Holy Rollers

by Rob Byrnes

  “I hate Washington, DC.”

  $ $ $

  At one far end of the basement, tucked away from the busyness of Cathedral House, was the security supply room.

  The room had two purposes. It was primarily, and logically, the space where the Virginia Cathedral of Love security team kept its supplies. But a corner had also been turned into a hidden sleeping nook for Captain Joseph Enright, Chief of Security, complete with cot, nightstand, alarm clock, and pornographic magazines hidden inside the covers of old editions of Newsweek and Highlights for Children.

  Most officers under his command knew of Captain Enright’s hideaway, if not the magazines, but he knew they would never talk. Because if they did, they’d be looking for new jobs, and why would they want to do that?

  Cathedral security officers generally made it a point to avoid waking Enright—they could handle the occasional religious zealot or fender-bender without supervision, and he did not appreciate being woken from his naps—but on rare occasions, something extraordinary would happen that begged for his attention. Which is why the most junior officer was sent to rouse him not long after the blue pickup truck with DAVIS PLUMMING lettered on its side drove off.

  Grumpily wiping sleep from his eyes, Enright began reviewing the security tape. Ten minutes and a few fast-forwards later, he picked up a phone and dialed Merribaugh’s cell phone. The call went to voicemail so he looked up another number and dialed again.

  “The Rev. Dennis Merribaugh’s room, please,” he said when the phone was answered, then waited while the call was transferred and answered again.

  “Merribaugh.”

  “Enright here,” he told Merribaugh. “This may be nothing, but some plumbers came by about a half hour ago. Told the guard out front they were called to fix a toilet in Cathedral House.”

  This did not interest Merribaugh at all, and his response let Enright know the level of that disinterest: a sigh and a “So?”

  “Thing is, Camera 7 on the fourth floor hallway shows ’em going to the finance office, but not coming back down the hall to the bathroom.”

  Now Merribaugh had minor interest…but only minor. “Hmm.”

  Enright continued, determined to make the most of that minor interest. “On top of that, the cameras in the finance office didn’t pick up anything. Something was blocking the view.”

  “What?”

  “We don’t know yet. I sent a guard up to take a look a few minutes ago, but he said everything looked normal.”

  “Nothing’s missing?”

  “Not that we could tell.”

  Merribaugh mulled that over. “Who was up there with the plumbers?”

  “That black woman who’s been working there. Also a Caucasian male. Fortyish, dark hair…”

  “Sounds like Charlie Hudson,” said Merribaugh, which meant nothing to Enright.

  “Those two are on most of the surveillance tape. It’s only the plumbers we never saw. We have video of them entering the building, walking into the office, disappearing behind the obstruction, and leaving the premises. The black woman and Caucasian man left maybe ten minutes later, but we saw nothing else.”

  “This doesn’t concern me. Maybe they found a leak in a pipe or something, and had to get into the wall.”

  “Just thought you’d like to know.”

  “And now I do.” With that, he hung up.

  Merribaugh clicked on the remote and the television blinked to life. Enright’s call had almost vanished from his mind when a sudden thought came to him. He found his cell phone and dialed.

  “Yessir,” answered Enright, recognizing the number.

  “This obstruction,” said Merribaugh. “Did it block the camera’s view of the closet?”

  “It did.”

  He didn’t like that. “Send your officer back and make sure he checks the closet door. There’s a safe there I use to store some personal effects. Make sure that door is locked and the hinges haven’t been tampered with, and call me back.”

  Enright looked at the disconnected phone, then looked at his officers, trying to figure out who he could trust to make sure the job was done properly.

  “Cason!”

  Officer Cason looked up from his comic book. “Huh?”

  He decided he’d better do it himself.

  A few minutes later, Captain Joseph Enright let himself into the finance office. Everything looked secure, and the closet door was locked firmly. He called Merribaugh back.

  “Sorry, sir. False alarm. All is secure.”

  19

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  Farraday had been frying bacon in the kitchen when he heard Tish at the front door. He was going to ignore her but figured her next move would be the doorbell, so it’d be better to take care of her right away.

  He caught her moments before her red-nailed finger pressed the bell. “What?!”

  His abruptness caught her off guard. “Is Mr. Williams home?”

  “He’s in bed.”

  “How about any of the Hudsons?”

  “They’re in bed, too. Look, lady, it’s seven o’clock on a Sunday morning. Everyone’s in bed.”

  She didn’t like his tone, and made that clear. “I will not let you talk to me that way. I’m not sure, but that could be against HOA rules. And if it isn’t, it will be by the end of the day.”

  He closed the door in her face.

  Thirty seconds later—time Tish Fielding used for some deep breathing to calm herself—the doorbell rang. Thirty seconds later it rang again.

  Grant voice hollered from upstairs. “What the hell! Get the door, Farraday.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s for you, so you get it.”

  The doorbell rang twice more—each ring bringing more shouts from above—until Grant, in bare feet, wrinkled khakis, and an untucked shirt, stormed down the stairs and flung open the front door.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Williams, you really need to have a talk with your chauffeur. He was just very rude to me.”

  Grant struggled to open his eyes. “He’ll get a talkin’ to. You can be sure of it. But why are you ringing the bell at seven in the morning?”

  She shifted gears and smiled. “It’s Old Stone Fence Post Estates Clean-Up Day!”

  “Huh?”

  “The day we clean up from the party!”

  He poked his head outside and looked up and down the street. “What are you talking about? There’s no mess. You were practically followin’ people with a vacuum cleaner yesterday. Nobody had a chance to make a mess.”

  “Mr. Williams,” she said, and her hands went to her hips, “the worst messes are the ones that aren’t obvious. Like…like…” She pointed to the flower bed at the front door. “There’s one of Mrs. Hudson’s cigarette butts. God only knows how many more are strewn throughout this neighborhood.”

  He forced open his eyes. “You’re kiddin’ me, right?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Grant sighed. “Look, we had a late night, and…”

  “Cleanup starts at eight o’clock,” she announced and spun on her heels.

  When the door was locked behind him, Grant said to no one in particular, “I really hate her.”

  $ $ $

  Over bacon and French toast sprinkled with cinnamon, Grant informed his crew they’d soon be policing the neighborhood, rooting out cigarette butts, gum wrappers, and—knowing Tish Fielding—dust mites, too.

  “You can do it,” said Mary Beth as she sipped coffee and refused to look at him. “I’m done with this crap. We pull a job that brings in less than two percent of what you said it would…”

  “Who pulled a job?” Grant asked.

  “We did. Hey, I went to church, too. For one day. Anyway, all we’ve got to show for the work is ninety thousand dollars in a Wegmans bag hidden under the sink. Big freakin’ haul, Lambert. So there’s no way I’m gonna go outside and pull weeds just to keep the bitch across the street happy. No way!”

  “Okay, sit here and wat
ch television. I don’t care. But the rest of us are gonna fit in with the neighborhood.” He looked at the others, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Right?”

  Chase cracked first. He was still feeling guilty about not reporting Merribaugh and his suitcase, so anything he could do to mitigate Grant’s aggravation was a step in the right direction. “All right. I’ll help.”

  Grant looked at Mary Beth. “But don’t get too comfortable in front of the TV, because we’re taking a little drive after we finish cleaning up the neighborhood.”

  “Who is?”

  “You, me, and Farraday. We’re going to DC.”

  She snorted. “For what?”

  “Because,” he said, “that’s where the money is. You don’t expect Jared to grab it, do you? He doesn’t even know it’s there.”

  “And we can’t call him,” added Chase. “They don’t allow phones.”

  “Why does she get to go?” Lisa demanded.

  Mary Beth agreed. “Yeah, why me?”

  “Because I might need a woman, and since Lisa’s the banker she has to stay here in Nash Bog. Just in case something goes wrong.”

  Mary Beth flapped her arms. “Oh, so I’m expendable…”

  She was, Grant thought, but what he said was, “Nothing’s gonna go wrong. But if there’s a hiccup, you want Lisa to be able to bail you out, right?”

  “This isn’t fair, Lambert,” said Lisa, and Grant finally realized that Chase was right. She really did want to be in on the job. “You’re discriminating against me because I have money.”

  “Look, Chase is gonna stay behind, too. This is nothing personal.”

  But Mary Beth had figured out a way to avoid getting enmeshed in another one of Grant Lambert’s schemes.

  “I can’t go,” she said. “They’ve met me.”

  He dismissed that. “You lasted one day. Hopefully you weren’t as memorable as we all know you can be. If so, we’ll just have to deal with that.”

  $ $ $

  There were a lot of people prowling the bushes, flower beds, and gutters of Old Stone Fence Post Road that morning. Too many for eight o’clock on a Sunday.

  Grant, carrying a plastic bag, was studying the ground beneath a rose bush a few houses down the block when he heard a hushed “Psst.” He looked up and saw Mr. Scribner, half-hidden in shrubbery.

  “What’s up, Scribs?” asked Grant.

  Mr. Scribner laughed. “I love that! Say it again.”

  Grant was confused. “What?”

  “Call me ‘Scribs.’”

  That was strange, but if that’s what he wanted… “Okay…Scribs.”

  He laughed again, but at least this time he tried to explain. “That’s what we’re missing in this neighborhood, Williams. No one has fun. No one has nicknames. The minute something like that happens, the Fieldings tamp it down.”

  Grant scratched his head. “You realize they’re just homeowners, right? No different than you and…well, okay, maybe different from me. Still, they’re not king and queen of the subdivision.”

  “Yes, but they’re so forceful.”

  Grant wouldn’t let him get away with that. “You know everyone in the neighborhood hates them, so stop putting up with it. Go meet with those Jarvis and Huffine dames and do something. Rise up!”

  “That sounds…very radical!”

  Grant decided he was done with the cleanup, and probably done with the conversation, too. But not without a parting shot.

  “Then unleash your inner radical. Leave a hose on the lawn. Go a week without cutting your grass. Let your freak flag fly high, Scribs!”

  Back at the house, he tossed the plastic bag in the garbage and said, “This is one screwed-up neighborhood.”

  “You’re just noticing?” asked Mary Beth.

  “How would you know about the neighborhood? You haven’t been off that couch in weeks.” He turned to Constance and Grant. “And you two better clear out and get to the cathedral, in case anyone notices that someone paid a visit last night. It’d be too obvious if neither of you went back.”

  Instructions given, he was ready to relax. But not before he took a quick glance out the window…and saw Scribs standing in the street, deep in conversation with Ms. Jarvis.

  Maybe their freak flags would fly after all.

  $ $ $

  Jack Hightower was not a happy man. And that, he thought, was the burden of being a heterosexual male working in the hospitality industry.

  On an average Sunday, he’d be home relaxing. Or if he was called in to work, he’d be doing what assistant managers of elegant, upscale hotels do: hiding in his office until the occasionally unruly guest became too unruly to be handled by the front office staff. That once-every-two-day occurrence was survivable.

  Then came the booking of Project Rectitude’s Beyond Sin conference, and suddenly every gay man who worked at the hotel—and not a few of the women of every sexuality—couldn’t work that weekend. The employees claimed dying grandparents and emergency surgeries and contagious diseases, but Jack Hightower knew better. He knew they weren’t at work because they objected so deeply to the very presence of the conference in their workplace.

  He agreed in principle, but someone had to work the desk. So now he stood in the lobby, checking in guests and fielding all those annoying complaints and inquiries he thought he’d left forever in the past with his promotion to assistant manager. He could only hope some of the other employees would soon need money more than a clean conscience, because he couldn’t work the front desk alone for an entire week.

  He looked across the lobby and finally spotted someone on whom he could focus his anger. The trim, silver-haired Dr. Oscar Hurley made his way through the room, smiling politely at guests lounging on chairs and couches. He was accompanied by his roundish, middle-aged aide de camp and a tall woman Hightower thought might be a Member of Congress. They paraded past without looking at him and walked into a waiting elevator.

  “The next time,” he said aloud to himself, as well as to a tourist from Milwaukee who’d been waiting to check in for seventeen minutes, “I hope they go to the Mayflower.”

  The tourist from Milwaukee, still waiting, wondered if the Mayflower might have any vacancies.

  $ $ $

  Dr. Oscar Hurley had a lovely suite on the top floor of the hotel. It came with a large four-poster bed that would have been big enough to accommodate Francine, had he bothered to bring her. It had a terrace with a partial view of the White House. And it had a parlor, which provided the perfect meeting space to discuss things better discussed in private with the congresswoman from Minnesota.

  As they talked, he looked her over. In another term or two, she might prove even more useful than she already had as one of his principal House warriors against all things gay. But one day he’d have to make her over, as he’d made over Congressman Donald Skinner. Her helmet hair, drab clothes, and poor eye contact were off-putting to many people.

  He’d polish her, though. In time, he’d polish her.

  Their discussion came to an end, and Dennis Merribaugh appeared at Hurley’s side. He held an envelope.

  “This,” said Hurley, “is for you.”

  The congresswoman began to reach for the envelope, but her hand stopped in midair.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Hurley smiled. “Let’s just call it contribution to your reelection campaign.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, the Moral Families Coalition has already maxed out on contributions to my campaign for this cycle.”

  “Which is why this is cash.”

  “Oh.” She sat back. “I don’t know…”

  “Congresswoman, I am a man of the cloth,” said Hurley. “No harm will come to you. This is not a bribe. Think of it as a tithe.”

  She ran a hand along the edge of her helmet-hair and looked at the envelope. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

  Hurley’s smile was gentle. “You cannot do the Lord’s work on Capitol Hill if you don’t get reelected, c
an you?”

  Recognizing his logic, the gentle-lady from Minnesota took the envelope.

  When she was gone, Hurley said to Merribaugh, “It makes me nervous keeping that suitcase in a hotel room. Especially since we know the FBI and IRS are watching.”

  “What do you want me to do with it?” asked Merribaugh.

  “Put it in the hotel safe.” He thought for a moment. “And I doubt this will happen, but let’s be prepared. Just in case the federal government decides to set up a showy raid to try to reassure the American public they’re doing their jobs.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “In case of emergency,” said Hurley, “be prepared to swallow the claim ticket.”

  Dennis Merribaugh really hoped there was no raid. Especially when, after waiting twenty minutes in a long line at the front desk to check the suitcase, the clerk handed him a hard plastic claim ticket the thickness of a credit card.

  “Thank you,” he said to the clerk, who nodded unpleasantly in return.

  How rude, thought Merribaugh. Next year I should take this conference to the Mayflower.

  $ $ $

  Chase and Constance inspected the finance office one last time. Everything looked good; just the way it had looked the first time Constance walked through the door.

  The safe had been locked, and the closet door had also been locked. The defaced foam core rendition of the Great Cross was back behind the cabinet, and the easel had been returned to the corner.

  Everything was perfect.

  Right up until the moment the door burst open and a half dozen men rushed in.

  With their weapons drawn.

  And one of them yelled, “FBI! Don’t move!”

  $ $ $

  In the security supply room in the basement, Officer Chris Cason shook Captain Joseph Enright awake.

  “What?” he grumbled.

  “Sir, we have a problem.”

  “Go away.”

  “No, I mean a problem. A biiiig problem!”

  $ $ $

  Sitting in the back of one of several black armored trucks parked outside Cathedral House, Special Agent Oliver Tolan of the Federal Bureau of Investigation looked Constance in the eye and said, “So where’s the money?”