
She was leaning on the piano, playing
“Chopsticks” soft and slow. “I said, is that what you’re looking for?”
With a shyness
he’d never known, Paul went upstairs to see Senta. When she opened the door, he
could smell the marijuana that permeated her apartment.
“Well look who’s
here, my downstairs neighbor.”
“Hello Senta.”
“Come on in.” She
left him standing in the door and walked back into her apartment. She picked up
her hand rolled cigarette. “You want a toke?”
“Uh, no thanks. I
don’t smoke…especially if it’s illegal.”
Senta shrugged.
“Whatever flies your kite. Kick off your shoes.”
He wandered into
the apartment and took a seat on her piano stool. Why did she have to smoke the
marijuana? Not that he was surprised. He knew she used cocaine. He had not
missed the redness around her nostrils. He’d seen plenty of that in Vietnam.
“Listen, Senta, I
think I’ve got you a rehearsal pianist.”
Her eyes lit up. She was so beautiful. “That
was real sweet of you.”
“Her name is Zeke.
And she’s very, very good.”
“Zeke. Odd name
for a she. I need someone who is very,
very good. Is Zeke interested in playing for my act?”
“I don’t think
she’ll play in a night club.”
Senta waved him
off. “No matter. The club always has a pianist skulking around.”
Paul reached into his shirt pocket and handed
her Zeke’s number. “Give her a call. I’m sure she’ll be good for you.”
“I’ll do it after
my pool laps.”
He was memorizing
her straight nose and freckled chin. Suddenly he was conscious of his own
scarred face and he felt like he was in the middle of the tale, “The Beauty and
the Beast”.
“Your voice is
incredible. I listen to you every night.”
“I hope you enjoy
it.”
Paul nodded. “Oh yes. I think everybody here
at Palm Harbor enjoys the free show every night.”
“Maybe I should
sell tickets.” She blew a puff of smoke into the air. Then she leaned back in
the chair. “You’re welcome up here any time to listen.”
“I’ll take you up
on that.”
Paul couldn’t
think of anything else to say. He wanted to ask her out, but was afraid she’d
turn him down. Funny. He’d earned a purple heart and this bold red head had
turned him into jelly without even trying.
“Well…I’d better
take off,” he said. “I need to finish up a scene I’m working on.”
She stood up and
walked to the door. “I’ll give Zeke a call.”
“Great.” Taking
the hint that she was at the door, Paul headed for it.
She looked at him
blankly. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.” Paul felt a fist wrapping
around his heart and giving it a hard squeeze.
“Paul. Paul Morgan.” She put a hand lightly on the
side of his face. This helped relieve the gripping fist.
“Paul. Nice name.
You’re a great guy, thanks.”
With trembling
legs, Paul Morgan, the nice guy, walked downstairs to his apartment.
Zeke and Senta hit
it off after their first rehearsal. After introducing them, Paul went back to
his apartment to make them sandwiches. Senta was adding new songs to her act,
along with some she’d written. Listening to the music coming from the apartment
upstairs, he had to admit, Zeke’s playing was much better than Trevor, the guy
that Senta had before.
He brought the
sandwiches up with some cold drinks. “Here’s some energy food.”
Senta walked to
her bar. “Forget the colas. Let’s have a beer. Zeke?” Zeke shook her head.
Before Senta could offer, Paul held up his hands.
“I’m strictly a
Pepsi man.”
“How dull,” said
Senta, as she popped the top off a Budweiser. “If you guys are going to be in
show business, you’ve got to learn to drink.”
Zeke laughed. “I’m
not in show business. I’m just playing.”
Senta shifted her
eyes to Paul. “Sir Galahad here wants to be a screenwriter. He’ll get used to
those two martini lunches with the producers if he sells a script.”
“When I sell a
script,” Paul corrected.
Senta shrugged. “When, if, whatever.” She
walked over to the piano and handed Zeke a new piece of music. “Let’s try this
one. I wrote it last night.”
Zeke read the
title. “Hmm. “Vegas Nights”. Cool.”
This was a slow,
mournful song about smoky rooms, rough men, and lost opportunity. It sounded
autobiographical. Paul wondered how much of it was true.
They went over
“Vegas Nights” several times. Senta made changes and was receptive to Zeke’s
suggestions. As they finished, Senta put a hand on her new friend’s shoulder.
“You not only play
a mean piano, but you’re the first woman I’ve worked with. I kind of like it.
Men are always trying to put the moves on me.” Zeke’s face reddened and she
looked down at the music. “Are you sure you don’t want to come to the club and
play for me Zeke? You could make some good money.”
Zeke looked up at her. “I don’t play
nightclubs.”
“Too bad,” sniffed
Senta.
Paul cleaned up his sandwich plates. “I really
liked “Vegas Nights”. It’s a good song.”
Zeke agreed. “You should record that one.”
Sincere surprise entered Senta’s face. “You
think so?” Both Paul and Zeke nodded. Senta smiled. Paul realized it was one of
the few times she’d smiled all evening. “Maybe I will.”
Zeke gathered up
some of the music she’d brought. She looked at Paul and Senta. Paul couldn’t
take his eyes off the red head.
“Guess I’ll head
out. This was fun,” she said.
Senta blew her a kiss. “If you change your
mind about the nightclub work, let me know.”
“Sure. Tomorrow
night, same time?”
“Sounds good,
Zeke.”
Zeke held up a
finger. “And like I said, no Wednesday nights.”
“Don’t worry, I
can use a night off,” said Senta.
Paul walked Zeke
down to her car. “Thanks again, Zeke.”
“I like her. She’s
got a lot of talent.”
“You don’t want
any leftover sandwiches?”
She patted her
stomach. “One more thin slice of ham and I’ll burst.”
“Guess I’ll head
back up there and get my plates.”
He gave her a
final wave as Zeke started her car. Then, he headed back up to see Senta. “Just
came back for a couple of plates. Senta looked at Paul with a softness he’d not
seen. “Thank you for sending her to me, Paul. She’s really good. And I’ve heard
some good ones.”
“You’re
welcome.”
She put a hand to
the back of his neck and pulled him to her. “Guess I’m going to have to make
the first move,” she said. Their lips met. The kiss was long and passionate.
Then, Senta got more aggressive and he pulled back.
“Hold it. Hold
on,” he said.
“What’s wrong?”
she asked. He was feeling a lot of conflict. This was a fantasy come true. But
was it right? Senta was beautiful. He was very attracted to her. But she was
dangerous. He was a Christian. She wasn’t. Where could their relationship
possibly go?
“Senta, listen.”
What could he tell her? He was trying to catch his breath and hold back the
passion that assaulted his senses. He really wanted her. But it wasn’t right.
“Senta, I can’t do this. I want to, believe me.”
She pulled away
from him. “Calm down Sport. I’m not going to rape you.”
“I…I’m a
Christian. And I can’t do this.”
Senta’s face
darkened. “So you’re a Christian. Are you telling me Christians don’t play
around?”
“No, it’s…I mean…”
She was on him
again. Senta was like a hot magnet of flesh. It was like she was challenging
him. Paul wanted to hold her and kiss her all over. He felt himself weakening.
“Come on, loosen
up,” she said in a husky whisper. He kissed her hard on the mouth. “Yes. Let’s
do it.” With as much strength as he had left, Paul pulled away. “What?! What is
it?!” she demanded, her frustration growing.
“I can’t do this.
We don’t…we aren’t right for each other. Not yet.” The fury on her face
left.
She rolled her
eyes. “Oh brother.” Senta let him go and
walked over to the bar as if nothing had happened.
Paul couldn’t stop
trying to apologize. “It’s just that…I’m looking for the right person Senta,
and…”
Her eyes narrowed. “And I’m not the right
person.”
“No, I didn’t mean
that, I…”
“Hey buster, I
hate to tell you this, but I don’t look good in virgin white. You’re a pompous
idiot. Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a pompous idiot?”
He wanted to show
her that she was wrong. Paul didn’t think he was better than she was, but Senta
needed help. He had to somehow get her on the right path.
“I hate to say
this Paul, but have you looked in the mirror? I don’t think there’s many women
out there looking to date Quasimodo.” Paul ignored the insult.
He tried to continue his thought. “You’re
right. I am an idiot. But we’re so different..”
“That’s an
understatement,” she muttered sarcastically. Paul couldn’t find the words. Then
he blurted it out.
“Come to church with
me this Sunday.”
Senta threw her
head back and laughed. “You are priceless.”
Then he blurted out the unthinkable. “I…I
think I’m in love with you.”
Senta laughed even harder. “Please Paul, stop!
My side is beginning to ache!” She kept laughing.
“I love you,” he
insisted, feeling the moment slip away.
Senta gasped for
breath as she spoke. “I’m sure you do, Paul.”
She was getting control again. “Go downstairs and work on your little
script. Guess I’ll go to bed alone tonight.”
He wanted to sink
into the floor. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said quietly.
She gave him a
dismissive wave. “Yeah, see ya.”
Zeke pulled on to
the freeway and headed towards Pasadena. Until she’d seen Paul and Senta
together, she’d not realized he had a crush on the red headed siren. The girl
was loaded with talent, but she was trouble.
Not my problem,
she thought, as she swung into the fast lane. Maybe Paul could get the girl
into church before she got him into bed. Zeke laughed to herself. Senta was bad
news. Well, she was Paul’s problem. Zeke would work with the girl, but that was
it. Maybe if they became close friends, Zeke could use her influence on her.
She’d be a tough nut to crack.
“We are stewards,”
she reminded herself. She looked at the bright lights of the freeway in deep
thought. We’re suppose to bring people to Christ. Maybe there was a way.
Senta had a rare
night off. Once Zeke had left, she’d hoped to lure Paul into her bed. He was
shy and sweet, but he was one of those weirdo Christians who invoked the name
of “Jesus” every five minutes. Well, no thank you Mr. Morgan.
The scotch was
beginning to make the furniture blur. When things blurred, that was good. She’d
run out of her current supply of coke. Scotch was a poor substitute, but if she
drank enough, it helped dull the senses. If old Paul knew she’d been a
prostitute in Vegas, he’d bring his whole congregation down on her. She
wondered about Zeke. Yep. Zeke was one of them. She didn’t drink beer or play
the clubs. Too bad. Zeke had talent.
Senta slid off the
barstool and went over to the picture window. Peeking through the drapes, she
could see down into the courtyard. The pool was lit, but empty. She could hear
a Dodger game on a radio from one of the apartments below. Then a baby’s cry
echoed from somewhere. Or was she imagining it? Sometimes when she was drunk,
reality and fantasy danced together.
The baby. She
wondered. Had it been a boy or a girl? He, she, it, would be four years old
now. She turned away from the window. Stop it, Senta! What’s done is done. You
washed your hands of the matter years ago.
She sauntered
drunkenly into the bedroom and collapsed on the soft quilt. She could still
hear the baby’s cry. She covered her ears.
Paul could not
believe how things turned so quickly. He didn’t know Senta well enough, but he
felt like he’d said the right thing about being a Christian. Telling her that
he was in love with her was a big mistake. What was he thinking? He had never
felt this out of control before. It didn’t feel good. That night, he prayed for
a solution.
When Zeke got
home, she was still thinking of Paul and Senta. She decided that those two
people had to be rescued. Senta was definitely headed down the wrong path. And
Paul had to be rescued from Senta.
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