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  He reached into his desk. He counted two banded stacks of hundreds and counted fifty off a third.

  “About Tom Salt.”

  “Yes?”

  Benjamin smiled coldly. “I don’t care if he suffers.”

  That was good to know.

  Of course, Benjamin didn’t know shit about money. Because he’d always had it. To the average guy a lump of money could buy time. Time to think about the race you’d been running so hard and so long. Running downhill so fast you can’t stop. Money conferred time to think. About what you could do with your life instead of just feeding your body, paycheck to paycheck, until it broke down, until it quit altogether.

  Me, I had no time. Tomorrow would rush into next week, and by then I’d have to kill, convincingly, someone who’d never lived.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Soul Provider

  I awoke the next morning, a seamless dread draped over my shoulders. A shroud of foreboding. I didn’t want to think about what I’d have to accomplish to get Benjamin off my back.

  I decided for lighter fare. The Betty Fraiden matter.

  I’d pay a call at St. Paul of Tarsus. The parish secretary, a slightly built, dark-haired man of medium height, thirtyish, opened the door to my bell.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’d like to see Reverend Jenkins.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Just my luck. Even the soul business had worldly protocols. “No, I don’t have an appointment.”

  “No? Then—”

  “But I feel my immortal soul is in peril. Is the reverend in?”

  I guess it was hard to reject a direct appeal to his higher duties. I waited in the parlor as the secretary made inquiries within. I was ushered into a small room to wait.

  I looked around. Was this the lair of a rogue priest? Not obviously. Over a bookcase hung a crucifix with a burnished brass Christ. On the wall were photos of an elderly man in a Roman collar with various celebrities I’d never heard of.

  The same photos hung at Pink’s Hot Dogs. Or at any dry cleaner you might patronize. C-list celebrities would hand out their pictures to Christ himself:

  Hang in there, Jesus! Bert Marks

  Jesus, you’re a miracle! Link Darnell

  Rock on, Jesus! Peter Hart

  U B cool, Mr. Christ. T-bar Yusef

  Jesus, you tell the best fish stories! Bing Cherry

  Jesus, you really cross me up! Lettie Figgus

  Then the door opened, and the man in the photographs walked in. Reverend Jenkins was tall, rubicund, big-boned yet fragile-looking, with a full shock of longish white hair topping the bill. He was in his seventies and the kindest looking man I’d ever seen.

  “I’ve lost my keys,” said the reverend first thing, rummaging through his pockets.

  I stood up. He extended a big hand. “Stuart Jenkins.”

  “Dick Henry.” In the same time it took to realize that Artie Benjamin’s wife was unfaithful to her husband, I knew the reverend was not the letter writer. He had some Parkinson’s going on. His hands shook.

  Jenkins carefully lowered himself into a chair, then looked at me. Those old eyes, without judgment, peered right into my soul. “Are you well, Mr. Henry?” he asked.

  Of course, I had not come on matters of soul, but that’s where his question found home.

  How was I? How should I know? I’d been avoiding the issue as long as I could remember. There was a right and wrong and I pretty much left it at that, fundamentally unexamined. Because if you dug too far, you’d know things, and then, if you had any conscience at all, you’d have to do something.

  “I’m all right,” I allowed. But suddenly the floor opened and I was thinking of Arthur.

  My friend, my boon companion, my competition, my cheerful, befreckled coconspirator, fellow sharer of secret language. Our language. Arthur! My twin. The only person who simultaneously understood why Michael Thayer chasing another boy with a paper lunch bag full of water at recess in first grade was the funniest thing imaginable. A bag of water!

  Arthur had turned back in the crosswalk for a colored pencil I’d dropped.

  “Mr. Henry?”

  I blinked into Reverend Jenkins’s patience. “Actually, I just thought of my twin brother. Lost him a long time ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Do you, uh, do you think you might . . . mention him in a prayer or two?”

  “I’d be happy to. What was his name?”

  What is his name. “Arthur.” From somewhere I felt a tiny wattage, his crinkly smile.

  Though I had often mocked the professionally religious as keepers of Cadillacs and catamites, the vast majority of clerical foot soldiers were dedicated men. They visited the sick, comforted the dying, told uplifting stories to children, maintained their creaky, wobbly faiths to encourage others. Practices that left them little time for themselves. Reverend Jenkins was all that in spades. I decided I liked Reverend Jenkins immensely.

  “You maintain a mission in the Philippines, right?”

  “Actually, we Episcopalians have many. St. Thomas supports two in particular. One in Manila, one in Cebu. The island of Cebu.”

  “How does somebody donate to that mission in Manila?”

  “That’s all taken care of by our man out front, Michael Linscomb.”

  “Seems like a good man.”

  “Yes, indeed. Hard worker. Quiet. Keeps to himself. I think he’s writing a novel. And he writes with both hands!” Jenkins smiled. “He’s ambidextrous. I never understood how those people do that. He lives here on the property.”

  “He handles all the mission work?”

  “Those are among the duties of a church secretary. He’s our official liaison.”

  “Is that a well-paid position?”

  Jenkins laughed. “He makes more than I do.”

  “I didn’t mean to be nosy, Reverend.”

  “My reward is in the hands of my Father. And in the mirror every morning.”

  I stood up and put out my hand. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  He rose, and we shook.

  Then I saw his keys on the third shelf of the bookcase. “And there are your keys.” I pointed.

  His face lit up. “Of course. I was rereading some Aquinas.” He raised a finger, “‘Good can exist without evil, whereas evil cannot exist without good.’”

  I raised a finger of my own. “‘Love takes up where knowledge leaves off.’”

  Where had that come from? Maybe it was the Jesuits. Loyola High. I was as surprised as Jenkins.

  He laughed aloud. “I detect the presence of an altar boy.”

  I took leave of Reverend Jenkins with firmer step. Humanity could not disappoint me, as I expected nothing of it, but this afternoon I would be buoyed.

  I passed Linscomb on my way out. I didn’t like him. His dark eyes glittered. “May Christ be with you.”

  “Thank you.” I got to the door, then turned back. “I need the address of the mission in Manila. Could you write that down for me, please?”

  He hesitated a second, pulled out a sheet of paper, hesitated again. Was he choosing hands? Then, left-handed, he wrote down the address, handed it to me.

  The Caddy drove south of its own accord. “Love takes up where knowledge leaves off.” How had that quotation come to surface? I thought about Lynette and what I really knew about her.

  Nothing.

  And, yes, I had been an altar boy.

  Two altar boys were helping Father Falvey on a Saturday morning. Confessions were being heard, and as young Tommy Mollet was pushing the dust mop around and giggling with Peter, Father Falvey stuck his head out of the confessor’s box and beckoned the young man.

  “I need you to take over for me, Tommy,” said the priest. “I’ve got to take a monstrous crap.”

  A crap? Father Falvey sat at the right hand of God. He took craps? Monstrous ones? And even then, would he, Tommy Mollet, be allowed by
church law to substitute for Father Falvey? He, Mollet, was a well-known sinner. And, as God knew only too well, he had called his sister a shitbird just this morning. And what would he say to the people confessing? How would he mete out punishment?

  “But what do I say to them, Father?” Tommy was feeling overwhelmed.

  “Just give them what I give you. A couple of Our Fathers and a Hail Mary or two. You’ll get the hang of it.”

  Into the dark little room Tommy went, sat on a small bench against the wall. A little window was on each side, and each window had a sliding screen. To his horror, Tommy could clearly see the sinners when it came their time.

  But he settled in after a while. Two Our Fathers, one Hail Mary. Three Our Fathers, five Hail Marys.

  Then Patrick Gleason had come in. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession.” Gleason confessed he had shat in the St. Vincent de Paul box.

  Whoa. Even though he, Tommy Mollet, had laughed himself sick on the playground, from the confessional it was a different story. Ten Our Fathers, and ten Hail Marys. Then he added the stinger, “For three days.”

  A shadow entered and he smelled perfume. It was April Douglas. She had the largest breasts in class. She started in and very quickly Tommy felt way over his head. Quietly he opened the door, waggled his fingers at Peter.

  “What?” whispered Peter. Why had Father chosen Tommy over him anyway? Tommy didn’t know shit about shit.

  Tommy, desperate, looked up at his friend. “What does Father Falvey give for oral and anal sex?” Whatever they were.

  Peter shrugged. Why had Father chosen Tommy over him? “Simple. Two tickets to the Dodgers.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Pharaoh’s Raft

  I rolled downtown. With Mr. Linscomb behind me, I was now going to need a dead man, so once again I resorted to my relationship with Billy Ravenich, whom I’d known from Navy days.

  Ravenich and I had played in a blues band back then, Coalhouse Walker. Our dream had been punctured early on by lack of talent but it takes talent to see that. We ran on flat tires for a while and then they fell off.

  Ravenich had gone on to actually do something in the music world. On some chart somewhere, he and his friends had been #9 with a bullet. Heavy rock with a satanic twist. Witch Hunt, that was the name. Or was it Sea Hunt?

  In any case the Hunt had limped to a generally unlamented conclusion and Ravenich had gone into the family business. The mortuary business.

  The O’Halloran Mortuary was on Venice approaching downtown. Freeways hummed overhead, and a merciless sun beat down on a mission-style paint job gone powdery. A sign on a telephone pole suggested a new credit identity might be had for forty-nine dollars.

  Inside it was solemn, quiet, and well air-conditioned, a must for any mortuary; in the background a lugubrious organ grieved. I stepped on a threshold mat and a low bell rang in the back.

  A woman appeared. She was dressed in black and walked slowly, hands folded in consternation. Pale, middle-aged, significantly overweight, dark hair up in bun, she wore an expression of deep and enduring sympathy. A slash of very red lipstick completed the scenario.

  “I’m Mrs. Grimble,” she said with an oily solicitude. “How may I help you today?”

  I loathed her instantly and pitied Mr. Grimble should he exist. I imagined Mrs. Grimble at home, ground into the flattened couch, issuing orders, bleating complaints, stuffing her craw with soft candy.

  I recalled my mother’s passing and the hash Forest Lawn had made of it, attempting to sell me a golden sarcophagus when she had requested a pine box. It was amazing, galling; even in death you were a commodity with upgrade potential.

  I decided I would have fun with Mrs. Grimble until she gave up and called for Ravenich.

  Mrs. Grimble reclasped her hands and repeated her inquiry. “May I be of service, sir?”

  Let’s see. “I’m here on behalf of my uncle.”

  She gestured me to an uncluttered desk, bade me sit. I sat and sniffed loudly.

  Mrs. Grimble reached into a drawer, removed some forms, a pen, and a box of Kleenex. She slid the tissues over to me.

  “First things first. What is your name?”

  “Richard Henry.”

  “Ri-chard Hen-ry. And your uncle’s name, sir?”

  I sniffed loudly and spun the wheel of fortune. “His name was Charles.”

  “Charles. Charles who?”

  “Uncle Charles.”

  A humorless smile creased her face. I wondered how long she’d done this job. “And his last name, sir?”

  “Don’t you want his middle name?”

  “Of course. What was it?”

  “His full name was Charles Hobson Glurk.”

  “Glurk?”

  An unusual name to be sure. I sniffed. “From the Pennsylvania Glurks.”

  “Glurk.” She nodded dolorously and wrote something on the form. “And when did Mr. Glurk pass away?”

  I sighed, the pain still damp and recent. “When the governor failed and the cable snapped and the safe fell from the crane and hit him in the head.”

  Mrs. Grimble managed another small smile. “I mean when, as in what date, when did he pass away?”

  “The day before yesterday.”

  “And where is the deceased presently?”

  “On ice. Downtown.”

  “You mean at the morgue?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Grimble finished her check boxes, then reached into her desk, pulled out some pamphlets. “These explain our various plans. Why don’t you take a look?”

  I gave the pamphlets a glance. Like my mother’s posthumous choices, these burial options ranged from the simple and purposefully ugly to something Egyptian-style and obscenely expensive.

  Mrs. Grimble recommenced the client interrogatory, turning on the smarm. “Now, did you share any special memories with your uncle?”

  “Let’s see. He showed me my first Playboy magazine.”

  Mrs. Grimble’s eyebrows drew upward as the corners of her mouth drew downward. “I see.”

  Inspiration struck again. “And I do have one other memory of Uncle Charles.”

  “Yes?” Anticipatory distaste sweetened her features.

  “He won a Nathan’s hot-dog eating contest.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. He ate seventy-five of the sons of bitches.” I slapped my knee. “Then he barfed like a fire hose.”

  Mrs. Grimble was close to the end of her professional courtesies.

  “Which leads me to a problem, Mrs. Grumble. A special problem.”

  “The name is Grimble. What kind of special problem?”

  “Mr. Glurk’s size.”

  Mrs. Grimble’s eyebrows rose again.

  “Mr. Glurk weighed seven hundred and fifty-three pounds.” I picked up the interment solutions pamphlet. “How wide is the Pharaoh’s Raft?”

  This was the end for Mrs. Grimble. She pushed herself to her feet.

  “Would I need two plots?”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Henry.”

  Goddammit, who were these people? Where did they come from? Why in hell had she followed Ed Grimble to Los Angeles those years ago? She should’ve married Gil Clayton when he’d asked. But no, Eddie Grimble had prospects. Prospects. Prospects for bankruptcy.

  Now she encouraged the heartbroken to purchase eternity-proof bronze sepulchers on credit at ruinous terms. Life sucked. Like a dog. And she, of all people, deserved better. She had portrayed the Virgin Mother in the high school play. Brought them to tears.

  Yes, she would accept moldy old Howard Lastman’s invitation to dinner. Yes, she would. At the best steak house in Beverly Hills.

  Did Howard still have the teeth for the job? Whatever. That would be his problem. And if he wanted a happy ending, for godsake? Presupposing the plumbing still worked. Well, she couldn’t possibly get that drunk. He’d have to settle for crème brûlée.

  Billy Ravenich wa
s daydreaming until the knock on his door. “Key to the Highway,” that beautiful eight-bar blues as done by Derek and the Dominos, faded from his mind. Clapton, Allman, Radle, Whitlock, Gordon. The masters. Perfection.

  “Come in.” What was it this time? Had Pablo in the back raised the dead again?

  The door opened. It was that portrait of celestial pulchritude, Mrs. Grimble.

  “Yes, Mrs. Grimble?”

  “There’s an asshole out front, Mr. Ravenich.”

  “What kind of asshole?”

  “He’s got an uncle named Glurk.”

  “Glurk. What kind of name is Glurk?”

  “He’s from Pennsylvania.”

  “Is there a point you’re coming to, Mrs. Grimble?”

  “He says his uncle weighs seven hundred pounds.”

  “What’s this asshole’s name?”

  “Richard Henry.”

  Ravenich slapped his hand on his desk. “Thank you, Mrs. Grimble. I’ll take it from here.”

  Ravenich strode into the lobby. And there was that righteous sphincter Dick Henry with a big smirk on his face.

  * * *

  Ravenich was glad to see me and took me back to his office. He glared at me. “Mrs. Grimble said there was an asshole out front. Seven hundred pounds. Shit.”

  “What do you really do with a seven-hundred-pound corpse?”

  “What do you think? A hoist, a chain saw, a spear, and oil for a thousand lamps.”

  I prefaced the subject of my visit with an inquiry into the good side of his life. “Written any tunes lately?”

  He wasn’t fooled. “You don’t have to butter me up.”

  “I’m not. What are you up to?”

  “Actually, I’ve put together a very cool unit. Set up like the Dominos. Bass, drums, keys, and me. And maybe Louie Losta on harp when he can make it. And I’ve written a couple of nice tunes.”

  “Takin’ it out?”

  “Tomorrow. At Nilene’s in Santa Monica.”

  “I know where that is.”

  “I can expect you?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  Ravenich snorted. “Back to my duties as a licensed funeral director. Why are you here?”

  I loved Ravenich and I smiled at him.