Between the Bridge and the River Page 29

  A young reporter had gotten some footage of the Agnes Day parked outside the convention center. Salome and the girls had started singing and a little crowd had gathered.

  There was a little impromptu interview with Salome, who told of the miracle on the turnpike and the blind Scottish holyman. There was an interview with the Reverend Pinkerton, who waxed lyrical on how Fraser was sent by God Himself to speak His word to the convention.

  Saul was horrified to see Pinkerton.

  He told Dolores to get her fucking clumsy hands off him and turn up the volume on the TV.

  Saul hadn’t seen the old buzzard since he’d brained him and his bitch wife with the clothes iron. He looked much older and crazier but it was definitely him.

  Then there was an interview with T-Bo and Vermont, just quick sound bites about how they had seen the light through the miracles of Fraser, and then there was an interview with Fraser himself.

  Saul was baffled by him.

  Most of his preachers were immaculate strutting peacocks, while this one looked like he’d had the shit kicked out of him, and what the fuck was he wearing? Was that a dress? And he’s blind! Shit, what is this? Why didn’t he know about this one, what list was he on? He listened to Fraser speak in that strange Bravehearty/Shrecky accent.

  Fraser said that everyone was a beautiful and flawed child of God, he said he was glad to be here and that everyone had been very kind, and he looked forward to the moment during the convention when all the money was handed to the poor.

  Saul almost choked. What the fuck was this clown smoking?

  The reporter wound up the piece with a little wry remark about how it takes all sorts to seek the Lord.

  Saul swore at Dolores and told her to go and get Leon.

  The little crowd that had gathered to hear Salome and her girls sing had grown to almost a thousand. The big black women were extra ordinary singers and wonderful to watch. They swayed and rocked and danced and invested each song with a passion and enthusiasm that most people don’t even have for sex.

  They sang for free and this also helped swell the crowd, given that it cost money to see the rest of the entertainment, never mind to enter the convention center to hear the preachers.

  The afternoon was hot, though, and after an hour or so the girls needed a rest. The Reverend Pinkerton took advantage of the sweaty, happy audience. He climbed on the roof of the Agnes Day and yelled, “Sinners all!”

  This was what the people had come for. Old-timey religion. Sparky hell and damnation from a boggle-eyed, crazy-looking, rabid-dog Southerner. The local news cameras turned on him and the people fell quiet.

  Even more pilgrims drifted into the parking lot.

  The Reverend launched into a furious diatribe on the state of the modern world, on abortion and liberals and terrorists, the very things that the audience was afraid of. They listened in rapture.

  T-Bo watched the performance in awe. He hadn’t really warmed to the psychotic old coot but he was impressed by the performance.

  How amazing to have people pay attention to you like this. To hang on your every word. What power.

  Pinkerton told of how he believed that all the answers to all the questions he’d ever had were in the Bible, and certainly he got Amen’d for that.

  Then he said that they were lucky to live in this time, to be here in this moment. He said that God had sent a healer, a holyman, among them. An angel.

  Then he had T-Bo and Vermont lift Fraser up onto the roof of the Agnes Day. Fraser, who had been sitting in a deck chair while Cherry the anorexic stripper gave him a foot rub, tried to protest but to no avail.

  The large audience was hushed as Fraser stood before them on the roof of the camper. That he was blind was a help to him. He wasn’t intimidated by the size of the crowd. The people looked on aghast at the sight of this strange man.

  Pinkerton rode the mood.

  “Do not judge a man by the cloth of his robes. For surely even Our Lord was naked on the cross!”

  A few Amens. People relaxed a little.

  “This blind beggar has seen a vision of a Holy Messenger. As I have myself. But he has been chosen to heal the sick. He must be the one we listen to. He is the Chosen One.”

  Fraser tried to speak but Pinkerton put his hand on him and whispered, “Not yet.”

  Pinkerton continued, “This man healed me of my chronic depression.” He pointed at Vermont. “He cured this boy of his addiction to the crack cocaine.”

  Vermont, who was fast getting caught up in the feel of the event, smiled and waved and yelled, “S’all true. I was a nasty, cracky little dipshit. Now I am saved, Praise Jesus.”

  The audience applauded.

  Pinkerton indicated Cherry. “This girl was starving to death with the crippling demonic possession of anorexia. She was saved by the blind man in the orange summer dress who is filled with the Holy Spirit!”

  Cherry took a little bow. The applause was building, the Reverend really had to yell now to be heard. He pointed at T-Bo. “He cured this young man of ho-mo-sex-uality!”

  T-Bo didn’t feel it was the right time to correct the preacher.

  Fraser tried to protest but the Reverend was on a roll.

  “And if that were not enough”—he pointed toward Salome, who was fanning herself with a hymn sheet—”he brought this beautiful lady back from the dead!”

  Salome sang a powerful “Amen” and the crowd went wild.

  Pinkerton spoke to Fraser above the noise. “Your people,” he said.

  Fraser had a headache. The crowd fell silent and waited for him to speak. There was an uncomfortably long silence and then he said, “Help others.”

  The audience applauded.

  Fraser thought about all the phony hypocritical garbage he had spouted on his God spot on late-night television. He thought about Carl telling him he was interesting. He thought how much he had disliked the man he had become before his walk across the desert of his soul with the long-dead poet.

  He came to a decision.

  “That’s all I have to say,” he said.

  The people laughed and clapped and waited for more.

  When Pinkerton saw that there was no more, he announced to the crowd that the holyman was tired and had to rest and he would appear before them later.

  He hustled Fraser back inside the camper and closed the door.

  Saul and Leon watched the video footage of the performance that had been taken by one of their cameramen on the scene. They had chosen not to broadcast it.

  Leon was scared that Pinkerton had turned up. They hadn’t heard a peep out of him all the years they were in Hollywood and now this, like a bolt out of the blue.

  Saul wasn’t too happy about Pinkerton being around either. It was an ugly story that he’d rather not have get out in the open. Getting your jollies by crapping on the face of a hooker in California is one thing, you can beg forgiveness and blame the devil, but smacking a man of God with a kitchen appliance while your brother is fucking his wife is quite another.

  “Who will rid us of this turbulent priest?” he muttered.

  As concerned as he was about Pinkerton—and he was very concerned—Saul was bothered more by the weird rogue healer in the frock. There was something compelling and unstaged and strangely familiar about him.

  “We have to get rid of his vagrant friend as well.”

  “What’ll we do?” asked Leon.

  Saul didn’t even have to think about it.

  “Find them.”

  Pinkerton had been living as a mad recluse with his cretin roommate in a broken-down church next to a swamp for nearly twenty years. He had neglected to have television installed, preferring the entertainment provided by his pathology and the home-made whisky. Consequently he had no idea that the pastors who ran the Holy United Church were the demons he had battled with so long ago. Not until Mickey Day connected the little portable in the trailer and he saw Leon on TV.

  When Salome explained to him that Sau
l and Leon were the heads of the Church, he knew that he was part of a bigger battle. He insisted that they leave the parking lot in the Agnes Day and drive to a quiet spot where nobody could find them. He said it was very important but he didn’t say why. He was a very forceful man, as most preachers are.

  The Agnes Day nudged through the crowd of parking-lot pilgrims, Pinkerton standing at the door insisting that they would return to heal the already growing band of hopeful cripples who waited to see Fraser. He told them that the holyman had to go to a place of solitude for a time of prayer and meditation.

  They drove a little ways out of town, then off of the main road and through a run-down industrial neighborhood until they found a deserted, derelict building. It was a dilapidated olive-oil-pressing plant that had been shut down years ago. There were no dogs, no security men, no cameras, nothing but the pungent odor of rusty old machines and the billions of olives that had been squeezed for their precious residue.

  “This is perfect!” cried Pinkerton. “They’ll never find us here.” He ushered them all inside.

  Once Mickey had parked the Agnes Day around the back of the building and everyone was settled, Pinkerton explained the reason for his cloak-and-dagger tactics, that the very demons he had fought were now heads of the Church. The devil himself was at the reins. Salome and her girls were appalled and skeptical until Pinkerton told them the whole story of the day he found his wife with Leon on the tumble dryer.

  Salome had read Hot Lunch/Cold Hearts a few years ago and had been titillated by the stories of Saul’s debaucheries but he had repented publicly and declared himself reborn. Surely a man must be forgiven his past.

  Pinkerton persisted that this was no ordinary man. This was an agent of the dark one and would say anything to gain power and an edge over the Lord’s children. They must protect Fraser, whom he would seek to destroy.

  Salome believed him because she wanted to. She had fallen hard for this fiery preacher and he in turn had lost his head over her.

  T-Bo sighed.

  He was beginning to realize that he was the only one among this group who was not delusional and probably suffering from some kind of brain damage. Actually, he’d been pretty aware of it before but it had been much less fun since crazy Pinkerton had shown up.

  He was getting bored listening to the mad old bastard.

  Fraser was being a pain in the ass too. He seemed totally detached from the craziness that was going on around him. He hardly said anything. If he spoke at all, it was just to ask for more chocolate biscuits. Vermont was also driving him crazy. He had thrown himself into the God thing in the way that only a recovering addict can.

  T-Bo suggested that he take the camper and go and get them some food. He’d go on his own so as not to attract attention. He really wanted a break from his new dysfunctional family.

  Fraser championed the idea because he’d get more biscuits, so Pinkerton had to agree, but he warned T-Bo to be careful.

  “Don’t worry. I won’ take any candy from strangers,” said T-Bo.

  “See that you don’t,” said Pinkerton.

  T-Bo just needed some time to himself. He wasn’t looking for trouble. He thought it might be a blast to drive by the convention center, see if the crowd was still there.

  They were, and had grown.

  There were now people camped on the sidewalks. News of the healer had spread fast and there were some pretty desperate people in Alabama. They rushed the Agnes Day and blocked its path. No one would believe T-Bo that Fraser wasn’t there until he let a few of them inside to see and report back to the crowd.

  Leon had been reluctant to tell Saul that he couldn’t find the holyman and Pinkerton, so he was delighted when he caught sight of T-Bo. He had been about to give up.

  From the backseat of the town car with the tinted windows, Leon watched the Agnes Day push through the crowd. Donal, the tubby redheaded chauffeur, had been delighted to follow the camper from the parking lot. He was a huge fan of spy movies and had always dreamed of one day being told to “follow that car,” especially with the delicious codicil “Don’t let them know we’re tailing them.”

  Leon had even said it the right way, of course—he had been in movies.

  T-Bo pulled into a gas station to fill up and to get Fraser his Oreos. Donal asked Leon what they should do now. Leon didn’t know, so he called Saul.

  Saul knew; he was a predator.

  Go after the one that breaks from the herd.

  T-Bo was standing at the pump when he saw Leon walk over to him. He recognized him immediately. The singing guy from TV. Leon held out his hand in true celebrity fashion and permitted T-Bo to shake it.

  “Hi, I’m Leon Martini. You’re with the Reverend Pinkerton’s party, right?”

  T-Bo nodded. Suspicious.

  “I have a proposition for you I think you might be interested in.”

  Leon loved talking like this. It made him feel like he was back in Hollywood.

  THE BRIDGE

  THE BOOK OF REVELATION DESCRIBES A HEAVENLY CITY with a river running through it. A place for God’s children after the pain. Pont-Neuf (New Bridge) is the oldest bridge left standing in Paris. Construction was started by Henri III but had to be halted for yet another war over religion.

  The project was finished by Henri IV—well, not by him personally, he was an aristocratic milquetoast who never did an honest day’s work in his life. Laborers and craftsmen in the king’s employ, many of whom who were veterans of the religious wars, finished the job.

  Henri IV gets the credit because the study of history had been forbidden to the common folk until comparatively recently. The bridge is in two parts, split by the Île de la Cité, the chic and picturesque little haven in the middle of the river.

  George stood in one of the little semicircular projections that Henri IV’s experts had added to the structure and gazed down at the water below. The drop wasn’t enough to kill a man on a fall, not convincingly. It was only about fifty or sixty feet to the surface.

  George wasn’t too concerned by that. If he was not rendered unconscious by the violent impact on the surface of the water, which he probably would be, all he had to do was get below and take a deep breath—or so he had read somewhere. Death would be swift and painless. But even if he couldn’t manage that, he had his guilty secret.

  All of his life he had told himself that the day he had refused to drink from the bottle of Eldorado and had protected Fraser from the gross ministrations of Willie Elmslie, he had been acting as a good egg. A loyal pal. He had done the right thing but he knew in his heart that this was not true. The reason he had whipped the older boy with the fishing rod, the reason he had not joined in the cheap wine communion, was that he was afraid. He could not be out of control or have events get out of his control so close to a body of water.

  He couldn’t swim.

  He had never learned. He had had a fear of water as a little boy, and by the time he reached adolescence, he was too embarrassed to admit his failing to his friends. Then the moment had passed and he had plunged into a dry life that had not required him to do much swimming. He had played with his daughter in the water when she was little but he had never gotten out of his depth.

  Actually, Nancy had been taught to swim by Barry Symington at the leisure center. George still couldn’t believe he wasn’t gay. Sheila must have gotten it wrong.

  He had never really been out of his depth in anything until the test results. Since the diagnosis, he had been drowning. Claudette had waded in to his rescue but he was dragging her down. The right thing to do was jump, push off, and let her swim to safety.

  Claudette had told him the previous evening that she wanted to go with him when he went. There was too much death in the world, her heart had been shattered too many times, and she wanted to leave with him.

  He had been appalled and put the conversation down to too much wine and enthusiastic, romantic pillow talk, but he couldn’t take the chance of being around her anymore.
He was pulling her under.

  It was still reasonably quiet. The big department store nearby, Samaritain, had not yet opened its doors, and the only people about were a few late revelers who had pulled all-nighters, a couple of jetlagged tourists, and some people on their way to work.

  One or two of the ubiquitous coal barges puttered up the river on their way to or from the north coast ports. George took a deep breath; he looked all around him at the heavenly city, then climbed onto the parapet.

  Claudette screamed his name as she came running down the street to the bridge, her voice echoing off the buildings. She was running as fast as she could, tears streaming down her face.

  George knew that he would not be able to resist her if she got to him. He had to go now and make it quick, or hang on for a world of agony and despair—and then go anyway.

  He looked at her. He mouthed, “Je suis désolé.”

  He thumped his chest and threw out his hand toward her as if tossing her his heart. He sent up a quick and silent prayer to anything that might be there asking for help for Claudette.

  Then he jumped.

  LIFE ON EARTH

  IT HAD BEEN A CHALLENGE for Saul to deal with T-Bo. He wanted to tell him he was a dim-witted, grubby nigger and have him whipped but he knew he had to be a bit more canny in the world these days. Instead he promised the young man wealth and fame. He promised him a place in the Holy United Church seminary, and when he graduated (which he also had to guarantee), he would be taken into the Church as a pastor and—this was the clincher—given his own spot on the religious network.

  T-Bo also made him promise that no harm would come to Fraser or any of his friends.

  Saul had promised unreservedly, he had no intention of making a martyr. He remembered the story that Roscoe had told him years ago. Only tyrants and fools made martyrs.

  He was certainly no fool.

  And he was no tyrant either—how could he be, he had suffered a hideous stroke. He was a victim. The victim excuse, where evil is born.