Down These Strange Streets

And how are you gonna do that? It knocked you on your ass the one time you tried.

He decided to abandon the haphazard search and report to Conoscenza. Cross waved down a taxi and told the driver to take him to the Palmer House. He wasn’t sure how Conoscenza had managed it, but he had booked a room in the ritzy hotel. The lobby was cavernous and dominated by a ceiling mural depicting scenes from Greek mythology. Cross glanced up and found himself staring at Zeus. A real son of a bitch, that one. It wasn’t until he had met Conoscenza that Cross discovered what had happened to the Old One. A paladin recruited by Prometheus (yet another of Conoscenza’s identities) had taken down the god.

A self-effacing Negro porter asked if he had luggage. Cross shook his head. The elevator operator was an elderly Negro with grizzled hair. As Cross stepped off the elevator, a Negro maid pushing a cleaning cart quickly effaced herself against the wall, trying to become invisible.

Cross lifted a hand to knock, but the door opened to reveal Conoscenza and the heavy-jowled face and bald pate of Jim Farley, Roosevelt’s campaign manager. Conoscenza grinned, deepening the hint of the epicanthic fold around his dark eyes, and said, “Ah, my man Cross, with impeccable timing as always. Jim, will you see to it he gets onto the floor?”

“Glad to oblige. And thanks again.” The man patted his breast pocket and headed for the elevators. Conoscenza beckoned Cross into the suite.

Gold cufflinks flashed at his wrists, and a gold watch chain stretched across his powerful chest. The little maid stared in shock. Conoscenza gave her a wide smile and held out a ten-dollar bill.

“Thank you for taking such care with my room.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She gave a bobbing little curtsy. Conoscenza closed the door.

“Don’t you feel strange?” Cross asked.

The massive shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “It wouldn’t be any different in a hotel on the South Side. The staff would still be Negro. This way I both make a statement and offer the possibility of a different future.”

“You just like to make trouble,” Cross said. He moved to the sofa and sat down.

“That too.”

“Gimme that room service menu.”

“There wasn’t a dining car on the train?” Conoscenza asked.

“Yeah, but that was hours ago, and there was grit in my food.” Cross perused the menu and ordered a porterhouse steak with all the trimmings. “So, what have you learned about Hanlin?”

“Well, he’s no longer an alternate. An Oklahoma delegate became ill, and he’s replaced him,” Conoscenza said.

“Well, isn’t that convenient.” Cross stood and paced. “The wife arranged for a little auto-da-fé in Oklahoma. Maybe to provide the power to sicken the delegate. I think they’re working as a team.”

“When he’s not on the floor, he spends his time preaching to everincreasing crowds. I attended once, and he is very charismatic. Now that his wife has joined him, the crowd last night doubled, and today there were murmurs about drafting Mr. Hanlin as a potential vice presidential candidate.”

“Well, that’s fucking scary, because you know if this guy gets on the ticket in the second slot, he won’t stay there. He’ll end up president.”

“Then you’ll have to see to it that doesn’t happen,” Conoscenza said.

There was a knock at the door. Once the bellman was tipped, Cross settled at the coffee table and tucked in. Mouth full, he asked, “How is the convention going?”

“Roosevelt hasn’t gotten enough ballots. Some of us are working on Garner, trying to get him to drop out.”

“In exchange for what?” Cross asked.

“So cynical.” Conoscenza sighed and studied his buffed and manicured fingertips. “You must find a way to neutralize Hanlin.”

“That doesn’t involve murder?” He tried to make it a joke, but Conoscenza gave him an implacable look. “You never make this easy for me,” Cross mumbled, and finished his dinner.

* * *

THE PROBLEM, CROSS REFLECTED AS HE MADE HIS WAY TOWARD THE BANKRUPT theater that Hanlin had appropriated, was that the kind of people who actually worshiped the loving God didn’t tend to lead crusades against unbelievers, start wars, stone whores, or behead adulterers. Which put Cross at a decided disadvantage, because what fed Old Ones was a frisson of both hate and fear. His brethren fed off the murderer and the victim, the torturer and the tortured, while Cross could only sup on charity and love and there just weren’t that many good people in the world. It wasn’t the humans’ fault. They hadn’t been out of the trees for all that long.

All of which was an interesting mental exercise, but it didn’t solve Cross’s problem of what to do about Hanlin and Sharon. His vague plan was to show up, see if somebody made a mistake, and hope that somebody wasn’t him. He supposed that he could embrace the full-on Jesus, but that wasn’t a trick he liked to use too often, and it had worked better back in 1300. Edison’s little invention had images moving on a white screen. The Wright Brothers had ensured that humans could fly, not just birds and angels, and scientists were starting to unlock the secrets of matter itself. Humanity had become less credulous, but still filled with enough irrational beliefs and reactions to be dangerous.

He joined the throng heading into the building. People clutched Bibles and crosses. If I had actually been crucified on one of those things, do they actually think I’d ever want to see one again? He quashed the errant and foolish thought. He was coming up against one of his own kind, and he was in no shape to face it. He needed all his focus and concentration.

The set up was similar to Oklahoma. Upright piano, the fat factotum playing a hymn. A podium. Sharon wearing a white choir robe and those incongruous red shoes, seated in a chair by the podium. An older man in a black robe pacing the stage in a manner that reminded Cross of big cats in the zoo. The predator physicality was completely at odds with his looks, since he was balding, a bit stoop-shouldered, and starting to grow a paunch. People stood just inside the doors, handing out pamphlets. The flyers appeared to have been hurriedly mimeographed, as the ink was smudged in places. The title declared:

A CHRISTIAN LEADER FOR AMERICA

Cross studied this Christian leader, and what Cross read was baffling. The flesh held little trace of magical ability, yet power shimmered all around the man. Cross looked to Sharon. The ring flashed under the lights; Sharon glittered with power, and the shadows circled. Things clicked into place. It was a team effort. As a woman, Sharon couldn’t be the candidate, but she could use her power to propel her husband to high office. There was the oilslick taste of Old One on his tongue, but Cross couldn’t pinpoint its location. He shivered.

There was a gentle touch at Cross’s elbow. “Sir, you need to sit down. The service is about to begin.”

Cross turned and looked down at a boy on the cusp of manhood. The boy’s eyes were rimmed with white, and tension hunched his shoulders. Cross also saw the physical similarity with the man on the stage.

“You must be Sean,” Cross said, and was taken aback when the boy gasped, fell back a step, and dropped to his knees.

“God be praised! You’ve come! My prayers—”

Cross grabbed him roughly under the arm and pulled him to his feet. “Jesus, kid, cut it the hell out,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. The boy looked confused.

“But . . . Aren’t—”

“No . . .”

“But you knew my name . . .”

“Yeah . . . because . . . never mind. Ankle it.” He pulled the teenager toward the doors. The music stopped.

Cross glanced back at the stage and saw Sharon frowning out over the congregation. She spotted him and stiffened. Hanlin froze, looked directly at Cross, and then Cross realized that the human skin didn’t contain a human. An Old One had crawled inside. Terror choked him. He hustled the boy out of the theater.

Outside, he spotted his reflection in the glass doors and quickly made adjustments. He hated going into churches. With the beard removed and the hair shortened, he turned back to Sean. “Okay, kid, what were you