The door of the Church of the Enlightened Patriots was open before I hit the top wooden step. The Reverend Adam Souvaine stood inside, hands folded in front of him, smooth face beaming at me. His eyes were green and wide, and his white mane of hair looked as if belonged on an older man, or a show horse. Behind him on the wall was an orange cross about the size of Mickey Rooney.
“Mr. Peters,” he said, voice deep and steady. “Welcome to our church.”
His hand was out. I took it. Firm grip. Palm and fingers hard. Behind him I could see into the small entryway.
“Reverend Souvaine,” I answered.
“Please come in,” he said, letting go of my hand.
The door closed behind me. Standing behind it was a man about my height but a hundred pounds heavier. The man’s face was round and dark, black hair combed back. He wore a gray suit with a white turtleneck sweater. He looked like a turtle-hard, cold, slow, and determined. He also looked as if he didn’t like me. I hoped it was the look he greeted all converts with.
“Mr. Ortiz is deacon of our congregation,” Souvaine said, beaming at the medicine ball of a man blocking the door.
“He must give a mean sermon,” I said.
“Mr. Ortiz functions best as collector of tithes, tender of the meager possessions of our church, recruiter for committees and causes. You will not believe it, Mr. Peters, but our Mr. Ortiz has had a number of careers, including that of professional wrestler, and not so long ago was a criminal in his native country. Mr. Ortiz has done some things in his day which God had difficulty forgiving, but Mr. Ortiz’s sincere contrition and genuine repentance have earned him forgiveness.”
A python ready to strike but kept in check by the soothing voice of his trainer, Mr. Ortiz’s expression did not change. At no time in those few moments did I recognize anything on that dark, round, leathery face that resembled repentance or contrition.
“Let’s continue our visit in the sanctuary,” Souvaine said, taking my arm and guiding me out of the small wooden entryway and toward a room to the left. Deacon Ortiz entered the room behind us and closed the door.
The sanctuary was nothing special-an uncluttered desk and chair in the corner away from the windows, a black leather sofa, and two matching chairs with little round black buttons all over them. Jammed but neat book shelves covered the long walls. The wall behind the desk held a large, not very good painting of Jesus Christ, flanked by an equally bad painting of George Washington on the right and a much worse painting of Abraham Lincoln on the left. Below the painting of Christ was a photograph of a sober-looking man with a bushy black mustache and a collar that dug into his double chin.
“Who’s the guy on the bottom?” I asked.
“That,” said Souvaine, looking at the photograph of the uncomfortable man with reverence, “is J. Minor Frank, departed husband of our major benefactor, Mrs. Bertha Frank. This room,” he said, with a wave of his right hand as he sat on the sofa, “is the J. Minor Frank Sanctuary. Please sit down.”
I sat in one of the leather chairs. It squooshed as I sat.
“Is there anything I can get for you before we begin?” Souvaine asked smoothly. “I’ve asked for some lemonade.”
“You can have Mr. Ortiz take a seat or lean against the wall or stand somewhere I can see him,” I said.
Souvaine chuckled, amused by unfounded suspicions.
“Mr. Ortiz,” he said. “Please take a seat at my side.”
Ortiz looked at me as he moved next to Souvaine and sat straight on the edge of the sofa, both feet firmly on the ground.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Now that we are comfortable,” said Souvaine. “I assume you have some questions you would like answered. I will be happy to oblige. In fact, it is my obligation to the church and God to respond to all honest inquiry.”
“How did you know my name?” I asked.
“I suppose you would not believe it if I told you God gave me your name in a vision,” Souvaine said.
“I would not.”
“And you would be correct.” Souvaine laughed, looking at Ortiz. “I’m trying to find Mr. Ortiz’s sense of humor. It is buried deeply by misfortune.”
“Do I get fifty bucks if I make him laugh?”
Souvaine laughed again. “I’m afraid I cannot spend our Lord’s money in such a manner,” he said. “When Mr. Ortiz and God are ready, Mr. Ortiz will laugh.” He looked at Mr. Ortiz with satisfaction. Mr. Ortiz continued to look at me.
“Your automobile,” said Souvaine. “We simply had one of our parishioners who is employed by the local government make a call to the State Automobile License Bureau. We knew your name and the fact that you are a private investigator before you left the Opera building.”
Someone knocked at the door and Souvaine called for whoever it was to enter. In came the old lady who had spotted me from the window. She was carrying a tray, which she placed on a table in front of us.
“Bertha,” said Souvaine. “How thoughtful of you. And of the kitchen ladies.”
Bertha straightened up and looked at me. She wasn’t sure what her feelings should be. I confused her even further.
“You’re J. Minor’s widow, aren’t you?” I asked, reaching for something that might be lemonade. There were two other lemonades on the tray. When Souvaine reached for the one in front of him, I put mine back on the tray and took his. He shook his head and accepted the trade.
“I am,” Bertha said.
“Is that the best picture you have of J. Minor?” I asked, turning to look at the uncomfortable man.
“My departed was fond of that photograph,” she said, beaming at the photograph through her thick glasses. “I think he looks very stately.”
“I think he looks like a man with constipation,” I said.
“Mr. Peters,” Souvaine said with just a touch of what might have been warning. “Is it necessary to insult the dead?”
“No,” I said, “but Puccini is dead, too. Your people, including the widow Bertha, are standing in front of the Opera insulting him all day.”
“He did suffer from constipation,” Bertha said.
“Puccini?” I asked, surprised.
“No,” said Bertha, flustered. “J. Minor suffered from constipation.”
“You have a picture somewhere where he looks less in eternal pain?” I tried.
“Mr. Peters, I must …” Souvaine said gently.
“Only the one at the beach in his bathing suit with Errol and Faye on my birthday,” said Bertha eagerly. “I think I could find it. Would that be acceptable, Reverend?”
“If it is your will and that of God,” he said, turning to Bertha and taking her hands in his as he stood. “If God doesn’t mind J. Minor Frank being witnessed cavorting on the beach in his briefs, then I certainly do not mind. It is between you and God.”
“I don’t think I’ll do it,” she said, looking down at me. I sipped my lemonade and shrugged.
“Good lemonade,” I said.
Souvaine ushered Bertha to the door while I toasted Deacon Ortiz, who watched me without taking his drink. When Bertha was safely out, Souvaine went back to his couch and smiled, showing perfect white teeth.
“You are good,” Souvaine said.
“Not as good as you,” I said. “At least at this kind of game. I play other games better.”
“Our Mr. Ortiz in his youth played many games,” Souvaine said, patting Ortiz’s ample leg. “I think he is capable of playing them again. Is there anything else you wish to alter in the sanctuary?”
“Those paintings,” I said. “Bertha must have done them.”
“No.”
“Then whoever sold them to you took you for a ride.”
“You don’t like our Jesus,” he said sadly. “Or our Washington or Lincoln. You have no empathy for the heartfelt primitive artist.”
I leaned forward. “You got junk on your wall, Rev,” I whispered. “What do you think?”
“Mr. Ortiz painted those pictures,” the Reverend whispered back.
“A man of many talents. Let’s get down to business,” I said.
Mr. Ortiz took his lemonade and drank it down in two gulps.
Souvaine leaned back and examined the backs of his hands before he spoke.
“Gladly,” he said. “This nation was founded under God, trusting in God. It is part of our heritage. The principle of separation of Church and State is not possible. It is neither possible nor right. God does not forsake any part of his dominion. There are conflicting forces in our nation. There is a new burst of religious understanding. Do you know what the New York Times best-selling novels are this week?”
“Mother Finds a Baby by Gypsy Rose Lee and Love’s Lovely Counterfeit by James M. Cain,” I guessed.
“The Robe and The Song of Bernadette,” Souvaine countered triumphantly. “This nation has not forsaken its Christian foundations.”
I wasn’t sure that religious fervor accounted for the popularity of best-sellers, but Souvaine was into a sermon now, pacing the floor.
“But you are right, too, Mr. Peters. There are godless books, godless candidates. The Japanese are a godless race. To allow the presentation of a play which sympathizes with a Japanese harlot and makes a Christian American naval officer seem heartless would be to play into the hands of the enemy. And let us be clear about this. Japan is not only the enemy of the United States but the enemy of our God-for God and the United States must remain inseparable.”
“Whose God?” I asked.
“There is but one true God,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a clean, ironed handkerchief to wipe his brow and palms.
“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.
I was dozing when the phone rang. I got out dripping, wrapped a towel around myself, turned down the radio, and picked up the phone.
“Mr. Peters? It’s Mrs. Allen on the desk. One of the guests has asked that you turn down your radio. And you left a package on the desk. Would you like me to have it brought up to you?”
“Radio’s off,” I said. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes.”
“Are you all right?”
“I just found out my husband is missing in the Pacific,” she said. “Shall I send the package up?”
“No,” I said. “Open it.”
“Open …? I don’t think …”
“Please. It’s safe.”
I could hear the sound of crinkling paper as she fished the small box out of the bag. Then I could hear the box open.
“It’s a hat,” she said.
“Basque beret,” I said. “I sell them. Please accept it as a gift from the company. If anyone asks where you got it, tell them. The tag is inside the hat.”
“I can’t …”
“Gift from a satisfied customer,” I said. “I won’t turn the radio on again. I hope your husband is okay.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
The beret had been for Vera. I could get her something else.
I went to bed. Sometime later I heard a knock at the door. When I opened it my old friend Koko the Clown was standing there in a Basque beret. He had a package in his hand. He handed it to me, but it was a ghost package. I couldn’t hold it. It slipped through my hands, had no substance. As I bent to pick it up, Koko waved and into my room poured laughing people. It was a surprise party for me. Bertha Minor carried a tray with a gigantic pitcher of lemonade. Koko drank it and turned yellow. Ortiz held out two closed fists and asked me to choose. I picked the right He turned his palm up and opened it. There were three bloody teeth. Souvaine danced in with Lorna Bartholomew, whose neck was painted blood red. Raymond Griffith arrived in neatly pressed overalls and a bright neon blue tie. He was pulling a wagon full of tools. Koko and Raymond handed out the tools, and the people in the room began to bang them together to make music. Stokowski, wearing only his underwear, arrived with a violin and began to play after giving me a wink. John Lundeen came out of the bathroom, a towel around his ample waist. He looked as if he were singing, but no sounds were coming from his mouth. I tried to tell them all to be quiet, that Mrs. Allen’s husband was dead.
And then the door flew open and everyone went quiet. He was standing there, a figure draped in a black cape, wearing a black wide-brimmed hat and a white mask that covered the top half of his face. He swept into the room, cape billowing, showing a red lining:
The Phantom beckoned to me with a white-gloved right hand. I moved toward him. I was frightened, but when I was close enough I reached up quickly and pulled the mask off. The Phantom was my father. But he shook his head no and another mask appeared. I took that one off and the Phantom was my brother Phil. Another mask. This time the Phantom was me, and this scared the hell out of me. I woke up.
I started to reach for my father’s watch and remembered that it wouldn’t tell me the time. I picked it up anyway. The sun was up so I called the desk to ask for the time. Mrs. Allen didn’t answer. The guy said she had left for the day.
“Was she wearing a little beret?” I asked.
“I … yes,” he said. “I think so.”
“What time is it?”
“Five minutes after eight.”
I was shaved, dressed, and out of the hotel ten minutes later, wearing a slightly wrinkled white shirt and the same pants I had worn the day before. Time was wasting. I had an opera to save.