“You know who killed the plasterer?” I asked.
Souvaine looked at me, disoriented.
“Plasterer,” I repeated. “Or who tried to strangle Lorna Bartholomew this afternoon … or plant an ax in my chest?”
“No.”
“Might it have been God?” I tried, looking at Mr. Ortiz, who had put his lemonade glass back on the tray to give me his undivided attention.
“God does not condone murder or violence except to protect the …” he began and then stopped. “I do not know who did such things. I am not at all sure that I believe such things have been done. It is my understanding that the plasterer fell.”
“Maybe.” I said. “Have you got a live wire in the pews? Someone who might decide to give God a little help?”
“No one,” Souvaine said, with righteous indignation. “None in my congregation.”
“How about Mr. Ortiz?” I said, looking at the deacon. No reaction.
“Absurd,” said Souvaine. “I’m afraid you see the righteousness of our cause and are-with Satan’s help, whether you know it or not-trying to discredit us. It shall not be, Mr. Peters. Know you that it shall not be.”
“I think I’ll be going,” I said, getting up.
Ortiz got up with me.
“I think that would be best,” said Souvaine. “I’m sorry I have been unable to convince you of my sincerity. You receive the truth from me, Mr. Peters, more than you will receive from your Stokowski.”
Souvaine moved to the desk and picked up a pad of paper with neat little letters on it. The pad had been waiting there for this moment.
“Your Leopold Stokowski is a liar, a fornicator, and we mean to expose the rot in the belly of the beast,” he said without looking down at the pad. “He claims to have been born in Poland. He was not. He was born in England. That accent of his is a fraud. He invented it. He tells people that he is an expert violinist. He cannot play the instrument. He has committed adultery on numerous occasions and with both married and unmarried women, including Greta Garbo.”
Souvaine threw the pad down on the table.
“How say you to these charges?”
“Reverend,” I said, moving toward the door. “Your sincerity’s not on the line here. Your beliefs, or the ones you’re selling, are. And Stokowski’s life has nothing to do with it.”
“We will see to it that it becomes an issue,” he said.
I reached for the door. Souvaine nodded and Ortiz stepped in front of me, barring my way, arms ready at his sides.
“I will release this information with supporting evidence to the press in the morning,” said Souvaine.
“Probably boost ticket sales,” I said. “Between you and me and Deacon Ortiz here, tickets aren’t going so well. A little publicity might spice things up. Now please ask Mr. Ortiz to step out of the way.”
“If murder and assault are going on in that building,” cried Souvaine, “then I point the finger at the true Judas, the company of Satan’s minions who are trying to stir up rumor and tales of the violation of God’s laws to draw in the unwary.”
“You change your story awfully fast. Reverend,” I said.
“I’ll use what I must,” he said.
“Ever done any acting?” I asked, looking not at Souvaine but at Ortiz, who still blocked me.
“A bit,” he said, behind me.
“Tell Deacon Ortiz to move now,” I said.
“I’m not finished talking to you,” Souvaine said, his voice rising. “And I will thank you to respect the Lord and his humble representative by facing me when I talk to you.”
Mr. Ortiz reached out with his right hand for my shoulder. Mr. Ortiz was faster than I thought, but he did not expect my right knee to come up into his groin.
“No,” screamed Souvaine behind me.
Ortiz grunted, his hands moving between his legs as he bent forward. I shoved him out of the way. At least I tried to shove him. He didn’t shove easily. He grabbed my shoulder. I faked a second kick to his again uncovered groin. He didn’t let go, but a reflex did make him loosen his grip. I pulled away, unzipping my new jacket. I opened the door, pulled my arms out of the sleeves, and let Mr. Ortiz stagger back a step, holding an empty jacket.
“No more violence in the house of God!” Souvaine shouted.
Ortiz stumbled after me into the hallway. Bertha was standing there with a fresh pitcher of lemonade and a frightened look on her face.
“Go with the photograph of J. Minor at the beach,” I said, moving past her to the front door. Ortiz grunted behind me as I threw it open and went down the stairs. My back, never in a good mood, threatened and warned but I couldn’t listen. It was raining harder now. I ran across the street to the Crosley and got the door open. I was in the seat with the door locked when Ortiz reached the car. I started the engine and smiled at him; he moved to the front of the car. My smile stayed where it was but I had no faith in it.
People were coming out of the Church of the Enlightened Patriots. I didn’t look in their direction. I looked for help on the street. There wasn’t any. Ortiz was now holding the Crosley up by the front bumper, the wheels clearing the ground. I put the gears in reverse and let out the clutch. The car jerked backward and Ortiz fell forward, his face banging into the hood of my car. I was going at a good clip in reverse when about fifteen people, led by the Reverend Souvaine, emerged onto the street, looking at me. Most of the people were old. Most of the old were women.
Ortiz was standing now, blood dripping from his nose, rain trickling down his face. He picked my jacket up from where he had thrown it on the street. As I made a U-turn I watched him rip the jacket in two. For the first time since I had met him, Mr. Ortiz was smiling.
I drove fast enough and far enough to feel sure no one was following me, and then I pulled over to enter the loss of one jacket in my notebook under expenses. There was a park on my left and a small hotel called the Stanyon on my right. I’d used enough gas, met enough new friends, and had enough to eat for one day. In addition, I was wet. I reached behind the seat and pulled out my battered suitcase. I considered leaving the package I had bought in the car, but decided against it.
There were no people in the lobby, just purple chairs with curlicued wooden legs. Behind the registration desk a woman with gray-brown hair lacquered back who looked a little like Rosalind Russell was going through a pile of cards. She looked up at me as I approached and gave me a no-nonsense “Can I help you?”
“A room,” I said, putting my suitcase on the counter.
“You have a reservation?” she asked, still sorting her cards.
“No,” I said. “I’ve got money and a bad back.”
“Veteran?” she asked.
“Of many wars,” I said. “You always ask if your patrons have war records?”
“No,” she admitted, putting her cards down. “I’ve just had a bad day. I’m sorry. How many nights will you be with us?”
“Probably just one. I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll take it a day at a time.”
“That seems to be best nowadays,” she said, handing me the registration book. I took it and wrote in my name and address.
“Eight dollars a night,” she said.
I pulled out a ten-dollar bill and placed it on the counter. She took it, gave me change, and handed me a key.
“Room twenty-one, up the stairs,” she said.
I picked up my suitcase and headed up the stairs just off the desk. When I glanced down at her, the woman was staring at the hotel entrance as if another customer had come in after me. But there was no one there.
The room was small, clean, and had a bathroom with a good-size tub. I got undressed, inspected my scars, and turned on the radio. Mary Martin sang me a song, asked me to drink Royal Crown Cola, and told me to buy war bonds and stamps today. I turned the volume up and listened to “Abie’s Irish Rose” on the Blue Network while I soaked in a hot tub.
