Virgin (6 page)

"I resent
that," Crenshaw said, his eyes flashing, his voice soft but forceful.

The crowd
around the entrance had stopped cheering;
they
were listening instead. Only the chanting of the homeless from behind the
barricades disturbed the sudden silence.

Dan was not
prepared for this. His mouth went dry; his voice was hoarse when he replied.

"And I
think the homeless will resent being carted off to camps in the middle of
nowhere."

"What's
your connection with the homeless, Father?" he said.

"I run a
kitchen for them downtown."

Crenshaw
nodded. "That's very admirable. My hat's off to you. But how many of their
lives have you changed?"

"I don't
under--"

"How many
have you gotten off the street and into some sort of self-supporting
activity?"

Dan had a
feeling he was being maneuvered into a corner, but he had to answer--and
truthfully.

"I
couldn't say. We barely have enough money to keep them fed."

"Exactly!
They need funds and there aren't enough funds to go around. That's why we have
to centralize our efforts to help them." He gestured to the crowd.
"Look around you, Father. See these people? They support the Domicile
Plan. They're all willing to put their money where their mouths are, because
they're going to pay for the plan with their tax dollars. But they want to see
those dollars well spent. Soup kitchens only perpetuate the problem--like giving
a transfusion to a bleeding patient without sewing up the wound."

God, he's good,
Dan thought. And he means every word. He truly wants to help. That's what makes
him so convincing. But he's still
wrong!

"I
couldn't agree more," Dan said, "but concentration camps aren't a
moral alternative."

Senator
Crenshaw's eyes flashed with sudden anger.

"You're
handy with the loaded terms, aren't you, Father. And I'm sure you have a real
talent for dishing out the soup on the breadline at your kitchen, but have you
ever actually gone into a factory and worked to earn a single dime to pay for their
shelter? Or your own, for that matter? Have you
ever
labored to grow a single grain of wheat or a single kernel of rice to feed
them? Or yourself? Have you ever woven or cut or sewn a single stitch for their
clothing? Or for your own? If you want to be a man of God, then limit your
concerns to Godly things; but if you want to be a man of the people, then get
out and sweat with them, Father. Until you do, you're nothing but a middleman,
trafficking in their troubles. A hand-wringing monger of misery, hoisting
yourself up on their crosses to allow yourself to be better seen from afar.
Which is fine, if that's the way you want to spend your life. This is still a
free country. But don't block the way of those who really want to help."

Dan was stunned
by the quiet tirade. Before he could frame a reply, Crenshaw turned away and
stepped into his waiting limo. His security man closed the door, glanced at Dan
with a smirk
on his dark face, then slipped around to the other side.

Someone patted
him gently on the shoulder. Dan looked around and saw an elderly stranger
standing next to him.

"Don't
take it too hard, Father. We all know you mean well. But you just ain't getting
it done."

Still mute, Dan turned back to the street and watched Senator
Crenshaw's limo pull away. On the surface he knew he appeared unscathed, but he
was bleeding inside. Hemorrhaging. Crenshaw's words had cut deep, right to the
heart of his deepest doubts.

And the elderly
stranger had twisted the knife.

. . .
you
just ain 't getting it done . . .

Knowing
I was not
fit for the company of other men, I
turned from
my southward course and
searched the wilderness for a place in which to spend my allotted days alone.

I wandered the deserted
hills, searching for a sign. Finally as I climbed a steep incline, I looked up
and beheld a bellied cliff with an overhanging ledge. The letter tav leaped
into my mind. Tav. . .the letter to which the Kabbalah grants a numerical value
of 400. . .highest of all the letters.

This was the sign I had
sought. This is where I would stay. The lowest huddling in the shadow of the
highest.

from the Glass
scroll

Rockefeller Museum translation

4

Emilio Sanchez
regarded his employer with awe as the limo whisked them uptown.

If only I could use words like that, he thought. I would not have
to be a guard dog. I could be anything . . . even a
senador.

But Emilio had
come to terms long ago with who he was . . . and
what
he was. He was a
guard dog. He would always be a guard dog. And with those facts in mind, he had
become the best damn guard dog in the world.

"You
sliced up that
padre
like a master chef,
Senador.
One would
almost think your words were planned."

"In a
sense, Emilio, they were. I spotted the priest and his group on the way in but
I didn't know what they were up to."

"And you
asked me to find out."

"Right.
And when you told me they were homeless types, I spent the time before my
speech preparing a few remarks in case they cornered me on the way out."

Imagine. . . to
be able to come up with word-razors while listening and responding to
tabletalk.

"But they
didn't corner you," Emilio said.

"No
matter. I liked what I came up with. Too good to waste. So I let the priest
have it."

"With both
barrels."

The
senador
smiled
and nudged Emilio with an elbow. "You of all people should understand
that."

Emilio nodded.
He understood. One of his rules had
always
been: Don't aim a gun if you have no intention of pulling the trigger. And if
you do pull the trigger, shoot to kill.
Emilio's
cellular phone trilled softly in his breast pocket. He pulled it out and tapped
the
send
button.

"Sanchez."

"We've
found him."

Emilio
recognized Decker's voice.

"Good
work. Where is he?"

The
senador
stiffened
beside him. "Charlie? They've located him?"

Emilio nodded
as he listened to Decker's reply.

"The
West Village. Where else?"

"Public or
private?"

"A dive
called The Dog Collar, believe it or not. On West Street. Want me to bring him
in?"

"No. Wait
for me outside. And make sure he doesn't leave before I get there."

"Will
do. I called Mol. He's coming over. We'll meet you here."

"Good."

Emilio stared
straight ahead as he punched the
end
button.

"Charlie
is in a bar in Greenwich Village. Want me to bring him back to the hotel?"

The
senador
sighed
and rubbed his eyes for a long moment. Then: "No. Who knows what shape
he's in? I don't want a scene. Use the jet to take him home, then send it back
for me. I won't be leaving until tomorrow night anyway."

"Very
well. I should be back by early afternoon."

"No. Not
you. I want you to stay with Charlie. Do not let him off the grounds. Do not
let him out of your sight until I get back."

"If that
is your wish, then that is the way it will be."

The
senador
laughed
softly. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if that were true with everything. I'd
have wished Charlie to be a different sort than he is. Let us pray that he'll
cooperate this time."

He took Emilio's hand in his and bowed his head. Emilio
set his jaw. The very
thought of holding another man's hand, even in prayer, even if it was the
senador,
made him queasy. He bowed his head but he did not pray. That was for women.
Old women. This incessant praying was the only part of the
senador's
character
he did not respect. It was unmanly.

But in all
other matters he revered him.

That did not
mean that he understood him. Why track down Charlie and bring him back to
Paraiso? He had done a good job of hiding himself away. Why ferret him out? Let
him stay hidden. Let sleeping dogs lie. . .

If you're going
to do anything, Emilio thought as the
senador
prayed, do something
permanent. As much as I like Charlie, just say the word and he will
really
disappear.
Without a trace. Forever.

But he knew the
senador
would never order the death of his
maricon
son.

After dropping the
senador
at the Plaza and seeing him
safely to his suite, Emilio returned to the limousine, but this time he took
the front passenger seat.

"You'll
probably be more comfortable in the back," the driver said.

"I will
not argue with that, Frederick," Emilio said. He knew the man's name, home
address, and driving record. He'd checked all that out before letting the
senador
into the limo. "But I wish to speak to you as we drive."

"Okay,"
the driver said. Emilio detected wariness in his tone. That was good. "But
you can call me Fred. Where to?"

"Downtown?"

"Any
particular--?"

"Just
drive, Fred."

As Fred turned
onto Fifth Avenue, Emilio said, "Have you chauffeured many famous people
around?"

Fred grinned.
"You kidding? You name 'em, and if they've been to the Apple, I've driven
them around. Madonna, Redford, Luke Perry, Winona Ryder, Cher, Axl Rose. . .
the list goes on and on. Too many to mention."

"I'll bet
you can write a book about what's gone on in the rear section of this
car."

"A
book?" He laughed. "Try
ten
books--all of them X-rated!"

"Tell me
some of the stories. The juiciest ones."

"Uh-uh. No
way. My lips are sealed. Why y'think all those folks hire me? Why y'think they
always ask for Fred? Because Fred gets Alzheimer's when people come sniffing
around about his clients?"

Emilio nodded.
That jibed with what he'd heard about Fred.

He pulled a
switchblade from the side pocket of his coat and pressed the button on the
handle.
The gleaming narrow blade
snicked
out and flashed in
the glow of the passing street lamps.

"Wh-what's
that all about?" Fred said, his voice half an octave higher now.

"I've
caught some dirt under one of my fingernails."

"B-better
keep that out of sight. They're illegal here."

"So I've
heard." Emilio used the point to scrape under a nail. "Listen, Fred.
We're going to be stopping at a place called The Dog Collar."

"Oh, boy.
On West Street. I know the joint."

"Some of your famous clients have been there?"

He nodded.
"Yeah. And you wouldn't believe me if I told you who--which I'm not."

"I admire
your discretion, Fred. Which brings me to the heart of our little talk. You
will receive a generous tip tonight, Fred. An extravagant tip. It is meant to
not only seal your lips tighter than usual, but to erase from your memory
everything that occurs from this moment until you drop me off at
LaGuardia."

"You're
not going to mess up my passenger area, are you?"

"I'm not
planning to. But on the subject of 'messing up,' I feel obliged to give you a
warning: In my homeland we have a way of dealing with someone who has seen too
much and talks about it. We cure him of his affliction by removing
his tongue and eyes. Unless we're feeling particularly
merciful, in which case we leave the eyes and take only the eyelids. And the
tongue, of course. The tongue always goes. Do you understand what I am saying,
Fred?"