CHAPTER NINE
Gary had an unlicensed pistol hidden in his apartment that he never carried around on jobs. However, a couple of heavily armed thugs were chasing after Patrick Arnott and there was a good chance Gary would encounter them again. So, while eating breakfast the next morning, he wondered whether to start carrying it around.
If the thugs turn up again, it would be nice to have the pistol available for self-defence. But he didn't want to get involved in a shoot-out and, if caught in possession of an unlicensed weapon, could do serious gaol time.
He eventually decided to leave the pistol where it was. If he saw the thugs again, he would back off fast and certainly wouldn't try to protect Patrick Arnott. He was a private eye, not a bodyguard, and paid accordingly. If the thugs wanted to shoot Arnott, that was their business.
Just before 9am, he put on his Sunday best - a threadbare sports jacket - and headed for the headquarters of the Sunrise Mission in Pyrmont to attend the Sunday service.
Pyrmont was a small suburb tucked in the lee of the soaring cliffs of the central business district. Fifty years ago, its numerous residential terraces and waterfront warehouses gave it an old-world charm. However, most of those buildings had tasted a wrecking ball and the suburb was now full of glass-box business premises, high-rise apartment buildings and university campuses.
The headquarters of the Sunrise Mission was a huge converted warehouse near the harbour. It had a one-star restaurant, two coffee shops, a gym, a bookshop and a 3000-seat auditorium. A huge banner above the entrance said: "Put sunshine in your life at the Sunrise Mission."
Just after nine o'clock, Gary joined the throng of hipsters and yuppies pushing through a bank of glass doors into the entrance hall. Few were over thirty. Half were staring at or talking into a smartphone.
The hall had a huge tile mural of Jesus lecturing his disciples. The Son of God had bleached blond hair, a neat beard and flowing robes. His followers looked like hipsters studying Religion 101. Soon they would all head for the communal table at a local café.
Gary was not a god-fearing man. He believed, in the words of Ray Charles, that: "…You only live but once, and when you're dead you're done …" However, he accepted that religion provided an antidote to the hell of existence for those who couldn't cope with booze or drugs.
In any event, he was there to find Patrick Arnott, not God. So he lingered in the entrance hall, keeping an eye out for his quarry.
Dark-suited ushers moved about chivvying attendees into the auditorium. He managed to dodge them for fifteen minutes, until a pint-sized guy with a carrot-top and freckles cornered him, and doused him with goodwill.
"Hey buddy, you'd better go inside. The service is about to start."
"Thanks. Will do."
The guy had the over-bright smile of someone who might jump off a building at any time. "God loves you."
"Umm, yeah, thanks. He's a good guy."
He found the auditorium almost full. Catchy pop music was playing and strobe lights flashing. Quite a few worshippers were already on their feet grooving to the beat. The enormous stage had three giant TV screens at the rear and sides. A drum kit and keyboard sat waiting for a band. Several men, dressed in black, were setting up microphones along the front of the stage.
Gary grabbed a seat at the back and looked around for Patrick Arnott. Behind him, a pair of young women whined about the lousy breakfast they just ate, the incompetence of their Pilates instructors and rip-off prices at a clothes shop. That all took about a minute. Then they debated whether one of their boyfriends was gay and whether that mattered. Gary hoped, for his sake, that he was.
After about five minutes, a band of four guys appeared and started belting out a pop tune. Soon, three women and two guys - all looking mildly grungy - pranced up to the microphones and sang about the Holy Ghost. The whole atmosphere got very clubby. Everyone rose and bopped around, waving their arms and pumping their fists. Smiles spread like a chain reaction. Though Gary liked edgier music, he rose and grooved around to keep fit.
The singer in the middle caught his attention. She had a black bob, pixie face, lithe frame, good voice and great moves. Her face looked huge on the TV screens. She looked way too sexy to be performing in a church service. Was it a sin to lust after her? If so, he didn't care.
After several more songs in which "God", "love" and "pure hearts" got plenty of mentions, the singers and band disappeared. A thirty-something guy with slicked hair and a goatie beard, wearing a Bluetooth microphone, prowled onto the stage in biker boots. His plain white T-shirt emphasised rock-hard pecs and the classy tattoo sleeve on his right arm. Gary recognised him as Pastor Richard McKenzie, the head of the Sunrise Mission. He had seen him several times on television commenting on social issues or defending his church against claims it was materialistic and manipulative. At one point he told a TV reporter that the goal of his church was "to make God trendy".
After introducing himself, the Pastor spent twenty minutes stomping around the stage, waving the bible above his head while making his pitch. Gary listened with half an ear while looking around for Patrick Arnott. The Pastor emphasised that everyone should become good buddies with God and Jesus, and chase after success. "You're often told to be kind to others. But you've got to be kind to yourself first. God and Jesus want you to achieve success and become a strong person before you start to help others. Otherwise, your compassion will be wasted ..."
When the Pastor finally stalked off, Gary was amazed at how little the sermon shook him up. He didn't expect God to strike him with a bolt of lightning or pierce his soul, or anything like that. But he was just as cynical about the human race after the sermon as before.
He kept scanning the auditorium, looking for Patrick Arnott, while black-uniformed ushers scurried up and down the aisles with large buckets, collecting donations. The buckets soon bulged with notes.
The ushers bolted with the loot, and the band and singers returned to belt out several more songs. The joint started rocking again and Gary found himself hip-bumping with a spunky woman next to him. He was starting to make eye-contact when the music stopped and, as if to remind everyone this wasn't a nightclub, the Pastor returned to say a final prayer.
When the Pastor left the stage, the strobe lights stopped flashing and everyone strolled out, including his new dance partner. Damn. He ducked out into the entrance hall and waited around, hoping to see Patrick Arnott leave. However, none of the shiny eyes and applique smiles he saw was fixed to Arnott's face.
The last worshippers dribbled out and he headed back to his car. In the distance, the morning sun was melting down the city's skyscrapers. He crossed the mouth of the alley behind the Sunrise Mission building. Half-way along was a small car park with only a big black-windowed SUV limousine in occupation. Pastor McKenzie and the bob-haired singer Gary admired stood beside the vehicle, having an animated conversation. Gary slowed his pace and noticed she was, in fact, angrily waving her finger at him. The Pastor waved his finger back, got behind the wheel of the limousine and drove off. She kicked something on the ground and re-entered the building.
What caused such an unchristian conniption straight after a church service? He had no idea. It wasn't relevant to the disappearance of Patrick Arnott anyway, so he continued towards his car.
Hard Landing Page 9