by Ren Hamilton
He paused to study the puffy, half-moon scar above his wrist. It was smooth and shiny, more like a burn than a cut. He’d been worried about the strange way it was healing, but he supposed it would hurt if it was infected, and it didn’t hurt. It did tingle every now and then, as though seeking acknowledgment.
He gave the scar a final musing then moved on down the sidewalk. Blood pacts and barroom brawls. It might not be a bad idea to put some distance between himself and his friends, he thought as he stepped into the office building. It might not be a bad idea at all.
He took the back elevator to the side entrance to avoid the Monday morning coffee crew that congregated in the front offices. He did not want to chat about his weekend, and he especially did not want to run into Henry Donnelly. Keyboards tapped their familiar beat as he passed the financial offices with his head down. He was trying to go unnoticed, which was quite a task for a six-foot-three redhead. He rounded the second corner, expecting to be welcomed by an empty corridor. Henry Donnelly stood midway down the hall, speaking closely with Jerry Schweitzer, the vice president. Patrick’s gut jumped at the sight of Henry’s bald head. The two men stopped speaking and turned to look as Patrick passed by.
“Good morning, Mr. Obrien,” Jerry Schweitzer said.
“Good morning,” he said and scooted past, but not without seeing the large purple bruise on Donnelly’s temple.
He spent the morning tackling projects that weren’t due for months. He avoided leaving his office, even skipping his second cup of coffee so he wouldn’t have to use the bathroom. At around ten o’clock a cleaning crew went into the office across the hall, the office that had been Joey’s. They packed everything into boxes, stripping the room down to the plant hangers. Then they took the plant hangers too.
Calvin White appeared in his doorway. “Hey buddy. How’s it going?”
Calvin was a computer programmer with wispy brown hair that always looked like it needed to be brushed. He had skin so white it was nearly translucent, and teeth that were too big for his face. Patrick and Joey loved him. When they did midweek happy hour, Calvin was usually with them. Patrick smiled at Calvin, who leaned against the doorway wearing a crooked grin.
“Hey, Cal. How was your weekend?”
Calvin stepped inside. “How was my weekend? My weekend was uneventful compared to yours. At least that’s what I’ve been hearing all morning.”
Patrick got up and closed the door. When he sat back down, Calvin followed, planting his butt on the edge of the desk. “So? Spill the tea. Is it true what I’ve been hearing about Joey?”
Patrick shrugged. “I guess that depends on what you’ve heard. Although I can’t imagine the rumor being much worse than the truth.”
Calvin’s grinned widened. “No shit? Okay, tell me if this is accurate. The word is that you guys went to Monty’s after Joey’s father’s funeral. Sources claim that Joey tried to strangle Donnelly, then tossed him out onto the street. Thereafter, it is rumored that Joey got all Jim Morrison and dropped his pants in the bar.”
Patrick scratched his chin. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it, barring a few unsightly details.”
Calvin slapped his thigh and laughed. “No way! I thought for sure it was an exaggeration!”
“I wish it was, Cal. I’m worried about Joey. He’s losing it.”
“Losing it? I’d say lost it.”
The door opened and Henry Donnelly stepped inside. “Excuse me, Calvin. I need to speak with Patrick privately.”
Calvin jumped off Patrick’s desk. “Patrick, I’ll get those reports to you this afternoon,” he said, trying to play it off like they were discussing work. Patrick was sure Donnelly knew exactly what they’d been discussing. Calvin left and Donnelly closed the door behind him. Here it comes, Patrick thought. I’m going to be unemployed and going on job interviews. God, he hated job interviews.
“Would you like to sit down?” He offered Donnelly his chair.
Donnelly’s face was unreadable. He paced before the desk, hands clasped behind his back. “No, Patrick. I’ll stand. What I have to say won’t take long.” The puffy bruise on his temple seemed to scream at Patrick, Look at me! You are so fired! “I want you to take over Joey Duvaine’s client list. That is if you don’t think it’s too much for you to handle.”
A surge of emotions fought for dominance. There was relief, surprise, and of course, guilt. But hell, Joey didn’t want the job anyway. He’d said so himself. “I’d be happy to.”
“Good. That’s good to hear,” Donnelly said as he picked up a photograph on Patrick’s desk.
The picture was taken on a hiking trip in Vermont. He, Joey, and Shep stood on the peak of Mount Mansfield with their arms around each other. Donnelly frowned at the photo, then carefully replaced it. “Joey Duvaine is a lunatic. The problem is that the clients love him. I don’t know how he does it. It’s like he hypnotizes them.” Donnelly gave his head a quick shake. “At any rate, I’ll be telling the clients that Joey left of his own accord. To tell them otherwise would be to ruin the credibility of Parker Investments. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes.” Normally he’d be falling over himself to defend Joey. But Joey had made his choices. And Patrick needed this job. He had no trust funds or dead relatives to live off of.
“Your friend is violent and unstable, Mr. Obrien. I will not have our clients knowing that Parker Investments entrusted their money to someone like that.”
“He was just having a bad night.”
Donnelly glared. “We all have bad nights. Adults deal with bad nights without becoming violent. His behavior was unacceptable. You disagree?”
“No. It was unacceptable. I concur.”
Donnelly picked up another photo, this one of a white water rafting trip he’d taken with Joey and Shep. In a disquieting moment, it dawned on Patrick that he had no pictures of a wife or children on his desk, as the other men at Parker did. He had only Joey and Shep. It was embarrassing, now that he thought about it. How had he not seen it before? The three of them were far too codependent for grown men. It couldn’t be healthy.
Donnelly continued to scowl at the picture, making Patrick uneasy. “Was there something else?”
His boss replaced the photo. “I can’t tell you who to socialize with outside the office. Let me be quite clear, however. I do not want the name Joey Duvaine associated with this company in any way. He is not to visit you at work, and he is not to call. Is that clear?”
Patrick tried not to stare at the bruise. “Absolutely.”
“And that goes for the other one, too.”
Patrick frowned. “The other one?”
“You know who I mean.” He gestured toward the photos on Patrick’s desk. “The one with the wavy hair and the big eyes.”
“Shep.”
“Right. Shep. He gives me the creeps. Just keep them both away from here. You got that?”
Patrick nodded. “Got it.”
Donnelly stared into his eyes suspiciously. Patrick held a poker face. Finally, his boss nodded. “Carry on then.”
****
Patrick managed to avoid contact with Joey and Shep for an entire week. It wasn’t as easy as he expected—he missed the bastards. But each time the little scar on his wrist tingled he was brought back to the strange feeling of dread he’d experienced on the balcony that night. This sensation kept him from calling or texting when his fingers itched to do so. It was difficult. He loved his friends even though they drove him bonkers, and he was used to seeing them all the time. It didn’t feel right not talking to them.
Shep caved first. It was the following Saturday he texted Patrick, requesting he stop by Joey’s apartment ‘as soon as possible’. Patrick couldn’t imagine what was so damned urgent. Neither of them had jobs now. But he ultimately decided to swing by Joey’s, mainly because the gossip monger inside him was screaming to get out. He just had to tell Joey what Henry Donnelly said about him. It was too good.
He climbed the stairs and
knocked on the apartment door. Silence answered. Finding the door unlocked, he stepped inside, helping himself to a beer in the fridge. He didn’t feel at all intrusive by doing this. There’d been many nights when he’d come home to his own place to find Joey sitting in front of his television eating his food. “Hello? Are you idiots here?”
He moved into the empty living room where Joey’s laptop was open on the coffee table, frozen on a YouTube video titled ‘Sermons of Reverend Thomas Kemp’. Odd choice of viewing material. Kemp was a crazy church leader who’d been in the gossip news last year for using church funds to support a mistress with a cocaine habit. Patrick hit play and Reverend Kemp’s plastic looking head appeared onscreen, screaming about sinners and premarital sex like an evangelistic pro-wrestler.
He shut it off. What the hell was Joey watching this shit for? He moved into the kitchen where a stack of books sat on the table. Patrick set his beer down and sifted through them. The first book on the stack was titled, Don’t Know Much about The Holy Bible. He tore through the rest of the stack and sneered. Prophecies of the End Times, Leading your Flock, Tough Love in the Time of Sinners.
He was beginning to think Joey had suffered a religious awakening, when he picked up the final book in the stack, The Reverend Jim Jones, Profile of a Cult Leader. Patrick smelled a Shep scheme cooking and he didn’t like the ingredients. He nearly dropped the book, startled by the crash of the downstairs door slamming against the wall as someone shoved it open. Shep’s hyena laugh echoed in the stairwell as feet trampled up the steps. Joey and Shep burst into the kitchen, carrying small white bags and paper coffee cups.
“Obrien!” Shep said, looking surprised. “You should have told us what time you were coming. We would have gotten you a cappuccino.”
Patrick did a double take at Shep’s outfit, a red and white tie-dyed tee shirt, black and white striped shorts, with a pair of black and white checkered shoes with unicorns on them. It was amazing what the wealthy could get away with. Joey sat down at the table and pulled a giant chocolate cookie out of his paper bag.
“What the hell is this?” Patrick held up the book on Jonestown. “Are you guys planning to poison someone’s Kool-Aid?”
Shep glanced at the book, then shrugged. “That’s what we wanted to tell you about. It’s research material. For Joey’s new career.”
Patrick set the book down, smirking. “Okay. I’ll play along. Just what exactly is Joey’s new career?”
Joey took a sip of his coffee, leaving a whipped cream moustache. “I’m starting my own church. It’s gonna be cool.” Patrick looked over at Shep, who wore a devious smile as he chewed his muffin. “Shep thinks I’ll be good at it,” Joey continued. “Major tax breaks if you can pull it off, and the donations alone can bring a small fortune. You want in?”
Patrick laughed. “Well. This is by far the most asinine idea I’ve ever heard from you two, and I’ve heard a lot of them.”
“Why?” Shep said. “Church leaders can make a lot of money if they know how to work the system. I know you always hear about them embezzling money and going to jail, but those guys are stupid.”
“So?”
“So, Joey’s not stupid. He’s a financial genius. Joey understands the Internal Revenue Service better than they understand themselves. There’s been an upsurge in religious fervor and fanaticism lately, we can exploit that.”
Joey nodded. “It’s just supply and demand, Obrien. Bitches be aching to worship false prophets right now. But there aren’t enough to go around, so they pick the worst ones by default. There’s a hole in the holy market! And we can fill it. Scoop em all up into one big basket of cash money, baby.”
“Please stop talking like that,” Patrick said, rubbing his temples.
“Like what?”
“Cash money and ‘bitches be aching’ and whatever. You’re from Cape Cod, you can’t pull it off.”
“Fine,” Joey said. “It’s still a good plan.”
“Joey’s a genius, Obrien, his plan can work.”
“Somehow I doubt this is Joey’s plan,” Patrick said. “And he’s not that much of a genius, he just got fired from his job.”
“So what? Best thing that could have happened to him. Anyway, have you taken a look at this country the past few years? If there were ever a time to take advantage of all the dumb people stumbling around looking to be led, it’s now.”
Patrick scowled. “You think Joey should be leading people. Joey. Leading them where? The pub? The strip club? If being crafty with money was an indicator of good leadership skills our country wouldn’t keep falling into financial ruin every time some billionaire runs for office. And a religious leader? He ain’t exactly a shining beacon of morality. No offense, Joey.”
“None taken.”
“It’s not just that,” Shep said. “Joey’s prettier than all those other guys selling tickets to heaven. Have you ever seen a pretty evangelist? Most of them look like cancerous toads. Like it or not, society wants to look at attractive people. They want to listen to attractive people. Joey’s got it all. He’s smart, he’s gorgeous, and he’s a genius at marketing.”
“Don’t even think about getting serious about this,” Patrick said.
“Too late. It’s already in the works. You should be thanking me. I found a job he can do without wearing a suit. What have you done besides taking over Joey’s accounts at work?”
Patrick was about to ask how Shep knew about him taking over Joey’s client list, when Joey spoke up. “What’s the problem, Obrien? You seem upset.”
“What’s the problem? You as a church leader! You’re not even remotely religious. Do you even believe in God?”
Joey took a bite of his cookie. “I dunno.”
Patrick turned to Shep. “Did you hear that? Joey doesn’t even know if he believes in God. Can’t you see it would be unethical for him to pursue this?”
Shep laughed. “Ethics? Is it ethical for a priest to rape an altar boy? Is it ethical for a so-called minister of God to take money from the poor and then spend it on hookers and drugs? With all these corrupt church leaders out there, I say we could do a lot worse than Joey. Why should those assholes get all that money?”
Patrick sighed. “This is like making him race cars for a living when he doesn’t know how to drive.”
“So what? Why are you so pious all of a sudden? Do you believe in God, Obrien?”
“Of course I believe in God.”
“I don’t think you do. You just want your name in that hat in case you find it’s all true when you die. You think you’re contributing to some divine 401K plan.”
Patrick laughed. “You don’t just start a church, Shep. What’s Joey going to do? Put an ad in the paper? ‘Aspiring church leader seeks small cult of followers for possible tax evasion’. You’re wasting your time. Even the cheesiest of ministers have to work for years to gather up a following. And I know you assholes aren’t that patient.”
His friends went silent, and Patrick smiled smugly. He had them there. They hadn’t thought this nonsense through. And he suspected they weren’t fully committed to it anyway. Shep had cooked up various schemes over the years, but always with a direct path to personal gain. This one wasn’t guaranteed to bring any positive outcome; there was little surety donation money would amount to anything, and even the prospect of dodging taxes was questionable at best.
Finally, Shep nodded. “You’re right, Obrien. You’re absolutely right. It would be impossible to gain a following overnight. It would take a miracle.”
Joey’s mouth sprayed coffee all over the table as he fell into giggles. Shep laughed with him. Patrick looked back and forth between them. “Oh no. What are you guys planning?”
“Just a little divine intervention. To get the ball rolling,” Shep said.
Patrick’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of divine intervention?”
Joey smiled up at him, his chin painted with chocolate. “A miracle’s going to happen. It’s gonna be cool.”
<
br /> That was the second time in minutes Joey had used that phrase. It’s gonna be cool. Two days in Shep’s world and he already sounded dumber. Patrick shook his head. “What are you guys telling me here? That you’re going to fake a miracle?”
There was a long pause. Joey and Shep looked at each other. Then Joey looked up. “Uh-huh.”
Shep nodded. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”
Patrick opened his mouth to berate them, but then he paused, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What? Like a burning bush or something?”
“Something like that,” Shep said, and drained his coffee. “I already spoke with Russell and Craig. They’ve agreed to help us.”
Patrick’s eyes widened. “Russell and Craig? Oh no. Shep, don’t tell me you’re funding those guys.”
Shep shrugged, but said nothing.
Russell and Craig were a couple of video technicians they’d met in college. They were twin brothers, one gay, the other straight. Craig was the straight one, and he was an uptight pain in the ass. Russell was the gay one, and he was nice as pie, though it wasn’t clear if this was a fabricated personality exhibited for Shep’s sake. Russell seemed to think Shep was some kind of hero. Patrick always thought the twins looked like the defective clones of Buddy Holly, with their thick black glasses and wiry dark hair. Patrick hadn’t known them all that well but Shep still kept in touch. They’d developed a sort of Mickey Mouse special effects company, an expensive hobby mostly.
Most of their energy was spent faking bullshit U.F.O. sightings for the pure thrill of fooling people. Joey had fondly dubbed them ‘The Hoax Patrol’. The goon platoon was more like it. Russell and Craig’s services, however pointless, did not come cheap. So Shep was already dumping cash into this. Patrick asked himself why. There had to be more to it, something he was missing. Shep did enjoy wasting his time when fun was involved. But he’d never go to these lengths for something without a definitive gain in sight, a clear path to some reward.
