The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “What about the banquet on Thursday? Will the police be there?”

  Mitchell’s large, squared-off head moved impassively from side to side. “That’s private, not on city or county property, and there’s no municipal tie-in. So there’s no way. But I’ve hired extra men. They’ll be on duty Sunday, too. And the limos’ve been checked.”

  Nodding, Flournoy beckoned for Mitchell to accompany him to the opposite corner of the sitting room, away from the connecting door.

  “Marvella’s been getting extra liquor,” Flournoy said quietly. “Susan isn’t doing her job. Any thoughts?”

  With his eyes on the connecting door, prepared to break off when Holloway appeared, Mitchell said, “Austin’s got to leave her at home on these trips. In Los Angeles, she’s all right. It’s only on the road that she goes off the rails.”

  “She’s more manageable in Los Angeles,” Flournoy answered, correcting the other man. “But she’s far from all right.”

  Mitchell shrugged in his massive shoulders. “Marvella’s part of The Hour. And The Hour holds everything together.”

  “Austin holds everything together.” Flournoy’s voice was cold, uncompromising. “Austin is The Hour.”

  “This is no time to talk about Marvella.” Mitchell spoke slowly, in a heavy, measured voice. The voice, the body, the face, all were complementary facets of the man: implacable, unyielding. “Not here. Not now.”

  “Will you talk to Susan, though?” Flournoy pressed. “I don’t want any problems on Sunday.”

  “I’ll talk to her, yes.”

  Holloway stood up, flushed the toilet, tucked in his shirt, zipped up his trousers, stepped in front of the washbasin. The faucets were gold-plated dolphins, the basin was marble. The mirror, too, was gold framed. As he washed his hands he looked himself squarely in the eye. Next month, he would be sixty-four years old. So far, the years had treated him kindly. The eyes were still clear, still commanding. The flesh beneath the eyes was still firm. Yes, the skin was lined and creased and wrinkled. But it was the pattern of the wrinkles that mattered, not the fact of their existence. And, with the exception of the creases that slightly puckered his lower lip—the mewling creases, he called them—he was pleased with what he saw in the mirror. And, yes, he was pleased with what he saw in the film clips. The cameras had been good to him, and he was grateful. The people apparently liked what they saw, too. Because the mail had never been heavier, or the checks more bountiful. As for the sagging flesh beneath the jawline … He lifted his chin, moved his head from side to side. “Turkey wattles,” his father had called them. And turkey wattles ran in the family, unhappily. Vividly, he could remember sitting in the first row of hard wooden benches, looking up, seeing the loose flesh of his father’s neck swish from side to side as his father pounded the pulpit, exhorting an apathetic congregation.

  Slowly, reflectively, he took a towel from the rack, carefully dried his hands, dropped the towel on the counter beside the basin. Although his eyes still stared into the depths of the mirror, his gaze was unfocused now, lost in distant memory.

  In recent years, more frequently each year, images of his father returned. They returned at odd times, for odd reasons, some of them fragments, some of them whole. Most often, the images centered on the Sunday morning services: his father, clutching the pulpit with both his scrawny hands, preaching to a meager congregation with his high, whining voice, the same voice with which he complained about the high cost of living, or the sad state of his son’s report card, or burst pipes in winter, or burnt lawns in the summer. Only once had he ever seen his father enraged; only once had he ever seen his father’s hand raised in anger. And for that he had always secretly despised his father; not for his rage, but for his forbearance.

  Holloway took his pinstriped jacket from the gold-plated hook. Without looking at his watch, he knew that the twelve minutes Flournoy had allotted him had already passed into eternity. It was time, therefore, to go downstairs, enter his limo, and be driven to the steps of City Hall, where the mayor would present him with a key to the city. It would be this thirteenth key. Lucky thirteen.

  Seated beside Flournoy, Holloway was facing Mitchell and a security man named Tucker sitting on the jump seats. An attaché case rested on the floor beside Tucker. Inside the case, Holloway had been told, there was a small machine gun.

  In the limo behind, carrying Marvella and Susan Gaines, two other security men were riding, one of them carrying another attaché case.

  Ahead, two lines of bumper-to-bumper midday traffic were impacted. On the steps of City Hall, his honor the mayor might already be waiting, checking the time.

  At his side, Holloway heard Flournoy clearing his throat. Another cool, calm, closely reasoned lesson was about to begin. Before he’d joined The Crusade, Flournoy had been a corporation comptroller. Writing his constant string of memos, or delivering his day-to-day, hour-to-hour briefings, Flournoy’s pronouncements had the tempo and texture of an annual report that had been put on an audio cassette.

  “So far,” Flournoy said, “we simply aren’t getting good attendance projections for Sunday, Austin. We’ve talked about this—the demographics here. And I must tell you, I’m concerned. There’s no real constituency here or in Marin County. And nothing down the Peninsula, either. At least not until you get to Redwood City. And it’s a fact that the longer people have to travel, the less likely they are to show up. It’s true that the East Bay has a lot of potential. But Oakland’s mostly black. And we’ve talked about that—about the blacks, on camera. Also, I’m getting the feeling that we’re going to get a lot of tongue-in-cheek, yuppie media coverage. And that worries me. That one from Channel Four, just now, for instance—” Flournoy shook his head. “He’s going to do a job on us in the editing. I can feel it.”

  Holloway smiled: an easy, confident smile. “Herbert, you’re a whiz with figures, and you’re a hell of an organizer, an executive’s executive. But you’ve got to appreciate the fact that what we’re involved in here is show business, pure and simple. Now, you evidently listened to what that bright young Jeffrey Christopher said, but you may have missed what I said.” Quizzically, Holloway smiled at his chief of staff. “Is that possible?”

  Peevishly, Flournoy declined the gambit as he stared through the windshield at the lines of cars ahead. The reason for the traffic jam was an apartment house fire, two blocks ahead. At this rate, they could be a half hour late. Understandably, the mayor would be furious.

  “Because if you’d listened,” Holloway was saying, “and if you listened at last week’s situational session, Herbert, you’d realize that what we’re doing here in San Francisco is something entirely different from what we’ve ever done before. We go to St. Louis, or Baltimore, or Houston, or wherever, and we’re basically giving them the same old crap, week after week—year after year. We’re feeding the same lines to the same people. Right?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying, Austin. I’m saying that—”

  “This week,” Holloway said, smoothly raising a pontifical hand, “is going to be different. San Francisco is a hotbed of corruption and sin. Virtually every plague that afflicts this society has its roots—deep roots—right here, in this city. It’s Sodom and Gomorrah. And I’ll guarantee you, Herbert, that by the time I’ve finished with this city—with its perverts and its radicals and its free love—by the time I’ve finished, the faithful in Des Moines are going to be glued to their television sets. They’ll be hooting, and they’ll be hollering, Herbert. And they’ll be responding, too. When the mail comes in—when you read your printouts, about ten days from now—you’ll realize that I’m right. This city is evil personified. Don’t forget, this is where the AIDS scourge started, a plague that could rival the Black Death. And I know you’ll understand me when I say that with proper attention to detail—and with a little creative imagination—the faithful can be made to understand that the future of the whole human race as we know it could be decided right here, right now.” Havi
ng allowed his voice to rise to a reflexive tremolo, Holloway paused, let his mouth twitch into a knowing smile as he said, “Armageddon, in other words. Big medicine, Herbert. Very big medicine indeed, properly packaged.”

  Behind sparkling gold-framed glasses, Flournoy’s eyes were speculative. Finally he shrugged his impeccably tailored shoulders. “Maybe you’re right, Austin. It’s happened before, that you’ve been right. God knows, your instincts are usually accurate. However, as you know, it’s my job to ask these questions.” As he spoke, Flournoy looked ahead. Finally, the fire trucks were moving off. The limo was beginning to inch forward.

  Elaborately magnanimous, Holloway inclined his handsome head. “I want you to ask questions, Herbert. Believe me. Incidentally, speaking of Sunday, tell Benton that when his cameras cut away, I want them to pick up some of these characters—punk rockers, fags, anyone who’ll stand out. Targets of opportunity, in other words. Not totally, of course. But I want him to keep it in mind. Give him the game plan, in other words.”

  “Right.” From an inside pocket, Flournoy withdrew a gold Cross pen and gold-bound notebook, presents from the vice-president. Meticulously, he made a note to himself.

  8

  MARVELLA LOOKED INTO THE security man’s eye’s then looked quickly away.

  They were all the same, these men who carried guns. Their eyes were the same: at the center, far back, a gleam of death glittered, still as a snake’s eye, watching, waiting.

  The first time she’d seen a snake, she’d been playing beside the creek that ran along the northern edge of her daddy’s property. She’d been sailing tiny paper boats, watching them disappear as the creek flowed beneath a low-growing tree branch. The snake had looked like a part of the tree root, growing exposed on the riverbank. Only the snake’s head had been visible—the head and the eyes, fixed on her, unblinking. She’d been six when she’d seen the snake. Never before had she experienced terror.

  She’d been sixteen when she’d first seen Austin. It had been a hot, humid summer afternoon, the summer between her junior and senior years. He’d been talking to her daddy. The two men, the old preacher and the young preacher, had been standing together in front of her daddy’s tabernacle. He’d always called it his tabernacle, that poor, one-story clapboard building, originally a storefront, with its plate glass painted out, and its gilt cross hand-painted above the sagging door, with its white paint peeling, and its roof leaking.

  At first Austin hadn’t been aware of her. She’d been standing on the dusty pathway that led around to the back of the building, where she and her daddy lived. They’d been bargaining, Austin and her daddy, deciding how much Austin would pay to use the tabernacle on Wednesday nights.

  But then, as if he’d sensed her presence, Austin had turned toward her. Just for a moment, she’d felt helpless, unable to move, as surely transfixed as if she’d been her younger self, standing beside the creek, staring at the snake. She’d been suspended in time and place, staring at this stranger. It was the first time she’d ever felt as if her clothing had somehow lost substance, leaving her naked body exposed to a stranger’s knowing eyes.

  In that moment, she’d known that, whatever this stranger demanded of her, she would gladly give.

  The traffic ahead was beginning to move; the limousine rocked gently, getting under way, following Austin. Through the smoked-glass windows on either side she could see strangers standing on sidewalks, watching them as they passed.

  How had it happened, that these people stood on the sidewalk, watching, while she rode past them, so grandly invisible? Did they realize how small she felt, dressed in her thousand-dollar dress, wearing her two-hundred-dollar shoes, sitting beside Susan Gaines, whose job—whose sole responsibility—was to watch over her?

  No.

  Not watch over her.

  Watch her.

  Wherever she went, Susan was expected to go. By Austin’s decree, their lives were connected, the captive and the keeper.

  And now the keeper spoke:

  “This is all we have today, just this presentation of the key to the city. It shouldn’t take more than a half hour. Then we’ll come back to the hotel, to rest. Mr. Holloway has meetings downtown, then later at the hotel. But that doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow will be the civic luncheon. I’ve been talking with Herbert about it. Except for the actual service, on Sunday, the civic luncheon will be the most important thing we’ve got to do. Mr. Holloway wants all the family there—you, Gloria, Elton. And the grandchildren, too.”

  Marvella frowned. On her impeccably made-up face two small furrows between the eyebrows were the only imperfections. “The grandchildren? Why?”

  “Mr. Holloway thinks they can handle it.”

  “But they’re so young, to sit still for that long. Carole is only five.”

  Sweetly, Susan Gaines smiled. “They’re beautifully behaved. I’m sure it’ll work out. After all, if they can sing with the rest of you—the whole family, on Sundays—they should be able to handle a civic luncheon.”

  Fretfully, Marvella shook her head. But the two tiny frown-furrows had disappeared, returning her face to its bland, bogus, unblemished serenity. Covertly, she glanced at her watch. The time was fifteen minutes after three.

  Less than two hours remained. Soon time, so often her enemy, would reward her, befriend her, make this day whole again.

  9

  HASTINGS COVERED THE TELEPHONE’S mouthpiece as the door to the tiny office swung open to reveal Bill Malloy.

  “Would you mind—could you excuse me for a minute or two?” Apologetically, Hastings smiled. “I’m getting my game plan.”

  “Oh, sure.” The house detective flipped a casual hand. “Just make yourself at home, Lieutenant. Whatever.” Carefully, Malloy closed the door.

  Over the phone Hastings heard Friedman say, “What you’re telling me is that Austin Holloway’s son—the son of God, according to the TV ratings—is a mass murderer. Is that about it?”

  “That’s about it. If we believe Dancer Browne’s identification.”

  “And do we believe Dancer Browne?”

  “He’s all we’ve got. Besides, the description Browne gave me last night fits. Perfectly. No one was prompting him, either. And then there’s the FBI thing.”

  “That’s not evidence, though. That’s just a printout.”

  “I know that. All I’m asking is, how do we want to handle it?”

  “What’s the room clerk at the Bayside Hotel say?”

  “His story hasn’t changed. He says he didn’t see the guy, didn’t notice him, couldn’t identify him. I’m beginning to believe him.”

  “Which leaves us with a pimp’s testimony to show the DA.”

  “Jesus, Pete, I know all that.” Hastings’s voice rose an aggrieved half note. “What I’m asking is, what do we do now? You’re the guru, the planner. What’s the plan?”

  A moment of thoughtful silence passed. Then: “The plan is for me to come down to the St. Francis, get a look at the terrain.”

  Surprised, Hastings asked, “Are you kidding?”

  “Do I sound like I’m kidding?”

  “How long’s it been since you’ve been out in the field?”

  “The question is, how long has it been since I’ve had a shot at maybe tying a can to the likes of Austin Holloway.”

  “Not Holloway. His son.”

  “Same thing, in a way. Have you ever caught Holloway on TV, by any chance?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I have. These guys fascinate me, these TV evangelists. Especially Holloway, who’s in the catbird seat, no question. Do you know he’s got a whole university down in Los Angeles—with a basketball team that made it to the playoffs, for God’s sake. And do you also know that, every time he’s in the neighborhood, he stops by the White House for lunch? Do you read This Week?”

  “No.”

  “Well, they had an article on TV
evangelists not too long ago. And the money they make—the power they have—is absolutely mind-boggling. Holloway has his own two communication satellites, for God’s sake. Just think what that means. He owns them, and rents out time to other evangelists. These guys push the buttons and turn the knobs that control how millions of people think. They’ve got the American dream in their well-lined hip pockets.”

  “Jesus, I’ve never heard you so wound up.”

  Conceding the point, Friedman chuckled. “Usually we put in our time collaring someone who knifed someone in a bar, or someone who hit her husband too hard with an iron skillet during their standard Saturday night domestic argument. But what we’ve got here is the big time. I mean, we’re talking about changing the course of history, here.”

  “I think someone gave you the key to the narcotics bin, that’s what I think.”

  Undeterred, Friedman said, “You’ve never seen Holloway’s act, or you’d know what I’m talking about. See, his whole pitch, his trademark, is the Holloway family. Some of these guys, you know, just sit at a desk, and talk into the camera—with an eight-hundred number at the bottom of the screen, to call and make a pledge. Not Holloway, that’s not his style. He showcases his family. There’s his wife, who’s supposed to be the virgin mother, I guess, who sings a few lyrics, but mostly looks at Holloway adoringly. Her name is … I forget her name. Marvel, something like that. Then there’s Holloway’s daughter, who also sings—and who fills out a dress like you wouldn’t believe. She’s got two children, a boy and a girl. ‘The grandkids,’ as Holloway calls them. You can’t believe it, how crazy Holloway is about ‘the grandkids.’ And then there’s Elton. The ex-boy soprano.”

  “Are you telling me that you’ve been following Holloway since Elton was a boy soprano?”

  “God, no. I’m just telling you that he looks like a boy soprano. Where’ll I meet you, at the St. Francis?”