A Reluctant Messiah

by Edward Nicholls

  “How original,” Mike mumbled.

  Craven eased closer to Mike. "I'll be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Flagg. You need me as much as I need you."

  Mike sighed, exasperated. "You got somebody writing this stuff for you?"

  "Not original perhaps, but we are. M.O.S. is quite an interesting organization, a unique concept, if you will. We offer not only business advice but legal as well. We have a full-time staff of fourteen lawyers on the payroll. We take our client’s talents, or assets, as we call them, and mold a specific system to fit them. More important, Mike. Can I call you Mike?" he did without waiting for a reply. "More important, Mike, we're a friend, twenty-four hours a day.”

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Mike was finally able to cut in. “You barge in here talking nonsense. Is this some kind of bad joke?"

  "I assure you, this is no joke. Again, I apologize for barging in but I'm sure you've had other offers and I want to be sure you go with the best, with M.O.S."

  Mike shrugged his shoulders and threw his arms up. "Other offers? I really don't know what you're talking about."

  "Management, security, publicity, guidance.... Organization — that's what I’m talking about, Mike — organization." Craven gesticulated each word with the wave of his hand.

  "I'm pretty organized, thanks," Mike said.

  "Judging from your television interview this morning, I'd say just the opposite."

  Mike stopped pacing and stood beside Cheryl. "Well, that's over with now and that's how I like it."

  "On the contrary, it's just beginning. Listen to that crowd out there."

  There was no need for Mike to strain his ears. The crowd had increased by as many as three dozen and the shouts from the newcomers came in unison.

  "Blasphemer! Kill the blasphemer!"

  "This is crazy, I never made any claims." Mike's voice quivered.

  Craven pointed to the window. "Try telling them that."

  Suddenly a loud crash filled the room and sent splinters of glass flying about. Startled, Cheryl gasped and threw her arms around Mike. The others stood unflinchingly as Craven motioned Mike and Cheryl farther away from the window.

  "We're lucky. It's just a brick," Craven said.

  Michael raised his voice. "Just a brick...just a brick! How often does a brick land in your living room?"

  "What I meant, is that it could have been a bomb," Craven said.

  "A bomb! Christ."

  "This is what I mean about you needing security. I can stop all of this right now." He snapped the hasps of his briefcase and removed a group of stapled pages; reaching into his breast pocket he removed a ballpoint pen.

  "Stop it? How?" Mike asked.

  "Well, just sign this, it's a standard agent's contract, then let me do my job." Craven clicked the pen and handed it to Mike.

  Mike allowed Cheryl the first look as she stepped away from him and took the papers from Craven. She leafed through them quickly and handed them to Mike.

  "I don't think it'd hurt any and it may help. I'm scared, Michael. Why don't you sign 'em," she pleaded.

  Mike took the pen from Craven and scribbled his signature. "Okay, Mr. Craven, go to it," he said.

  "Tim, please, we'll be seeing a lot of one another and now that the formalities are over, the friendship begins. I meant what I said, Mike...okay," Craven clapped his hands together. "Ted, clean up that glass and get somebody to replace the broken pane. Bobby, you stay here tonight —"

  "Ho, not in here, I have a guest tonight," Mike said.

  "Fine, will the hall be all right?"

  Mike nodded.

  "The hall it is, Bobby. John, you come with me, we have some crowd control to take care of. And Mike, thanks again, you won't be sorry. I'll be in touch." Craven shook Mike's hand and was gone.

  *****

  At the van, Craven took the passenger seat. He leaned into the back, placing his briefcase down. Behind him sat another man in a swivel seat facing a bank of electronic hardware. He hit a toggle switch into the off position, removed a set of headphones and turned to Craven, smiling.

  "Anyone get hurt?" he asked.

  "No, I had 'em both away from the window," Craven said. "I have to say that your timing with the brick was perfect."

  "With this setup it's a piece of cake," the man said, sweeping his hand across the console.

  "Well, with James Michael Flagg as a client, it just paid for itself. You'd better pay off the card-carrying zealots before we have a real riot on our hands, then see what you can do about getting the rest of them cleared away. We have to protect our client now, don't we?"

  Craven laughed and the others joined in.

  Chapter 5

  Despite the inclination of the season and the early hour, the humidity was beginning to climb. It would rain again today — the eighth day in a row. Those who had worried about the previous three-month stretch of zero precipitation were becoming concerned about possible flood conditions in areas so prone.

  Musty air wafted through the open bedroom window as Cheryl kicked the tangled bed sheets from her feet exposing her naked body. Her breasts heaved as she sighed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She rolled over to greet Michael but found she was alone. Then, the smell of frying bacon mingled with the humid air as she stretched and slid to the edge of the bed, slipping on a terrycloth robe.

  She stepped into the kitchen and saw Michael standing by the stove, the sash of his bathrobe unknotted, drinking a cup of coffee.

  "Hey good lookin', what's cookin'?" she said.

  "Pig's ass and chicken embryos, my sweet."

  "You make it sound so romantic."

  "How romantic can bacon and eggs be? Unfortunately, I had my last steak and tin of Beluga caviar for breakfast yesterday. Sorry you missed it."

  "That's okay, I have to watch my figure anyway." She pushed a chair from her path and moved closer toward him.

  "Looks just fine from here." Mike set down his cup, placed his hands on her hips and kissed her on the forehead. "Good morning, beautiful."

  They embraced and Michael gently leaned against her, pressing her body against the refrigerator door. His hands moved up inside her robe, one exploring as the other held her in a tight clasp. He kissed her gently, first on her open mouth, then her face and neck. He braced himself against the refrigerator, allowing only the slightest touch of his body's weight against her. He slowed his pace and raised his head staring deeply into her eyes. She smiled softly.

  "I love you, Michael," she said.

  "I love you," he whispered and buried his face in her neck and shoulders.

  She giggled and pushed him away. "What's the matter, didn't get enough last night? You've been pretty horny since your head started glowing. Maybe something to do with hormones."

  Mike slapped her gently, teasingly, on her buttock. "I'll give ya hormones," he said, throwing his hands into an exaggerated mock boxer's stance. "Come on, let's go."

  "My guess is that it's worse hitting a saint than hitting a nun. I concede." She laughed as she moved the chair back in place.

  Mike slapped her buttock again before she had a chance to sit down. "Okay, beautiful, plant that pretty butt of yours down and let's eat some breakfast. I'll pour your tea water."

  *****

  Mike swiped the last bit of his egg up with a corner of toast. "So what's on the agenda for today, sweetheart?"

  "I don't know." She pushed her empty plate to the center of the table. "What do you do to occupy your time first thing in the morning?"

  "Dishes, for one thing. Since I cooked, you get to wash."

  "Some guest, huh!" she teased.

  "I'll tell you what, next time we stay at the Hilton, I promise you won't have to wash the dishes."

  "Okay, sounds fair," she said, smiling. "Hey, I almost forgot, how's the crowd outside?"

  "To tell you the truth, I'm almost afraid to look, but I guess I'd better. You start the dishes and I'll check it out."

  Mike stepped into
the living room, his head dizzied with thoughts. Confusing thoughts. Each morning for the past week, waking and hoping it's all been a bad dream. Then the mirror. God, why can't the mirror ever lie? What's this all about? Why me...? Maybe I am holy. I try to live of good life. I try not to hurt anyone. Aw com'on! That's bullshit. I know plenty of people that are better than me. Besides, a saint's head doesn't really glow, does it? I mean, that's just in pictures...on holy cards. Dammit, what's takin' those scientists so long? They should know something by now. Why...? Why...? Suddenly he was jarred from his reverie by a commotion in the hallway.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but I just can't do that. See this here —"

  "I can assure you that Mr. Flagg —"

  Mike opened the door. Bobby, Craven's henchman, was blocking the entrance from a postal deliveryman.

  "What's going on?" Mike asked.

  "Oh, I'm sorry if we woke you, Mr. Flagg."

  "No, no, I was up. And call me Mike. What's the matter?"

  "Well, I was trying to explain to this gentleman here, that if he left these satchels, I'd be sure to see that you got them," Bobby said, his eyes staring through the mailman.

  "I'm sorry, sir. I just can't do that. See this here." He pointed to the black stencil on the canvas mailbags. "U.S. Government. I'm sorry, sir, Mister Flagg, sir, but I was told to dee-liver these here personal. I just can't leave 'em with anybuddy!"

  "Okay, fine, just put 'em over there." Mike pointed to a corner in the living room and turned to his bodyguard.

  "How's the crowd?" Mike asked.

  "Small and quiet. Mister Craven's doing just like he promised," Bobby said.

  "Good, that's a relief,” Mike said.

  “Pretty quick for the Post Office, huh? And think…this is local. Wait a few days, you’ll need a warehouse.” Bobby looked in awe at the bulging satchels.

  “Something to look forward to…or not.” Mike said.

  The Postman approached them at the door then hesitated as he walked passed Mike.

  "Mister Flagg, sir,” he stammered. “I saw you on the TV yesterday and I...I was wondrin' if...if maybe—"

  "Yes, yes what is it?" Mike said.

  "Could I shake your hand, sir?"

  "Huh? Of course you can." And Mike extended it.

  "Thank you, sir! My wife and kid'll be so proud. I touched a saint." He lowered his eyes and gave a slight bow.

  "Whoa, wait a minute," Mike said. "I ain't no saint, let's get that straight."

  "Yes, sir, anything you say, sir. You holy people are all alike. Always so humble, but some of us, we know different. Like me and my wife. She saw you on the TV yesterday too and she says to me, she says, Mason, it's just like Reverend David's been telling us.... You know I've led a good life, Mr. Flagg, you know that don't you?"

  Mike felt embarrassed. "Yeah, yeah, I know."

  "I ain't got much money, but you think maybe I can buy one of these from you?" The man glanced down at a stack of magazines piled high on the coffee table. "You know, like for a souvenir."

  "The magazines! Here, take 'em all." Mike snatched the entire stack from the table. "I read them all, and here, here's an ashtray too, come on." He handed them to the Postman then laid his hand lightly on the man's back and began a slow push to the door.

  "Goodbye, say hello to your wife for me, have a good day." He closed the door behind him and heard the frenzied gratitude trailing off.

  "Good grief, that I don't need." Mike sighed and leaned against the closed door.

  "I think you'd better get used to it. I have a feeling there's going to be a lot more," Bobby said.

  "Oh, pardon my manners. You've been out there all night. Can I get you a cup of coffee or something?"

  "No, no thanks. My backup should be here soon. I'll be in the hall if you need me. And just relax, Mike."

  "Yeah right, relax."

  Bobby stepped back into the hallway as Mike looked again at the bulging satchels piled in the corner of the room. He raised his voice loud enough for Cheryl to hear him in the kitchen.

  "Hey, Cher, come here, check this out!"

  She walked into the room snapping a damp dishtowel.

  "Yeah, I heard. You're a real celebrity, James Michael, a real celebrity."

  "Well, maybe going through this stuff will take my mind off matters. Damn, what's takin' those guys so long?"

  "Yeah...well, it should be fun!" She twirled the towel and snapped Mike in the back of his leg, stinging him.

  "Bitch," he screamed.

  *****

  Cheryl and Mike had dragged two flimsy card tables out of a closet to stack the opened letters. Table A (practically empty) for the "hate mail" and table B (slightly more) for the begging mail. The coffee table was reserved for the contributions, both the letters themselves and the cash or checks that accompanied them. Cheryl jotted on a scratch pad the names, requests, the amount of each contribution and other pertinent data. They were taking turns reading the more interesting requests.

  "If you see any abnormal bulges, better put it aside for the letter bomb squad." Mike said.

  "So far, I'd say it's about nine to one in your favor.... Hey, here's another one. Dear Mr. Flagg. On Saturday, May 14, my first child will be christened. I would consider it an honor if you would act as godfather. Enclosed is a check for one thousand dollars to cover any expenses that you may incur. If you are unable to attend, please keep the check anyway for whatever purpose you should choose, et cetera, et cetera. Think you'll incur any expenses?" Cheryl asked.

  Mike was only half listening. "Maybe," he said.

  "They even enclosed a self-addressed, stamped envelope, real class. Maybe you should go. Probably be one hell of a party, the return address is from Chevy Chase."

  Mike was distracted by the letter in his lap. "Oooops, here's another one." He mustered the most dramatic affectation possible. "I'll cut your fuckin' heart out with a jagged stone and feed it to the blood-sucking Druids of Calvary. The ‘whited sepulcher’ will bleed red. You will die.... Think this guy's trying to tell me something?" He placed the letter on table A. "The police may wanna dust this one for prints."

  "Where's your calculator, hon. I want to do a quick tally to see what you're worth."

  "If you don't know what I'm worth by now —"

  "Financially speaking, of course," she said.

  "Financially speaking, I'm still worth shit. This is all going back. I'm not taking anything under false pretenses."

  "False pretenses! You didn't ask for any of this. You have no control over what people do with their money. Would you rather they burn it?" She stood up and looked around the room.

  "I don't give a damn what they do with it, but I don't want it. It's false pretenses, Cher, they think I'm blessed."

  "Yeah, I heard you in the hallway, I ain't no saint. Maybe I'll have a tee shirt made for you with that one on it. And on the back, no false profit. That's with an f-i, Michael.”

  "What the hell do you expect me to do?"

  "Nothing. Let that pushy bastard Craven handle it. You read the contract, he gets thirty percent."

  "Yeah, and thirty percent of nothing is nothing."

  "Should let him know though."

  "I'm sure he already does. Remember, one of his strong-arms is out in the hall with a cell phone clipped to his hip. He saw the mailbags come in. It's too early for Christmas cards and I don't even think bin Laden got this much hate mail."

  "Well you signed the contract. It's legally binding."

  "I signed it under duress. We were being pelted with rocks, remember?"

  "Tell it to the judge. The calculator. Where's the calculator?"

  "Check the bedroom, the nightstand."

  "Thank you, dear," she sang.

  "Would you get me another cup of coffee please?"

  "Sure."

  *****

  "Now this is what I like to see," Mike said.

  Cheryl stood above him, balancing a steamy cup of coffee on a saucer. She placed it in front
of him and took her seat next to him on the sofa.

  "Someone find an antidote?"

  "No, but at least somebody's aware I have a problem. An interesting approach too, no letter. Check it out."

  Mike handed Cheryl a business card:

  LOGICS INCORPORATED

  "Your Problem Is Our Business"

  P. A. Ageton

  President

  "Hummmm, sounds like a troubleshooter. Have computer, will travel."

  "I think I'll give him a call. First sensible thing I read all day. But first I need a nap. You wore me out last night, gorgeous."

  "Shame on you, that's not a very saintly thing to say."

  "Just count my money, Shylock."

  "Shylock. Where's my pound of flesh?"

  "Come 'n' get it," Mike trilled from behind the bedroom door.

  "I said pound, shorty," Cheryl called out, smiling.

  Chapter 6

  WELCOME TO MARYLAND

  PLEASE DRIVE GENTLY

  Mike's dilapidated '93 Volvo sputtered down the Beltway with the one functioning windshield wiper — fortunately on the driver's side — slapping away the mist sprayed by the cars proceeding him. His treadless tires swayed on the damp tarmac, but Mike managed to keep the car in its proper lane — most of the time. When it did cross the dotted line, Mike would smile, reasoning it was best that Cheryl had decided to stay at the apartment. She never cared for his driving and never shied from mentioning the fact. "You should take up jogging," she would say, "it may save your life." Mike detested jogging and would surely refer his future podiatric patients to a specialist.

  He negotiated the Bethesda exit with minimal use of the steering column and maximum use of the bald tires. "I saw it, I saw it," he would've said if Cheryl had been there. He always enjoyed the ride from the District into Maryland; he took it often on weekends and found it both peaceful and exhilarating. But he never imagined a think tank amongst the quiet, monied homes of Bethesda. Coveport — never heard of it — now Brookings Institution, that's a different story, everyone's heard of Brookings. And why would someone connected with a think tank like Coveport be involved in troubleshooting?