by J. A. Kerley
“I’m proud to say the Reverend’s asked me to stay here, sir. He says I’m a …” Tears began to well in the singer’s eyes and his voice wavered. “I’m a … comfort in his illness.”
And an on-call entertainment system who asks nothing, Uttleman mused, can talk for hours without saying anything, fetches what’s needed, and is utterly loyal. Not bad.
“Bless you, Andy. You’ll be rewarded in Heaven.”
“I’m rewarded every day I’m with the Reverend.”
Uttleman patted the singer’s shoulder before heading to the elevator. Upstairs, he found Schrum up and peering through the front drapes. “A big truck just pulled up, Roland. They’re unloading a portable stage and lighting.”
“The network’s doing a remote broadcast, Amos. A tribute to you, broadcast to twenty-one million of the faithful.”
“Hayes’ idea, no doubt. Cash in on my infirmity.”
Uttleman raised an eyebrow behind the wire glasses. “I can call Hayes and have it cancelled, Amos.”
Schrum pretended to not hear, peering round the curtain, a half-full glass of “syrup” in his broad hand. He studied the crowd for several minutes as the verses of “Shall We Gather at the River” drifted up from the street, then pushed back the shock of white hair and turned to Uttleman.
“Maybe I am dying, Roland.”
“Please, Amos. We’ve been through this before. You have a mildly enlarged heart, early congestive failure. It’s easily managed and I expect you to be complaining ten years from now.”
Schrum leaned unsteadily against the wall and drank. “If I’m not dying, Roland, then maybe I’m decaying. Like a tree rots from the inside out.”
“You’re feeling sorry for yourself, Amos. There’s no reason for it.”
Schrum glared, but said nothing. He picked up the glass and the remaining liquid diminished by half. “I’m stuck here,” he said, changing course. “Why did I agree to this?”
“Because you told Eliot Winkler you could—”
“Yes, yes … I know. I ran from the project like a scared cat, fleeing a promise made in a moment of … What the hell is that fancy word for encompassing pride, Roland? I can’t remember anything any more.”
Uttleman sighed. “Hubris.”
Schrum poured the remainder of the liquor down his throat. He reached to place the glass on the table, missed, the glass falling to the floor.
“Sit down, Amos,” the physician said, anger in his voice. “You’re getting inebriated. Mistakes can happen.”
Schrum’s head flashed to the doctor. “What’s that verse again, Roland?” Schrum hissed, the famous voice as cold as death, a sound never heard by the faithful. “Something about sins and stones? What’s the fucking phrase, Roland? I need to hear it.”
Uttleman looked down, his voice diminished to a whisper.
“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”
Schrum stared with barely veiled condescension. “Exactly, Roland. Maybe it’s best we both remember it, right?”
18
Roland Uttleman turned into the parking lot of the Key West Marriott at ten p.m., finding a dark Towne Car parked near the door and pulling into the adjacent spot. The windows on the car were darkened, but Uttleman knew he had been watched from the moment his vehicle had entered the lot.
He exited and knocked on the window of the Towne Car. It rolled down.
“Good evening, Hector.”
“Buenos noches, Señor Uttleman.”
“How long has Hayes been here?”
Machado looked at his watch, Rolex, a recent gift from Johnson. He held up a hand, thick and powerful fingers spread wide. “Five minutes, sir.”
“Hayes tells me you found a new home for your sister, Hector.”
Machado froze for a split second, nodded. “It is a good place, Señor Uttleman. The people there are making her comfortable.”
Uttleman started to turn away, but paused. “The place she was before, Hector … did I not hear of roaches? Rats, even.”
Machado’s eyes fell to the floor. “It is past, señor. Juanita is safe now.”
“It’s what we do for family, Hector. Good care is expensive, but keeping our loved ones safe is a duty we are handed by God Almighty.”
Uttleman stared into the dark eyes of Machado, waited for the flicker of assent, then turned to the door of the hotel, entering the lobby and looking into the lounge. A hand waved from a booth in a far corner and Uttleman angled that direction, sitting across from Hayes Johnson. A waiter appeared and Uttleman ordered a Scotch. Johnson had half a martini in front of him to accompany the lone candle on the table. Alcohol was not condoned by the Crown of Glory network, but few of the viewership would be among the Marriott’s customers and wouldn’t have known Uttleman and Johnson from Adam. They looked like a pair of businessmen planning sales strategies over cocktails.
“I was watching the news earlier,” Uttleman said. “It’s as full of stories about Roberta Menendez as it was last week. Non-stop. Every few minutes they ask for information on one of those anonymous tiplines.”
“A sad case,” Johnson said. “Tragic.”
“I saw Hector outside,” Uttleman said, peering over the top of his glasses. “How’s he doing these days … with the sister problem and all?”
“It’s no longer a problem. His sister moved from a rathole nursing home in Homestead to one of the finest facilities in Orlando. She’s getting the best care available and Hector’s a grateful man.”
Uttleman absorbed the information. “Good to hear.”
The doctor’s drink arrived. Johnson let Uttleman take a long pull before speaking. “How’s our old friend doing, Roland? What you wanted to talk about, right?”
Uttleman looked side to side, as if fearful of spies, voice lowered. “He’s no longer sneaking drinks, he’s pounding them. Christ, even the choir boy’s noticed.”
A frown. “Any problem there with Delmont, uh …”
“He’ll never breathe a word. The kid worships Amos.”
“Has Amos said anything more about completing 1025-M?”
A snort. “He’s currently pretending it doesn’t exist.”
Johnson leaned forward. “Eliot Winkler called. He’s been thinking about what Amos said, about lacking the strength to handle the daily requirements of the project. Eliot says the words gave him a revelation.”
“A revelation?” Uttleman shook his head. “Eliot wants an understudy?”
“He thinks another man of God might take over the, uh, assembly of the event.”
“I thought Eliot believed only Amos capable of such a thing.”
“Eliot’s desperate. He now thinks a lesser man of God can assemble the event. When it’s ready, Amos steps in and blesses the project. Displays the miracle to God, so to speak.”
“Does Eliot have someone in mind to supervise the project? Did that arrive with the revelation?”
“Eliot’s thinking about Galen Mobley.”
Uttleman stared. “The lunatic from Tennessee? Mobley started off handling snakes, for crying out loud.”
“The Reverend can manipulate Eliot to a different choice, Roland. It’s what he does. Eliot gets his event and Amos gets to stay in Key West. He steps in for the finale, and it’s done.”
Uttleman gazed into his drink for a ten-count, nodding as a half-smile came to his thin lips. “Eliot might have actually stumbled on to a rather tidy solution.”
Johnson lifted his glass in toast. “All we do is sell it to the Reverend.”
19
Bass-throbbing dance music filled the Overtown strip bar, deep notes rattling the bottles on the shelves. Darlene Hammond spun twice more around the pole, bouncing the boobs for the droolers drinking below, several there since the joint opened at eleven a.m. The music raged to a concussive conclusion and Darlene – Delilah Dawn when she was working – unwrapped from the pole, put on her most salacious, lip-tonguing smile, and bent to gather tributes from outstretched hands: one
s from the pikers, here and there a fiver and a twenty from Billy the Voice.
“Thanks, Billy,” Darlene whispered to the patron, an overweight man in his early forties dressed, as always, in a blue seersucker suit straining at the seams, his multiple chins quivering as he blushed at the glancing whisk of her finger across his cheek. “You’re the best.”
Darlene straightened, picked up the slinky outfit she’d shed during the act, waved to the patrons and gave a sly wink to Billy the Voice, her only friend in the audience, the rest a bunch of scumbags and scuzzers, their peckers tapping the underside of the bar while they thought filthy things about Darlene and the other girls. Her shift was over and she could head for home, pop an oxy, and wash the stink from her skin.
She was stepping from the stage when a man approached, a yokel in a cheap brown suit and a tie the color of baby shit that was knotted like a length of rope. His hair was combed and parted and shiny with gel. He was drenched in old-timey slop like Aqua-Velva or Old Spice.
“I’m off the clock, hon,” she said, trying to keep her nose from wrinkling. “Next act starts in ten minutes. Get a cocktail and get seated.”
“I come to give you this,” the yokel said, holding out a folded bill. Darlene snapped it from his fingers to find five hundred dollars.
“I don’t do that, mister,” she said, reluctantly returning the money. “I just dance, see?”
“Oh my gosh no, Miss Hammond. I meant nothing like that.”
She looked at the bill and gave her visitor a dubious eye. “Then you must really like my dancing.”
“The money’s not mine. It’s from someone says you used to know her.”
“Who?”
“Sissy Carol Sparks.”
Darlene froze at the sound of the name, only then realized the yokel had used her true name, Hammond. Customers never learned it; only Billy the Voice knew. She stared at the bumpkin, prickles rising on the back of her neck.
“How do you know about—”
“I met Sissy in church. She told me your name, that you’d be here. She told me a lot of stuff.”
“Church? What the—”
“I preach the Word. Don’t worry, I ain’t about to start spoutin’ gospel. But preachin’s how I met Sissy.”
Darlene gave the man hard eyes. Religious types were bad enough, but preachers were the worst of the lot. “You must be kidding, mister. If Sissy Sparks went near a church it’d get struck by lightning.”
“There was a time that might have been true, ma’am. But Miss Sissy found the spirit, praise God.”
Darlene stared. Was this strange, monkey-faced man telling the truth? “Jesus …” she said. “I mean, I’m …” fucking shocked? Blown-the-shit-away? Darlene fought to find words that didn’t contain swearing. “I’m surprised, mister. But what’s all this have to do with me?”
“Sissy wants to see those she’s wronged. To unburden her soul.”
“Listen, mister, the last person in the world I want to see is Sissy Carol Sparks.”
The man nodded. “Then that’s all I need to hear. I’m sorry for taking your time, Miss Hammond.” He turned for the door. Darlene watched as he shuffled away. For a bible-thumper he seemed decent enough.
“Wait, mister …” Darlene called. “She … Sissy … she’s truly changed?”
The man turned. “Far along the road, Miss Hammond. I guess you remember how Miss Sissy used to be, probably the same the last time you heard from her.”
Five months back, Sparks bumped into Darlene at a grocery, talking about doing outcalls, escorts. Making fun of Darlene for dancing in clubs and living in the same fleabag walkup while Sissy had moved into an apartment in Wynwood. Wynwood.
Bitch.
“Last I saw Sissy she hadn’t changed, mister.”
“That was her old life. She’s even moved into an apartment in the church, small but clean. You’re prob’ly thinking when she still lived in …” the man snapped his fingers, trying for the answer.
“Wynwood. She was in Wynwood.”
“That’s right. Over on uh …”
“Twenty-ninth Street. The Reef condos.”
The man closed his eyes like stashing something in memory. “That’s it. Like the coral stuff. Reef.”
“Sissy always came out on top, mister. Even when everyone else came out on the bottom.”
“Like I said, she’s not there no more. She’s living behind the church and giving her life to the Lord. She feels the call to make amends. Money don’t mean a thing to her no more.”
Money?
The yokel started away again. “Hang on,” Darlene said. “Amends? Money? What does that mean?”
“Sissy made a lot of money in her … other life. Now she thinks it’s the Devil’s money. She tried to give me ten thousand dollars for my ministry.”
“Hah! The Devil let you take it, I hope.”
“I let Miss Sissy buy new pews. If the money does good it burns the Devil’s hands.”
“Sissy’s giving away cash? Am I getting that right?”
“To those she thinks she wronged.” The odd preacher looked at his watch. “Anyways, that’s the story. I’ll tell her you said thankee, but no thankee.”
“No thanks to what?”
“She’s making amends to those she wronged. You were one of them. I heard that she was like your boss at—”
“Where’s Sissy now?”
“My humble church, just a few miles yonder. She’s praying my mission will be successful.”
“I think I’d like to see her.”
“You don’t have to do that, Miss Hammond. Miss Sissy understands many folks can’t stand the sight of her.”
“No, I mean it, uh … what did you say your name was?”
“Dredd. Pastor Dredd.”
“Lemme get changed, mister. Sissy’s handing out cash … what did you call them, amens? I think I’d like to see her.”
Roland Uttleman entered the Schrum house, nodding at the security guard on the back porch, less to keep overzealous faithful from trying for an impromptu meeting than to keep lower-level workers at the network from finding the great man wandering drunkenly in his underwear.
The house was quiet. Uttleman took the elevator to the third floor. He stepped into the hall and listened. Was Schrum asleep?
No … beneath the muffled outside prayers and singing he heard footsteps. Schrum was up and pacing. Uttleman tried the door to Schrum’s sanctorum, locked. He rapped it with his knuckles. The door opened, Schrum leaning into the opening, the white hair tipping sideways. The television at the far end of the room was turned to a YouTube offering, Uttleman recognized a face on the screen.
“Willy Prince? Don’t tell me you watch that gasbag, Amos.”
“I want to be alone, Roland.”
“Cut the Garbo. Hayes and I may have found a path out of this mess.”
Schrum switched off the television and turned to Uttleman with a keep-going eyebrow. Uttleman sat at his desk, fingers tented before him.
“The project continues without you being a part of the daily operation, Amos. Hayes and I think we can get Eliot to accept a, um, site manager. Someone there every day to put his hands on the materials, to …”
“To speak mumbo-jumbo into the air,” Schrum grunted.
Uttleman’s hand slammed his desktop. “Dammit, Amos, you built this shitpile. We’re trying to shovel it away gracefully. Give us a fucking break, will you?”
“Sorry, Roland. I’ll listen.”
“A specially selected construction manager handles the daily needs of the project. When the event is ready, you arrive and give your blessing. Twenty minutes and it’s over. Eliot will be happy and you can return to the living.”
Schrum took a pull from the syrup bottle and wandered to the far end of the room. “I’m assuming Eliot has someone in mind to be this, this … manager.”
“Eliot’s thinking Galen Mobley.”
For the first time in weeks, Uttleman saw Schrum laug
h. “Not gonna happen, Roland. Mobley’s as mad as a hatter.”
“Who would you pick, Amos? You know the, uh, spiritual requirements of the project.”
Schrum crossed to the tables of flowers and displays, plucking dead blossoms and tossing them to the floor.
“Can we get rid of some of this crap? It’s stifling.”
“Stay on task, Amos. We need to get this past us.”
Schrum continued to pick at the flowers. “How about that guy from Mobile – Owsley?”
“Owlsley who?”
“Ows-ley. Richard Owsley.” Schrum nodded toward the television. “You should do more market research, Roland.”
“Eliot’s gonna want a religious leader, not some no-name upstart.”
A quiet smile graced Schrum’s lips. “Then I’m the one to make Owsley’s case. I think when Eliot hears Pastor Owsley’s theological leanings, he’ll give the fellow a chance.”
20
Celeste Owsley’s call had come at seven a.m.
“Mr Nautilus, can you come here at nine? There are things to be discussed.”
Harry Nautilus drove to the Owsley home figuring he was about to be fired. Three days and two trips … one taking Celeste Owsley to a hairdresser to have the bouffant puffed and the claws buffed, then to a mall where the woman had shopped for two hours. The next day he’d driven mother and child to the local Cheesecake Factory and waited for them to emerge an hour later.
Celeste Owsley barely acknowledged Nautilus, yakking on her phone with scarcely a breath between calls. When he’d hauled mother and daughter to the restaurant they stayed in separate worlds, Mama sawing with an emery board, the girl texting.
The Hummer had a first-rate sound system and Nautilus had stashed several CDs in the glove box, mostly jazz mix-tapes, but also a copy of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, which Nautilus considered the quintessential portrait of America, the urban side anyway, the pioneer spirit residing in Copeland’s Rodeo. Glancing into the rear-view, Nautilus had switched on Rhapsody, the swirling, sinuous clarinet opening filling the car.
