The Crown
Civic Center
Innocent Until Proven Guilty
Can’t You Smell That Smell?
The Eagle
Bloodhound
Arena Rock
Pookie Chang’s Last Moments
Battle Royale
Big Pimpin’
Holding Hands
Penance
You’re not welcome here, Paul.”
Most places in the world, a statement like that sounded normal. Unfriendly, perhaps, but still common, still acceptable.
Most places, but not at a Catholic church.
“But someone’s following me,” Paul said. “And it’s cold out.” Paul’s eyes flicked left, flicked right, too fast to take anything in. He looked haunted.
That wasn’t Father Esteban Rodriguez’s problem. This man, if he could be called that, would never again be allowed in the Cathedral of St. Mary of the Assumption. Never again.
“You’ve been told,” Esteban said. “You’re not part of this church anymore.”
Paul’s eyes narrowed, cleared. For a moment, Esteban saw a glimmer of the wit that had made Paul so popular, so engaging.
“What about forgiveness?” Paul said. “That’s what we’re all about, forgiveness of our sins. Or are you better than Our Savior?”
Esteban felt rage — a rare emotion — and quickly fought to bring it under control. “I am only a man,” he said. “Perhaps a weak one at that. Maybe the Lord can forgive you your sins, but I can’t. You may not seek shelter here.”
Paul looked down. He shivered. Esteban shivered, too. San Francisco’s evening chill — a wet, clinging thing — rolled through the church door that Esteban blocked with his body.
Paul wore a sagging blue coat that had once probably been puffy and shiny. Maybe it had looked nice on the original owner, whomever that might be, however many years ago that was. Paul’s pants were dirty — not caked with filth, but spotted here and there with finger streaks of food, grease, other things. Years ago, this man had helped care for the homeless; now he looked like one of them.
“I have nowhere to go,” Paul said to the ground.
“That is not the church’s problem. That is not
“I’m a human being, Father.”
Esteban shook his head. This disgusting, demonic creature before him thought himself
Paul looked away, down the street. He seemed to be searching for something, something … specific. Something that wasn’t there.
“I told the police,” Paul said. “Told them someone was following me.”
“What did they say?”
Paul looked Esteban in the eyes.
“Pretty much the same thing you did, Father.”
“Whatever a man sows, this he will also reap,” Esteban said. “Hell has a special place for people like you. Leave,
Sadness filled Paul’s eyes. Desperation, despair — perhaps the final understanding that this part of his life was
Those days were gone forever.
Paul turned and walked down the church’s wide steps. Esteban watched him reach the sidewalk of Gough Street, then cross and continue down O’Farrell.
Esteban shut the door.
Paul Maloney hunched his shoulders high, tried to burrow his ears into his coat. He needed a hat. So cold out at night. Wind drove the fog, a fog thick enough that you could see wisps of it at eye level. He walked down O’Farrell Street, home to strip clubs, drug dealers and whores, an asphalt swath of sin and degradation. Part of him knew he belonged here. Another part, an
The gall of Father Esteban.
Esteban, and the others who had kicked Paul out of the only life he’d ever known.
Paul turned left on Jones Street. Where would he go? He had a constant, churning
But for the past couple of years, no one had wanted to talk to Paul Maloney. He had to be careful everywhere he went — some of the sinners around here would pass judgment with their fists and feet.
Two in the morning. People were still on the street, especially in this part of town, but not many. No kids out at this hour. A shame.
Behind him, a noise, the sound of metal scraping lightly against brick.
Paul whirled. No one there.
His heart hammered. He’d turned thinking he would see the man with the shaggy black beard and the green John Deere ball cap. How many times had Paul seen that man in the past week? Four? Maybe five?
The sound came again.
Paul turned so fast he stumbled. What had made that scraping noise? A pipe? Maybe some bag lady pushing a cart with a broken wheel? He looked for the bearded man, but the bearded man wasn’t there.
Paul put his cold hands on his face. He rubbed hard, trying to shake away the fear. How had it come to this? He hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. He just
“I must be strong,” he said. “I will fear no evil, because you are with me, thy—”
A whisper of air behind him, the sound of something heavy falling, the slap of shoe soles against damp concrete.
Paul started to turn, but before he could see what it was, strong hands locked onto his shoulders.