The King

by Tiffany Reisz

  “Nobody’s touched my breasts in a long time,” she said. “Forgotten how good it felt.”

  “Anytime you need it, my hands are here for you.”

  “So…do I get to keep the shirt?” she asked.

  “Sam, you can have all my shirts.”

  With the greatest reluctance he pulled back and let her button his shirt up. He was gratified she didn’t immediately run off to the bathroom to wash him off her. Good sign.

  She lay f lat on her back and looked up and away and anywhere but at him.

  “Sam?”

  “Give me a second. I’ve never fooled around with a guy before. I’m processing.”

  Kingsley sighed heavily and Sam grinned.

  He sat up and leaned across her body.

  “Kingsley, what are you doing?”

  He pulled a small box from the drawer in the ebony table that sat at the side of his bed, took out rolling papers, a lighter and a small plastic baggie.

  “Kingsley, is that—”

  “It is,” he said, grinning as he licked the paper and rolled the ends tight. “Here.” Kingsley passed her the joint. “This will help you process.”

  Kingsley f licked his light, and Sam took a hit, held it in and blew it out. She relaxed against his pillow with a smile. She curled up on his chest and handed it back to him.

  “Kingsley?”

  “Yes, Sam?” He wrapped an arm around her, held her close and exhaled an artful smoke ring.

  “You are the world’s greatest boss.”

  28

  KINGSLEY WOKE UP ALONE IN HIS BED. SAM HAD AL ready gone. She’d left his shirt on the bed in her place along with a note. He unfolded the paper and read.

  King-I didn’t love you and leave you. I had an idea when we were talking last night, and I want to go look into it. I might be on to something with Fuller.

  Love,

  Sam

  P.S. You look like a little boy when you sleep. Almost innocent. I might have taken incriminating pictures.

  P.P.S. Don’t forget you have a game at noon today. P.P.P.S. Thanks for the weed.

  He f lipped the note over, making sure there were no further postscripts.

  Game? Oh, yes, he did have a game today. Rematch with First Presbyterian. If he missed it, Søren would kill him and Kingsley was fairly certain the priest would do a more thorough job of that than the last men who’d tried to do him in.

  When he rolled out of bed he was met with a full-body ache. A few days out of Mistress Felicia’s bed would do him good. He took a shower and dressed in his soccer clothes. He’d been scouted at age fifteen by Paris Saint-Germain Football Club, and here he was, suiting up to play church-league soccer. Still he laced on his cleats and pulled on his “Sacred Heart” T-shirt with his last name on the back and a number eight beneath it. The T in the Sacred Heart was even in the form of a cross. How quaint.

  “Why did you make me number eight?” Kingsley had asked Søren when he’d been given his official “uniform.”

  “In Biblical mysticism, the eight symbolizes rebirth and new beginnings and Christ’s resurrections.”

  “That’s why I’m an eight?” Kingsley had been touched by the thoughtfulness.

  “Actually, it was the only number between one and twenty we weren’t using.”

  “I know seventy-two different ways to kill a man,” Kingsley had said to Søren. “Three of them involve deploying T-shirts as weapons.”

  Kingsley finished dressing and pulled his hair back in a ponytail. He didn’t need hair in his face when running on a field. He headed for the door of his bedroom but stopped when he heard his private phone line ringing. Five people alone had that number—Søren, Blaise, his lawyer, Sam and a “friend” on the police force—and none of them ever called him on that number for no good reason. Except Søren.

  But it wasn’t Søren on the line or any of his other private five.

  “Mr. Edge?”

  “Who is this?” Kingsley asked, instantly alert.

  “This is Reverend James Fuller.”

  Kingsley stiffened, his grip on the phone tightening.

  “How did you get this number?” Kingsley asked.

  “Doesn’t matter. I have it. And I’m using it to invite you to my office today. I think we should talk.”

  “I’m busy today,” Kingsley said.

  “Oh, yes, soccer game.”

  “Football,” Kingsley said evenly, not letting his tone betray his surprise that Fuller knew so much about him. “I’m French. It’s football.”

  “You’re in America now, Mr. Edge. We do things differently here. When men have a dispute, they look each other in the eyes and talk about it.”

  “Well, I am half American. I can look you halfway in the eyes.”

  “Good. I’m in my office now. I’m sure you have the address in Stamford. Come see me. I won’t take up much of your time. You won’t even be late for your game.”

  Fuller hung up before Kingsley could answer. Good thing Stamford was on the way to Wakefield.

  When he arrived, Kingsley walked through a side door and up the emergency exit stairs. He wanted to avoid being seen by secretaries and security guards alike. He quickly found Fuller’s corner office. The door was open, but the room was empty. Kingsley took a moment to look around. Fuller’s office was easily twice the size of Kingsley’s. A CEO would have been comfortable in a room like this. Leather sofas, leather desk chair, desk the size of a boat. A wall of windows, awards on display, framed letters of praise and gratitude to “Reverend Fuller and Mrs. Fuller.” And in the corner of the office, golf clubs. Of course.

  Kingsley looked at the books on the shelves and noted their tight bindings and polished covers. The leather volumes were more likely for show than reading or research. He studied the framed photographs on the wall. Even they had brass plates captioning Fuller’s triumphs. One picture showed him leading a revival in 1990 before a crowd of ten thousand. Another picture captured him praying reverently at the Tomb on the Unknown Soldier in Washington, DC. A lovely wellstaged photo op. In one other photograph he and his wife stood with two dozen teenagers—“James and Lucy Fuller at the First WTL Church, Hartford 1983.” Everyone in the photograph, teenage and adult, had a Bible clutched to their chests and wide smiles on their faces. Their eyes were fixed on the camera, giving the whole proceeding a look of eerie sameness. Lucy Fuller had her arm around the shoulder of the pretty dark-haired girl next to her. James Fuller had his arm around the shoulder of the boy next to him. The very picture of Christian love.

  Kingsley tore his gaze from the photographs on the wall and focused his attention on Fuller’s desk. At first he found nothing of interest—a calendar, a mug full of cold coffee, stationery and a few sermon notes. But under the coffee mug he found an unbound sheaf of paper. Printed on the front page were the words Straight and Narrow—Bringing Homosexual Children Home to God. The book was, unsurprisingly, authored by Lucy Fuller, who had apparently exhausted all other topics of Christian life. Curious, Kingsley leafed through it. One paragraph jumped out at him.

  Homosexual teenagers are being influenced by demonic forces. If enforcing a regime of constant prayer and fasting on your child doesn’t soften his or her heart, you might consider taking him or her to a pastor to have the demons cast out. This is not exorcism in the Catholic sense but is rooted in traditional biblical practices as found in the Gospels. Do not be deceived by your child when she tells you she was “born gay” or has felt homosexual urges all her life. These are lies from the Devil and only the vigilance of loving and firm Christian parents can save these children from the fires of Hell.

  “Glad you could make it, Mr. Edge,” came a voice from the doorway. Kingsley looked up from the book and smiled.

  “Your wife is quite the writer,” Kingsley said, dropping the book back on to the desk. “I didn’t think women in your denomination were allowed to speak in church.”

  “We’re a nondenominational congregation. We let our women sp
eak and teach.”

  “Too bad,” Kingsley said. “If my wife were spouting bullshit like this, I wouldn’t let her talk, either. Let me know if you need to borrow a ball gag.”

  Fuller gave Kingsley a hard smile.

  “I’m impressed you decided to show your face.” Reverend Fuller stepped into his office. Kingsley hadn’t met him or seen him yet, but he looked exactly like his photographs—gray hair slicked back, oily smile and carrying twenty pounds too many for his six-foot frame.

  “You said you wanted to talk man to man,” Kingsley said. He dropped the book back on to Fuller’s desk and walked around to the other side. “So talk.”

  Kingsley didn’t bother sitting. He wasn’t going to be here long. But Fuller sat behind his desk and smiled his greasy smile at him.

  “So…” Fuller began, “the infamous Kingsley Edge in person. Nice outfit.”

  “The T-shirt was free.”

  “Not your typical Saturday, is it? Playing church-league soccer?”

  “I’m the ringer,” Kingsley said. “A certain priest I know made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  “Yes, your brother-in-law’s a priest. I guess celibacy doesn’t run in families.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t, would it?”

  “Seems odd that he comes and goes so freely from your house, doesn’t it?” Fuller’s tone was casual, uncomfortably so.

  “Odd? I wouldn’t say that,” Kingsley said with a casual air. “He’s the only family I have. He likes to check in on me.”

  “He’s a priest. And you’re…not.”

  “Jesus was the Son of God, and he spent time with prostitutes. Something about not judging, not throwing stones. You know the verses, I’m sure.”

  “Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said even the devil could quote the Bible?”

  “It was, and he was right,” Kingsley said. “I imagine the devil could even quote the Bible from a pulpit.”

  “Are you calling me the devil?” Fuller asked, his jaw tightening as his smile widened.

  “After looking at that book, I’d say your wife is the more likely candidate.”

  Fuller raised his hand.

  “We’re not discussing my wife. We’re talking man to man, remember?”

  “About what exactly?”

  “About women,” Fuller said. “This is our fight, and we should fight like gentlemen. I know you want my building. I want you to go away forever. Let’s keep our eyes on each other and leave the ladies out of this.”

  “Ladies, but not sixteen-year-old girls?”

  “That was ten years ago. You’re going to dig all that up?”

  Kingsley arched his eyebrow at him.

  “I was referring to the girl on that tape you had sent to me and my brother-in-law.”

  Fuller shifted in his seat. “Of course. Her. Your teenage lover. Thought she was fifteen.”

  “She had a birthday. You know I’ve never met her, right? Are you planning on having me arrested for fucking a minor I’ve never met? Lying and bragging aren’t illegal, last I heard. If they were every man I know would be in jail.”

  “No,” Fuller said with some haste. “We’re being men, you and I. We’ve agreed to leave the women and girls out of our dispute. Haven’t we?”

  “As you wish,” Kingsley said. “But now I’m wondering, who were you referring to?”

  “I’m sure you know by now of the girl who committed suicide at our camp. A tragic circumstance, but we were cleared of any wrongdoing.”

  “Money has a way of clearing things up, doesn’t it?”

  Fuller leaned forward, clasped his hands and gazed intently at Kingsley.

  “Tell me something, Mr. Edge. What is it that you want from me?”

  “I want your building. I want The Renaissance.”

  “You know I’m not selling to you, and yet you persist in pursuing this matter long after it’s been closed. So, either you don’t understand English well enough to know what no means. Or you want something else from me.”

  “My English is perfect,” Kingsley said. “So it must be the other—I do want something else. I want you to keep your church out of my city, and I want you to stop torturing gay teenagers.”

  “That’s therapy, not torture.”

  “Electrodes on the genitals? I’ve actually been tortured and they didn’t even do that to me.”

  “I’m not a doctor or a therapist. I leave our licensed professionals to carry out their work. These therapies are tough, yes. But they work. And if you think you’re going to stop us from helping these poor sick kids, you’re as in need of therapy as they are.”

  “Can we compromise?” Kingsley asked. “I’ll let you have the building for your church, and you shut the camps down?”

  “Or how about you go back to your depraved lifestyle and leave our church alone to do God’s work in peace. And I’ll stop gathering information that could destroy you. That’s my compromise.”

  “Destroy me? What could you possibly do to me that hasn’t already been done?” Kingsley laughed openly. “You need a better threat.”

  “From what I can see, I have more on you than you have on me.”

  “I haven’t given up looking. And unlike you, I’m not ashamed of anything you’d find out about me,” Kingsley said, hoping Fuller believed that. He did have more than a few secrets he’d prefer to keep. “I don’t think you could say the same.”

  “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Good,” Kingsley said. “That will make it easier to find what I need.”

  “You’re not going to find anything. And if you keep looking, so will I. And not only at you.”

  “My friends have nothing to hide, either.”

  “Even the priest in the family?”

  “I’ll tell you anything about him you want to know. Did you know he was abused as a child? Hospitalized after his father broke his arm? Did you know he killed a sexual predator at his school? He also gave up a huge fortune to become a priest after he was widowed at age eighteen. He spent several summers volunteering at a leper colony in India. How much time have you spent volunteering in leper colonies?”

  Kingsley gave Fuller a long, pointed look. Fuller didn’t answer.

  “Take some advice,” Kingsley said, “and keep your eyes on me. If you stare at him too long, you might learn something about what it means to be a man of God.”

  Fuller raised his chin.

  “You can go now, Mr. Edge. I think we’ve talked man to man enough.”

  “I will. I don’t want to be late for my game. My other game.”

  Kingsley gave a mock bow and headed out.

  “Mr. Edge?” Fuller called out after him. Kingsley turned on his heel.

  “Oui?”

  “I have more money than you. And more contacts. And friends in higher places. Remember that.”

  “Quite the Goliath, aren’t you?” Kingsley smiled once more. “When I get your hotel and turn it into my club, I’ll fuck a man on opening night in your honor. By the way, do you have any sons?”

  “Pardon my French, Monsieur Edge, but get the fuck out of my office.”

  Kingsley happily obliged the man.