Signs of pain, p.1
Signs of Pain, page 1
Praise for
SIGNS OF PAIN
“Signs of Pain twists and turns in unique and highly satisfying ways—equally unusual and gripping all at once. It’s dark, no doubt, but also bristles with surprising humor.”
—Tod Goldberg, author Gangsterland
“Signs of Pain not only shines a light on a real-world darkness, but blunts it over the head with a bomb named Cherry. Fun was indeed had. Welch is one to watch.”
—Beau Johnson, author of Brand New Dark
“When former veterinary assistant Cherry Orozco stumbles upon Paula, a pregnant woman with Down Syndrome, at a church bingo event, she has no idea the can of worms she’s opened, or the lengths she will go to to solve the mystery her prodding reveals. The busy-body, amateur sleuth enlists the help of a whole cast of colorful characters, and their zany hijinks balance the dark secrets and devastating discoveries. Welch’s prose is clever, and full of empathy and humor. Signs of Pain has the heart of a cozy mystery, but the soul of the darkest thriller.”
—Meagan Lucas, author of Songbirds and Stray Dogs
“Ilyn Welch’s Signs of Pain cuts its readers off at the knees and makes them hurt along with its characters. An unflinching examination of unrighteousness and cruelty. This book will send you in search of compassion and mercy. A stark novella that should be read.”
—Mark Westmoreland, author of A Violent Gospel
SIGNS OF PAIN
Text copyright © 2023 ILYN WELCH
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Shotgun Honey
215 Loma Road
Charleston, WV 25314
www.ShotgunHoney.com
Cover Design by Bad Fido.
First Printing 2023.
ISBN-10: 1-956957-26-X
ISBN-13: 978-1-956957-26-6
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 23 22 21 20 19 18
For Christine C, a tough cookie.
SIGNS OF PAIN
1
CHERRY OROZCO GAZED at the tabloid newsstand alongside the checkout line. Jennifer Lopez caught her eye. Posed in a slinky one-piece bathing suit, the movie icon stared back seductively from the cover of a beauty magazine.
She’s still dreamy, Cherry thought, her thumb and forefinger pinching the publication’s spine.
A cover line next to a bare thigh read 12 KINKY QUICKIES: GRAB HIM AND GET IT ON! Face muscles dropping flat with instant boredom, Cherry released the magazine back into the rack.
The conveyor belt moved. Seltzer water and Depends lurched closer to the scanner. The cashier tossed the diaper bundle around like a beach ball, searching for the sku numbers, eventually swiping the barcode. The clerk’s eyes darted a few times between the bulky incontinence product and Cherry. The seltzer zipped by. Cherry handed over two twenties and methodically put the change in her Care Bears wallet.
Big-boned, bronze-skinned Cherry strode to the exit, unconsciously intimidating two shoppers to veer out of her way lest they get knocked onto their asses. Though fair of face, Cherry was fit, muscular, dark hair buzzed short away from her square jawline and cheek angles.
Cherry deftly placed the items into the rear of her gold Honda Civic hatchback, firmly shut it, seconds later climbing in. Upon ignition, the cab filled with the strains of Mexican diva Paquita la del Barrio, belting out “Ratas De Dos Patas”— “Two Legged-Rat.”
Within minutes, she arrived at her tidy house, 5 Meadowlark Lane in the enclave of Raptor Flats, east of the Los Angeles River, north of the phalanx of freeways, a high concentration of old drainage ditches crisscrossing throughout. Centuries of the region’s oral history recount once-plentiful hawks, falcons, eagles, vultures and more birds gliding over the water-adjacent level land. Now Raptor Flats was Los Angeles, quaint and ignored, a zone mix of residences, shops, businesses, and a funky industrial section.
Cherry’s property, inherited by her mildly incontinent mother, Ida Orozco, was a nicely kept stucco classic, high ceilings and moldings throughout. A passing realtor would have been temporarily charmed by a meandering walkway among otherworldly hollyhocks, splashes of pink and orange bougainvillea veiling a storybook entrance. The house value was held low by the next-door neighbor, Mrs. Yesenia Cantu, whose front lawn was completely obscured by signs espousing Biblical verses and warnings. On one occasion a billboard appeared, hanging two feet into the Orozco airspace. After Cherry politely dealt with the intrusion, the Jesus-obsessed widow shrieked some aspersions.
“You throw away God’s gift!” She pointed at Cherry’s torso. “Jesús, María, José! You’re supposed to get married, have babies.”
Mrs. Cantu’s babies, now grown and moved out, kept a wide chasm between their lives and their mother, leaving her a little too alone, unmanaged, and unhinged.
Despite this nuisance, the neighbors remained on pleasant terms, the Orozcos staying patient with Mrs. Cantu’s unique state of anxiety. Plus she adored Ida’s small mutts Yarn and Ball.
“She’s always kind to animals,” stated Mrs. Orozco, whom Cherry addressed as Ida. “That tells me Yesenia’s very decent, even though she’s a kook.”
Cherry put the diapers into her mother’s restroom. There pale yellow hues and white daisies were accented by Snow White-themed bath accessories. The ceramic tissue dispenser featured the Seven Dwarfs, and the princess’s figure helped pump soap. The wicked Queen’s image graced the trashcan, at that moment ready to be emptied of a couple soiled diapers, while a symbolic “magic mirror” hung on the wall opposite the practical but reflective medicine cabinet. She spruced up the bathroom a bit, took quick stock of toiletry supplies before emptying the Evil Queen can in the outside garbage bins.
Back inside, Cherry detoured into her bedroom, a groovy mélange of earthy greens. She tossed her keys and wallet onto the pine-tree-patterned comforter covering her full-size bed.
“Pearl,” Cherry said, greeting a finely framed poster of Janis Joplin, hung on the moss-green wall among reproductions of Mesoamerican art.
She glimpsed into the living room at her mother. Content in a purple paisley housecoat and violet slippers, Mrs. Orozco watched Wendy Williams in her preferred stuffed chair, a furniture-protective pad beneath her tush. Within reach on a low shelf behind the chair was a stack of fresh hospital-blue pads. Ida rested her beauty-parlor hair against a vibrant homemade Granny square antimacassar, matching throw blankets available on the unoccupied seats. The dogs flanked the crochet basket at her feet.
Cherry sighed, feeling lucky that urine was the only age-related problem of incontinence at this point in the mother-and-daughter relationship. In fact, Ida’s condition was improving with kegel exercises prescribed by a urologist at the Veteran Affairs Clinic.
Cherry strolled into the living room.
“Bingo tomorrow?”
“You bet,” Ida said. “Let’s invite Esther.”
A consistent cheer radiated from the house on the other side of the Orozco dwelling in the form of Esther Lau. Smiling, upbeat, and generous with her cooking, Esther was a contrast to nutty Mrs. Cantu. Her home was neat and sublime, front yard tended, back filled with tasty vegetables. Her fashion sense was Chinatown Casual: go-anywhere pantsuits of intricately patterned cotton, perhaps an equally vivid but totally contrasting vest with coin buttons during chilly weather. Apples do not fall far from the tree: Esther’s grown daughter Veda also had notable fashion choices. Personality-wise, though, Veda was a pill. Visits to her mother amounted to loud sessions of bellyaching, starting the moment she stepped out of a leased black Mercedes. Her heels would click up Esther’s walkway under posh, ooh-la-la outfits, a fluffy teacup Pomeranian called Mitchum peeking out of her haute couture handbag. Though Veda’s profession was supposedly in the garment industry, her display of material wealth hinted at something more lucrative. Esther said her daughter invested in the stock market.
Through the living room window, Cherry spotted Esther, wearing a white bucket hat, pulling weeds in her front lawn.
“Esther!” Cherry called, partly hanging out the front door. “You up for bingo tomorrow?”
Esther gave a thumbs-up. “What time?”
“Usual,” Cherry said, holding up three fingers.
“Count me out,” said a voice from the opposing property.
Cherry turned, seeing Mrs. Cantu, as she expected, unblinking, spying on them while partially hidden among her religious signs.
“Gambling is a sin.”
“Yes, Mrs. C.,” Cherry said, nodding to diffuse the encounter.
“Be glad you’re near me and the scriptures!” Mrs. C. stretched her arms and legs, as if poised to cartwheel, to touch and encompass her signs. “Judgement Day comes, hop over the fence.” Her conservative shift dress rose to show an off-white slip and knee-high nude hosiery.
A normal, daily exchange under the “colorful neighbors who don’t steal” category. There could be worse situations, Cherry reminded herself.
2
When bingo day arrived, Raptor Flats was blessed with springtime fair skies full of wispy clouds. All the better for senior citizen transport. Cherry whistled a few bars of “Heigh Ho” outside Esther’s door. Tote bag ready, Esther playfully marched out of her house in time to the tune.
Ida was already in the car, her purse full of working ballpoint pens and a clutch of plastic miniature barn owls for good luck. The Errant Sheep Tabernacle Church did not provide pens or daubers, so folks buying in had to bring their own marker. The early-bird minimum buy-in was $5, which gave participants six cards, though both Ida and Esther stated a willingness to spend up to $20, perhaps $25.
“Maybe we’ll win before they call blackouts,” said Esther. Lucky lime glass-frog earrings jiggled as she spoke.
“A seat by an open window or door brings me luck,” said Ida. She reexamined her supply of pens and owls.
The engine started up after a few tries, and Cherry commenced with the five-minute drive, destination a Beaux Arts-style building at 14 Shutter Street. The Honda passed an art-deco-encased power distribution station before entering grittier roads. Beyond the city animal shelter and a stretch of mechanic shops, Ida pointed to a group of patrons getting carded by a bouncer at the entrance of Patooties, a gentlemen’s club.
“That joint is jumping.”
Cherry’s eyes lingered on a new cannabis shop on Knuckle Avenue, but turned on Shutter Street to arrive at Errant Sheep Tabernacle. Just behind the place, an alley ran along a busy freeway, separated by a sound wall imprinted with flying seagulls. A bingo-event sign handwritten in blue marker propped open the church hall doors. The car idled into the church’s sliver of a parking lot.
Cherry escorted Ida and Esther inside to the bingo buy-in table, handled by church volunteers. Uninterested in this rigmarole, Cherry stood by in order to lightly supervise. Buy-in wrapped up, the trio fell into step toward window seats. There was a gentle buzz among the players while Ida set up her family of tiny owls.
A lively, uninhibited voice disrupted the room.
“BALLSY BALLSY BALLS!”
Cherry and everyone else turned their heads to the stage and its lustrous burgundy curtain. A young woman with pale skin, messy red tresses and Down Syndrome had walked in through a nearby open door from the church courtyard.
The girl jolted toward the bingo ball cage.
“YOU GONNA PLAY? WITH THOSE BALLS?” she said. “THERE’S BALLS OUTSIDE.”
“Paula, let’s go back outside,” a church attendant said, removing her hands from the bingo cage. “You can go to another room if you want to be indoors.”
When the red-haired woman turned to follow, Cherry gasped at the sight of her condition.
“Paula” was pregnant.
As Paula trailed outside, a few other individuals clustered near the door, peeking inside, giggling and pointing.
“Scat!” the church attendant honked, flicking the back of her hand at them.
Shocked, Cherry staggered closer to check out the scene. Her surprise expanded at seeing roughly two dozen persons with obvious special needs milling about a patio. Why hadn’t I noticed this before? Like Paula claimed, there were balls—the colorful kind sold at grocery stores in giant endcap containers—a few on the ground, some stacked in a basket with other toys appropriate at preschools. Pharell’s feel-good hit song “Happy” blared from a boombox, compelling a short white man, age undeterminable, to shake a tail feather, his exuberance making Cherry choke up with a mix of emotions. Other adults sat or stood, lackadaisical, in the sunlight, one picking her nose, another spooning apple sauce out of a cup. Paula was led past the other clients into an opposing building.
“May I help you?” an annoyed voice behind Cherry asked.
Cherry felt something poke her back. It was the short end of a Bible, held by a severe white woman with a bulbous nose tip red with ruptured capillaries, face framed by brittle, permed hair, name badge reading HELEN. Helen impatiently gestured at Cherry to come away from the courtyard.
“What’s the deal?” Cherry asked, hoisting a thumb toward the patio congregation.
“Adult day care,” Helen said flatly. “You need to go back to bingo.”
Before she complied with Helen, Cherry took another gander, noticing an aluminum picket fence enclosing the courtyard. Beyond that, the back alley and her car were visible.
A loud vroom startled some of the day-care adults. The din came from a flashy red Lexus speeding from a carport just across the driveway. Cherry scowled at the disappearing vehicle belonging to her ex-boss at VetBody, Dr. Sorin Robstone.
Years before, when Cherry worked as a vet-office assistant in the next-door business at 16 Shutter Street, she found it fascinating the owner’s parking stall of the century-old building was converted from a small horse corral, some original architectural remnants intact. Each time she hauled trash to the alleyway dumpster, Cherry admired a patina-encrusted hitching post ring above a narrow stone trough, situated between a pair of modern-day bolt-locked doors festooned with cobwebs.
Inside the church bingo hall, she waved bye to Ida and Esther, blowing stress out of her cheeks while departing, still disturbed.
How the hell does someone like “Paula” end up pregnant?
3
A few days later, Ida sipped tea at a well-worn Formica dinette, the gold-specked teal surface reflecting on a chrome napkin holder.
Cherry shimmied from her room, clapping enthusiastically.
“Bingo for Ida?” She waved playful jazz hands waiting for an answer. “At Errant Sheep Tabernacle?”
“I’ll tell Esther,” Ida said.
“Done, she’s on board.”
There were multiple Raptor Flats bingo tournament locations—The American Legion Hall, Shortnin’ Bread Seniors at Oak Leaf Retirement Community, the Serbian Cultural Center, and more listed in The Raptor Flats Siren. Cherry suggested the close, convenient church so she could sneak another look at the pregnant woman with Down Syndrome.
Before the trio drove to the bingo game, Cherry noticed Mrs. Cantu outside, putting up a new sign that simply read REPENT. Cherry approached her from the sidewalk.
Mrs. Cantu remained focused on adjusting her REPENT placard.
“You are drawn to repent, eh?” Mrs. Cantu said, still not directly looking at Cherry.
“Not today,” Cherry said. “Do you know anything about Errant Sheep Tabernacle?”
Mrs. Cantu’s head snapped up. “They don’t like me!”
“How could that be?” Cherry said, the words slightly sarcastic, unintentionally. An instant low flow of guilt shaped up her demeanor.
“Pastor Wardens and those lady sheep didn’t like my way of Bible study,” Mrs. Cantu said, gesturing at her scripture sign garden. “And I didn’t like them either.”
Cherry nodded, attempting an expression of understanding all the while knowing Mrs. Cantu’s trying idiosyncrasies.
“So, I don’t go there anymore,” Mrs. Cantu said with an air of righteousness. “Praise God.”
“Right, you chose to part ways.”
“I chose to stop going there,” Mrs. Cantu emphasized. “And the way they barely watch the pobrecitos...”
She made a tsk sound and pulled a lower eyelid down with her index finger to indicate her disapproval. Of what? Cherry expected it could be anything.
“Sometimes I could smell caca in their pants. Those sheep don’t change it.”
Cherry retreated to her car, with Ida and Esther waiting inside. “Maybe they need to repent,” Cherry said with a cackle, pointing at the word.
Mrs. Cantu raised her hands heavenward. “You got that right, mija!”
4
Cherry watched her mother and Esther file into the Errant Sheep Tabernacle gambling hall.
You’re being a nosy parker, Cherry told herself while circling slowly around the church property a few times. Eventually she rolled the Honda into a church parking spot facing the metal picket fence, the courtyard interior occupied by day-care clients.
Settling into TV-show stakeout mode, she snickered at having gone so far as bringing along a decaf, a mozzarella panini and a pint of cherry tomatoes.
“Ghosts of Cagney and Lacey in backseat. Mrs. Kravitz in the trunk. Wish I was Endora, so I could magically float inside undetected.”
