The Lights of Tenth Street

by Shaunti Feldhahn

  “Like I know what that means.”

  “Just hang in there, boss. It’ll just take a second.” Maris’s fingers flew over the keyboard so fast he couldn’t keep up. “I’m going to download an MP3 player onto your computer here, to see …”

  Several minutes and a half-dozen curses later, she straightened.

  “Aha! There!” The file opened, and she peered closely at the screen as strange sounds emanated from the speakers. “Ach—it’s just computer babble.”

  She waved a hand, annoyed. “It doesn’t make any sense. I probably corrupted the file in trying to open it. Sorry, chief, I tried.”

  “No problem.” Marco gestured toward the door and hustled her out. “Thanks anyway.”

  He shut the door behind her and returned to his desk, eyes gleaming as he listened to the magic coming over his speakers. That was computer code! It had to be the code developed over at Tyson’s fortresslike building, the code that would be embedded in and transmitted with the television commercial on some impossible-to-hear frequency. One thing was sure—Tyson would never have knowingly given him a copy of the thing.

  Marco leaned back in his chair and put his feet up. He should call Tyson on his cell phone and tell him what he’d found. He should … but he wasn’t going to. Maybe this could give him some leverage over his condescending superior, some additional protection. Maybe he could use this to gain some additional protection not just for himself, but for his girls. He’d have to think about that.

  Marco copied the file onto his hard drive and changed the name. Then he took the CD out of the computer, put it back in its slipcover, and set it in a drawer.

  Until he figured out how to use it, he’d just act like the little disc didn’t exist.

  “See you after Christmas!” Tiffany gave a blithe wave and blew a few kisses. “I’ll come back and make you all jealous with my tan!”

  A chorus of grumbles from the other dancers followed her out the door. A four-day jaunt to the Virgin Islands was a nice Christmas present from her sugar daddy. She’d be back and ready for work—lithe and sun-bronzed—by Saturday night. Several other dancers were gone on similar warm-weather excursions. The rest of the dancers sat at a scattering of tables, counting out their money, trying to figure out what to do with the evening. There had been so few customers, Marco had decided to close early this Christmas Eve.

  Ronnie counted out the DJ’s take, her mind turning to her empty apartment. It would be a lonely Christmas without Tiffany around. At least on the other days, she’d fill the time with work. With so many other dancers gone she could make a boatload of money without even trying. She thought about her mother’s plea to come home tomorrow, and almost wavered. Most of her colleagues had no home they cared to go to on Christmas day. At least she had her mom. But no—she had explained to her mother that the “restaurant” needed her to work; it was one of their busiest seasons.

  She pushed away a nagging guilt at having been away from home for so long. At least she sent back lots of money to help her mom set up her new apartment and pay off her last medical debts. She’d even helped her buy a better car.

  Ronnie heard the new lightness in her mother’s voice whenever she called, the conversations now sprinkled with religious talk. Whatever had happened to her mother, though, seemed like a good thing. It wasn’t creepy-religious, just … just nice. Sort of like the Turners and the Woodwards. Just nice and wholesome.

  The Turners and the Woodwards might, for whatever reason, still want to befriend her even though they knew she was a stripper. But that knowledge would kill her mother. Especially now. Best to avoid her altogether.

  Ronnie left the club and headed out of the driveway, feeling rudderless. She didn’t want to go back to her apartment—they hadn’t even put a tree up. What was the point, when it was just her?

  She drove down Tenth Street, looking at the decorations, the festive lights that festooned every building, every restaurant, every shop. Lights of all colors blinked and sparkled as couples walked arm in arm along the busy sidewalk. Even the low-income apartment complexes where all the immigrants lived were draped with decorations, people bustling in and out on their last-minute Christmas errands. Ronnie watched it all from behind her car windows, feeling empty.

  Some pretty white lights draped on elegant trees caught her eye. She saw the banner out front and, on an impulse, pulled into the busy parking lot.

  There were hundreds of cars in the lot, their occupants emerging and streaming into a massive church building. A sign proclaimed “Vespers. Christmas Eve. 8:00 and 9:00.”

  Ronnie got out of her car feeling for a moment that she was in a foreign land. It looked like there were hundreds of people there. She slowly followed the others streaming in. She could get lost in this crowd.

  She slipped into the back, took a program, and found a seat. Despite what seemed like thousands of people in the room, the sanctuary was hushed, pensive, only a soft murmur of conversation rising over the gentle chords of an organ being played somewhere up front.

  Two dozen people in robes took their places in a loft behind the altar. The whole congregation quieted as the choir director raised his hands, and the choir began to sing.

  Ronnie sat, transfixed by the music. She didn’t understand the Latin lyrics, but it felt sweet … reverent … holy. Had she ever heard anything so beautiful? She closed her eyes and let the sound wash over her, caught up in a pure, unfamiliar feeling. Almost as if she were being wrapped in strong arms, loving arms. Her skin prickled and she felt she could have sat and listened all night. It was as if there was something there … something she could almost touch if she just knew how.

  The priest came forward and read the Christmas story. She had heard it before somewhere, heard about the baby born in a stable, about the angels singing, about the shepherds traveling to greet him. She wondered if the angels’ voices had sounded like the music she had just heard.

  Peace on earth … goodwill to men …

  She could almost believe in peace on earth. Here, this night, she could almost believe.

  The service ended with more lovely music, the congregation standing as chimes were played, then filing out quietly and heading to their cars. There was little chatter. Everyone seemed as subdued, as pensive, as she.

  She didn’t want to leave. She was reluctantly heading to her car when she heard a voice at her side.

  “I thought that was you.”

  She turned quickly. Marco was standing there, bundled up against the cold.

  “Marco, what are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so I figured I’d stop in. It’s Christmas, after all.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.” She looked at him, curious. He seemed subdued, quiet. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “Nothing. Just—” He gave up with a shrug. “Well … nothing.”

  Ronnie gave him a small smile. “I think I know how you feel.” A strand of music played again in her mind, and she stilled, trying to recapture the feeling. “That was beautiful.”

  Marco nodded, and started to turn away. “Merry Christmas, Ronnie.”

  Ronnie smiled at the use of her real name. “Merry Christmas, Marco.”

  The two of them parted, went to their cars, and drove away, neither with any particular place to go.

  A large figure broke away from his troop as ordered, and followed Marco out of the church parking lot. He settled beside him in the car, speaking to him, trying to get through.

  Others had tried before, with little success. But this night, the Spirit was moving. The Lamb of God knew those who were not as hardened as they might seem. He was, after all, the One who had looked into the eyes of those on His left and His right as they hung together, gasping for breath, and had known their hearts. He had welcomed a dying criminal into the Kingdom.

  And this man, also, did not have much time. So the One who did not desire t
hat any should perish was reaching out to him … again … and again. He would continue to do so until his time ran out.

  The mighty angel watched his charge with somber eyes. The words did not seem to be getting through. But the music might. Gently, he began to sing, recreating the melody that had resounded through the church that holy night. The Latin words became the lyrics of heaven, the Word of God to a lost and hurting soul.

  Marco passed through the security gates and pulled into his hilltop home. He wandered through the house, looking at the trappings of his life, wondering what it was all for.

  He went to the bar and poured himself a drink. He wasn’t used to such melancholy thoughts. What it was all for, he knew, was money. And lots of it. That had always been enough.

  He stared around the empty place, wishing he had convinced one of his women to come over for the night. It wasn’t too late to just pick up the phone. There were many who would come at his beck and call.

  He went out onto the deck, the spectacular night view laid out before him. Holiday lights shone throughout the neighborhood, many of the wealthy residents having gone all out. His next-door neighbor had employed five people for a day to lay out an elaborate lighting scheme on their hedges and trees.

  Marco had been too busy plotting how to blow his next-door neighbor up to worry about Christmas decorations.

  He rested his arms on the railing and twirled the ice in his glass. What was he doing? How could he have come this far? A snatch of the choirs song played again in his mind, and he closed his eyes, trying to recapture the feeling he had had sitting alone in that congregation. Almost as if he wasn’t alone. He remembered the look in Ronnie’s eyes—the look that said she, too, had felt it.

  And then another memory flickered in his mind. The memory of her screams … then her silence, her acquiescence to three brutal men. Here on this deck. Right here, where he was standing.

  He pushed himself away from the railing and went back into the house. He took another swig of his drink, his eyes hard, cold, staring inward. He had done a terrible job of protecting her up until now. But he would find a way to protect her when it mattered.

  “I’m worried about Marco.”

  Tyson had finished showing Proxy around the secure building, the first time Proxy had been able to tour his high-tech domain with no one else around. It was Christmas Day, but neither Tyson nor Proxy had any use for the holiday. They’d get the best Christmas present imaginable in just a few weeks, if all went well.

  The two men were sitting in Tyson’s office comparing notes. It had been a long time since they’d been able to sit down for a face-to-face discussion.

  “What do you mean, worried?” Proxy sipped a spring water Tyson had brought him, watching Tyson search for words.

  “Well—Look, let’s be frank. You know Marco rubs me the wrong way. You know it, I know it, Marco probably knows it. But let’s set that aside for the moment. That’s not my motivation here. There’s a problem with Marco. He’s … he seems to be wavering somehow. I can’t put my finger on it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was worried about the girls.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s almost like he doesn’t want anything to happen to them. He was asking questions about our intended disposition of the girls. I didn’t tell him, of course—he might inadvertently give something away—but I just got a bad feeling.”

  “What do you suggest we do about it?”

  “Well, in all honesty, I think we might have to consider plans for removing him. Permanently, I mean.”

  Proxy sat silent for a minute, then leaned back in his swivel chair, staring at the high-up warehouse ceiling.

  “Marco has been a loyal player, a key player.”

  “I know that.”

  “And most of what we’ve accomplished would’ve been impossible without the work he’s put in. There’s no sign that this ‘wavering’ you mentioned is any more serious than a sentimental attachment to his team. It hasn’t kept him from doing his job, and doing it well. He has been thoroughly loyal from day one.”

  Tyson gave an internal snort, careful not to let Proxy hear him. Proxy was growing soft, blinded by Marco’s so-called “loyalty.” The only thing Marco was loyal to was himself and his expected payout.

  “I can hardly bump off a key operative because of a hunch, with nothing else behind it. Can I?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I was already concerned that eliminating five girls at once would cause more problems than it solved. The more we start removing people right and left, the more attention is going to be attracted, and the more chance that someone will stumble across something before the big day. We can’t afford that to happen, can we?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “You suppose not?”

  Proxy was no longer idly looking at the ceiling. He was staring directly at Tyson, his eyes ice-cold.

  “I mean yes, you’re correct. Of course we can’t afford anyone to come even close to the real plot. That’s why, I might add, we’ve planted many false trails for people to follow. And of course we’ve planned a last-minute group accident for the girls, so that no one is suspicious … and if they are suspicious, by the time anyone investigates it’ll be too late. You don’t need to worry about that, chief. We’ve got this well in hand.”

  Proxy continued his cold observation. “Except for Marco, you’re saying.”

  “I’m saying we should watch him. Carefully.”

  Tyson tried to keep his face impassive. For all Proxy’s money and vaunted experience, he was an old-fashioned strategist. He didn’t understand the ground-level realities of the current situation. That was why he’d hired Tyson, wasn’t it? He should trust his right-hand man to know what was best, and let him do it.

  Proxy nodded and moved on to the next subject.

  Tyson began to seethe. Just as with his Fortune 500 CEOs, Tyson was again subject to the decisions of an inferior strategist. He’d had the corner office, the staff members hopping at his every word … but it was all in vain without the final say, the final power to make decisions. Proxy had assured Tyson that he was hiring him to run the show. And now Proxy couldn’t even let him make a decision about whether to eliminate a possible security risk.

  Tyson answered Proxy’s questions and engaged in deliberations over their next steps, even as his brain began running on a parallel track. If he got one more sense, one more piece of evidence that Marco was a concern, he would take matters into his own hands. As the old saying went, it was easier to act first and ask forgiveness later. Not that he would need forgiveness. Proxy was astute enough to recognize Tyson’s contribution when it mattered.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Did I hear that a stripper stayed in your home last week?”

  Sherry Turner tried not to laugh at the shocked look on Melanie’s face, her voice carefully lowered as she glanced around the crowded church lobby. When Sherry nodded, the older woman put a delicate hand to her chest as if she would faint at any moment.

  “But, dear, don’t you think that’s dangerous? And right before Christmas! What about the children?”

  “I think it’s the best thing possible for the children. Just like with the food pantry outreach. It’s giving Brandon and Genna a chance to see that their family doesn’t just say all the right words about what Jesus would do—that we actually do what Jesus would do. And isn’t Christmas the best time for there to be room at the inn?”

  Melanie looked torn between discomfort at airing such a distasteful subject in public and a desire to go tell her confidants this juicy piece of gossip. But Sherry no longer cared so much what people thought. Just as it had been liberating to discover that all the perfect Christian soldiers around her had just as many hurts behind their flawless smiles, it had been empowering to be a part of getting the church’s “ministry muscles back in shape,” as Pastor Steven had put it. The past six months had seen a veritable earthquake inside Trinity Chapel.

  Not everyone had
been comfortable with the changes. Sherry tried to be patient with Melanie, a woman who clung stubbornly to the old ways, uncomfortable with the influx of unchurched people who didn’t know how to dress or act, didn’t know the unwritten rules of what Christians should look like, should talk like. Melanie desperately wanted to keep their church looking perfect and clean, attractive to the average suburban churchgoer, regardless of the spiritual consequences for all those slowly dying in secret. To be fair, she had supported the food pantry outreach, but her comfort level went only so far. Poor people—okay. Spanish-speaking immigrants—maybe. But strippers? Heaven forbid!

  It wasn’t just strippers and prostitutes who needed healing, Sherry thought, eyeing Melanie’s strained face.

  “I’m sure you were well intentioned, dear,” Melanie said, “but I can’t say that I approve of you taking this person into your home. Especially after … well … the troubles your poor husband has had. Doesn’t it seem, dear, that you should not have put him in that position?”

  Sherry tried to keep her voice even, as anger seeped around the edges. “Melanie, you are probably well intentioned, but you don’t know the whole story. Of course I thought of the impact on Doug. Of course I did! We talked about it, and he agreed it was something we needed to do and something he could handle. Doug was going to run it by some trusted friends this morning, just in case.”

  “Yes, but dear—”

  “Hello, ladies.”

  Sherry turned to see Pastor Steven’s smiling face, his arm around his wife.

  “Sorry to interrupt—”

  “No problem,” Sherry said. “We are done here.”

  “Oh? Well, in that case could you tell Doug that I’d like to speak with him before he leaves? I think it was wonderful that you took in that young lady last week, but since he said she was probably coming over for dinner soon—and just in case she does take you up on your longer-term offer—I have a couple of thoughts to share.”

  “Thank you, Pastor.” Sherry couldn’t help taking some satisfaction in watching Melanie’s mouth gape open. “I appreciate your encouragement. I’ll go find Doug right away.”