Holy Rollers

by Rob Byrnes

  Jared finally broke eye contact with the scenery and turned to face Farraday.

  “Is this supposed to make me feel better?” he asked.

  Farraday stared out the windshield and sighed. “Started out that way.”

  $ $ $

  At his U Street Northwest apartment in the District of Columbia, Dan Rowell—press secretary to United States Senator Gordon Cobey, Republican of Ohio—was every bit as unhappy about his imminent attendance at Beyond Sin as Jared Parsells.

  But like Jared, he knew he didn’t really have a choice in the matter. He was going, and that was that.

  Dan also knew that, in politics, sometimes unpleasant things needed to be done that were hard to square with a clear conscience. Elected officials had to take tough votes that didn’t jibe with their personal convictions because the leadership—or their constituents—demanded it; unsavory people sought assistance, and one was honor-bound to try to help; campaign rhetoric was geared toward painting one’s opponent as virtually satanic…

  Those were unfortunate aspects of politics, but Dan Rowell had learned to live with them. He’d been on Cobey’s staff for years, and if there was a heaven, he’d have a lot to atone for. But he also knew that most times, those actions that seemed unjustifiable on the surface were part of a whole that served a greater purpose. The morality was in the big picture, not in the tiny details rife with hypocrisy and compromise.

  But even after several long talks with Cobey—talks in which the senator repeatedly stressed the greater good—Dan Rowell was resentful that he was being sent to what essentially was an ex-gay camp, albeit an ex-gay camp held in a swanky hotel one block from the White House. For the next week, he’d be subjected to brainwashing and behavior modification programs, and—perhaps worst of all—trapped in a hotel with dozens of people who wanted to be there.

  He threw some clothes—clothes much different, much more preppy, than those Jared had packed, and far less revealing than those Jared had wanted to pack—into his suitcase and tried to swallow his resentment. Cobey had been surprisingly good to him when he’d fearfully come out several years earlier, and for a conservative Republican, he was beginning to put together a decent voting record on gay rights legislation, so Dan supposed he owed his boss this much.

  But only this much. No more.

  18

  Farraday’s pupu platter was a hit, which was about the best any of them could say about Old Stone Fence Post Estates Day.

  At its heart, it was a warmed-over version of the earlier neighborhood barbecue. Once again, Tish and Malcolm Fielding held court in the driveway as cowed neighbors stood round and tried not to spill condiments on the driveway. Once again, Farraday’s appetizers were popular, while Malcolm manned a lonely grill. Once again, Tish circled the crowd with a ferocious smile, forcing small talk when she wasn’t hunting for infringements of whatever new neighborhood rule she’d invented.

  Only two things kept them sane. There would be no appearance by Jared, since this was about the time he’d be checking into his hotel room; and by the end of the day they intended to be seven million dollars richer.

  Constance and Chase were the lucky ones. They got to go to church and get called sinners for a few hours. With Farraday and Jared on the road, and Mary Beth boycotting, it was left to Grant and Lisa to represent 455.

  For his part, Grant had been doing his representing from the end of the driveway next to the mailbox.

  Lisa took a break from passing the pupu platter and joined Grant, lighting a cigarette.

  “I know this is a stupid question, but…”

  “Yeah, I’m over the suburbs. I’m really looking forward to going home to gridlock, honking horns, pigeons, the subway, and rude people who are at least up front about their rudeness. And no HOA rules. That’s a good thing, too.”

  Ms. Jarvis wandered over. “Where’s Farraday?”

  “Taking Jerry to DC.”

  “Jerry?”

  He sighed. “My adopted son, I guess.”

  He needn’t have bothered. She wasn’t paying attention. “When you see Farraday, tell him the pupu platter is amazing.”

  “I’ll do that. But I’m sure he knows it already.”

  Ms. Jarvis leaned a bit closer. “You know, the neighborhood has been so much more fun since you moved in.” She glanced back to make sure Tish couldn’t hear. “Mrs. Fielding can be a bit much.”

  Mr. Scribner had overheard. “She’s intolerable. And getting worse every day.”

  Mrs. Huffine, who’d walked over from Black Diamond Circle, joined them. “Tish forced me to seal my driveway last weekend. She said she’d call the HOA if I didn’t.” Her chin quivered. “My husband was out of town and I had to do the work myself.”

  “No!” gasped Mr. Scribner.

  Ms. Jarvis giggled. “You know what makes these get-togethers more tolerable?” She held up her red plastic cup. “Rum and fruit punch! Farraday taught me that trick. Isn’t it wild?”

  Mr. Scribner’s eyes darted. “You’d better be quiet. Tish wouldn’t like that.”

  Then, attracted by the growing knot of people, Tish Fielding was among them. The conversation immediately died.

  “What am I missing?” she asked, in her annoying singsong tone. “No secrets allowed in Old Stone Fence Post Estates!”

  “Oh, there aren’t really any secrets,” said Lisa, who took a drag from her cigarette and exhaled into the air. “Everyone thinks the same thing.”

  Tish waved her hands in front of her face and said, “Oh. No. No no no no no!”

  “Huh?”

  “Smoking is not allowed.”

  Lisa shrugged. “But I’m standing outside. Away from the house. By the street.”

  “And blowing carcinogens all over the neighborhood.” Tish dropped the pretense of a smile. “You could be killing us all right now.”

  Under his breath, Grant said, “Not the worst idea.”

  “What if I was to become pregnant? You could be harming my baby!”

  “Pregnant?” asked Lisa with a derisive chuckle. “At your age?”

  Ms. Jarvis giggled.

  Blame the rum, Grant thought.

  Tish spun on her. “You think that’s funny?”

  “Sort of.”

  They waited for Tish to respond, but instead she simmered for an entire minute before walking to the middle of the driveway, where she raised her hands and waved.

  “Excuse me, everyone! Can I have your attention?!”

  The neighbors turned to look at her.

  “I’m afraid the party’s over. I don’t feel well. The cigarette smoke has given me a migraine.” That she said this while standing in the smoke from Malcolm’s grill was not commented upon.

  Grant looked at his watch. The big neighborhood event had lasted less than ninety minutes.

  “That was one of the least painless parties she’s ever thrown,” Ms. Jarvis said. Mr. Scribner and Ms. Huffine agreed.

  Grant watched Lisa as she ground the cigarette under her heel on Tish’s driveway. “I knew that bad habit of yours would prove useful someday.”

  $ $ $

  Farraday arrived home a few hours later in a blue pickup. He’d bought some reflective peel-off letters, which he handed to Grant upon arrival.

  “Your pupu platter was the highlight of the party,” Lisa told him.

  “That, and the way you’re turning Ms. Jarvis into a drunk,” added Grant.

  Farraday smiled. “She’s a very special woman.”

  $ $ $

  The blue pickup with reflective letters spelling out DAVIS PLUMMING on the cap over its bed came to a stop next to the guard shack in front of the Virginia Cathedral of Love. The driver’s window rolled down and Farraday, a gray cap pulled low over his eyes, leaned out.

  “Gotta call to fix the toilet,” he said. “Some place called Cathedral House?”

  The security guard gave a bored once-over to Farraday, then to the truck. “Take the road all the way to the end. You can
’t miss it.”

  “Thanks.” Farraday’s foot was still on the brake as he started to crank up the window.

  “Hey, buddy?” The guard’s hand was now outside the booth, motioning the window back down. Farraday didn’t like the looks of that, but complied.

  “What?”

  “You’re spelled wrong.”

  “I’m spelled wrong?”

  “You’re spelled wrong.” The guard pointed to the back of the pickup. “‘Plumbing’ has a ‘B’ in it.”

  “Not where I come from.” With that, Farraday took his foot off the brake and started on his way to Cathedral House. As he did, he turned to Grant, who sat in the passenger seat, also wearing a gray cap. “Told you there was a ‘B.’”

  “I guess I stand corrected.”

  Farraday couldn’t help but smile that he’d been right for a change.

  “There’s something very strange about this place,” said Grant as the pickup rolled onto the grounds. “It’s too easy. Almost like they’re asking to be robbed.”

  “That, or they’re so sure they won’t be robbed that they don’t care about appearances.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Even in New York we got places like this, right? Tons of cash layin’ around and no real security. They just figure no one’s gonna take it. Usually they’re right. Until they’re wrong.”

  Grant eyed the cathedral as the truck passed it and continued another quarter mile down the road toward Cathedral House. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. If joints in New York don’t sweat it, we shouldn’t be surprised that some church in Virginia doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t mean it’s not strange, though. You sure Cousin Leonard knows what he’s talking about?”

  Farraday pulled to a stop in front of Cathedral House, which was helpfully marked with a sign reading CATHEDRAL HOUSE, although he’d already known exactly where he was going.

  “I’ll let him out of the pickup bed and you can ask for yourself.”

  Leonard hadn’t wanted to go along on the job, but Grant and Farraday had made it clear that he was going whether he liked it or not. The bumpy ten-minute ride on the hard, bare metal bed of the pickup with a rattling toolbox had convinced Leonard he should have made more of a case for himself, but he was smart enough not to complain when Farraday unlocked the tailgate and he could finally scramble out.

  Grant looked over Leonard’s fake mustache and sideburns—as well as his gray cap—to make sure everything was still in place, then sent a text message to Chase to tell him they were outside. A few minutes later, Chase was standing at the top of the front steps.

  “You the plumbers?” he asked, playing his role.

  “Yeah,” said Grant.

  Chase looked at the truck. “You’re spelled wrong.”

  Grant muttered something inaudible and hoisted the toolbox. “Let’s go look at your toilet.”

  No one spoke while they took the small elevator to the fourth floor, then followed Chase down the hall to the finance office.

  Constance was waiting inside. When the office door was closed, she barely moved her lips. “Don’t look, but the camera is mounted on the wall to your left.”

  Grant turned his back to the direction of the camera. “You sure there’s no audio, Leonard?”

  “There’s no audio.”

  “You’d better be right. ’Cause if you’re wrong, we’re already busted.”

  “I’m not wrong.”

  “Okay, then.” Grant turned around. “Let’s remove the seven million clogs and get out of here.”

  Farraday bent over and reached for random pieces of metal in the toolbox, most of which were the kinds of tools you’d use to fix a toilet, and some of which were tools you’d use to crack a safe.

  “What the hell, Farraday!” Constance averted her eyes. “This is supposed to be about safe-cracking, not plumber’s-cracking.”

  Farraday stood and pulled his pants up an inch or so before bending over again. “Gotta look the part.” To Grant, he said, “Want the drill?”

  “Not unless I need it. First I wanna take care of the camera.” He looked at Chase. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Grant, in an exaggerated pantomime that would have made Mack Sennett proud, gestured a few times for the benefit of whoever might be watching them while Chase moved the easel from against the wall and propped it in the middle of the office directly in front of the security camera. He then set the foam core panel with the rendering of the Great Cross on the easel, back to the camera.

  They stepped back to better appraise their work, acting as if they were actually interested in looking at the drawing. Chase stood at the edge, still partially in camera range to reassure anyone viewing them from the security office that everything was on the up-and-up on the fourth floor.

  Grant looked at the picture of the cross. “What’s with the squiggles?”

  “What squiggles?” asked Chase

  “The ones someone drew on the cross.”

  “Those look more like spirals to me.”

  “No, those are definitely squiggles.”

  “Whatever. They were there when we found it.”

  “Some people,” said Grant, “have no respect for other people’s property.” His eyes lined up the foam core panel with the camera. “Move the easel up a little closer.” Chase slid it forward a few feet until Grant was about as satisfied as he was going to get. “That doesn’t give us a lot of room to hide, but I’ll make it work.”

  Constance returned to her desk, directly in view of the camera, and pretended as if everything happening in the office was completely normal. In the meantime, Grant had the closet door open and was studying the safe.

  “You want the drill now?” asked Farraday.

  Grant shook his head. “Drilling is the last option. That’s the option we run with if there’s no other way in, because once we drill they’re gonna know we were in the safe as soon as they look at it. I can’t speak for everyone here, but I’d like a bit more of a head start.”

  As it turned out, the drill stayed in the toolbox.

  Crouched on the other side of the easel and out of camera view, Grant went to work on the tumblers. It took a few minutes, but the safe opened easily.

  At the final click—the satisfying sound of a combination lock beaten—Grant said, “Now let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  He pulled the latch.

  Even Constance walked out of camera-range and joined them as they gathered around the cracked safe. They watched the heavy door slowly open, and then they looked inside at neat stacks of United States currency.

  Their faces dropped.

  It was Farraday who spoke first. “Unless those bills are all thousands, no way is that seven million dollars.”

  Grant reached in and thumbed through a few bound packets, then did a quick calculation in his head.

  “Ninety thou, give or take.” His announcement was met by a chorus of groans.

  “That ain’t even my fee,” said Farraday.

  “Shut up,” Grant ordered, and they all obeyed. He looked at Leonard. “So where’s the rest? You promised us seven mil. We wouldn’t have gone through all this for a measly ninety thou job.”

  Leonard’s eyes darted around the room, suddenly fearful he was being set up, but not sure why or by whom. “I…I…I don’t know. There should definitely be more money in there.”

  Grant snarled. “But there isn’t. So where is it? Where’d it go?”

  “I don’t have any idea,” he said. “All I know is that Merribaugh has been putting money in that safe for years.”

  “Yeah, but does he ever take it out?”

  “Sure,” said Leonard. “But not often. And not nearly as much as he’s put in there.”

  “What about at night?” asked Constance. “Maybe after you went home he’d come in…”

  Leonard thought about that possibility. “I suppose that could have happened, but…that doesn’t make sense. Why would he tell Hurley that they wer
e sitting on seven million dollars if they were only sitting on ninety thousand dollars?”

  They looked at each other for several long, tense moments…

  Until Chase finally swallowed audibly, at which time they all looked at him.

  “Merribaugh’s suitcase,” he said.

  “Oh, damn!” said Constance. “That has to be it.”

  Grant’s eyes traveled from Chase and Constance and back a few times. “You wanna explain for the rest of us?”

  So Chase did. “Yesterday, Merribaugh came in with a suitcase, and told us to wait outside…”

  “You don’t think this is something we should have known about before now?”

  Chase shrugged helplessly, mostly because he knew Grant was right. “It was just a small roller suitcase. One of those ones on wheels. It just seemed so…small! Too small to fill it with seven mil.”

  “Unbelievable.” Grant’s head was starting to pound. “Here we are committing a burglary and we didn’t have to be here at all.”

  “But Chase is telling the truth,” said Constance. “Remember, I was there, too. It was just a tiny suitcase. If he took money from the safe, it couldn’t have been more than, well…” She pointed at the safe. “Had to be less than that, at least. A lot less.”

  “We figured thirty thousand dollars max,” Chase added.

  Grant squeezed his eyes closed and wished the headache away. The fire was out of his voice when he finally spoke.

  “So where’s this money now?”

  “I can’t say for sure,” said Chase. “But we know where Merribaugh is.”

  Constance nodded. “The Project Rectitude conference. In DC.”

  “The one Jared’s at?” They nodded.

  “So Jared is now our only link to seven million dollars?” They nodded again.

  Grant sat down on the floor and put his head in his hands. When he finally was able to speak again, it was with a voice drained of all trace of hope.