As he bowed his head, he covertly assessed the reaction. Yes, he had their attention. And perhaps their grudging professional respect.
“Assuming that you’re right about sex in the media,” Frankle said, “what would you do about it? How would you control it?”
“Moral pressure,” Holloway answered. “Those same people who really care—who want to help, want to vote for candidates who’ll carry their standards—they’re the same people who turn the TV knob to respectable programs. They’ll complain to the networks, too. And, instead of paying to go to corrupt movies, they’ll go to church on Sunday, and drop their five-dollar bills into the collection plate.”
Nodding good-naturedly, smiling, then shaking his head in mute concession to a point well made, Frankle sat down, reached for his half-filled glass of champagne.
The next question came from a tall young man who wore no tie, and who spoke in a high, thin voice: “What about censorship, Mr. Holloway? Would that help?” He asked it wide-eyed, projecting a half-mocking innocence.
“Censorship,” Holloway said, “definitely would not help—not, at least, at this point. However—and I’d like to be clear about this—should moral persuasion fail, then a responsible government would certainly have to act. That’s self-evident.”
“Was that self-evident to your friends last night?” the young man asked.
“It wasn’t discussed,” Holloway answered crisply. “I’m giving you my opinion. No one else’s but mine.”
“How do you feel about abortion?”
“I think abortion is a sin.”
“The law says a woman can have an abortion if she so chooses.”
“Then the law should be changed. I intend to do everything in my power to see that it will be changed.”
“If you should run for elective office, would that be part of your platform?”
“I have no intention of running for elective office. Ever.”
“Then you believe in the separation of church and state?”
Holloway let a beat pass, then spoke carefully, concisely: “As I said earlier, I believe that our country is in crisis. And in times of crisis, everyone must help.”
“So you don’t believe in separating church and state?”
“I didn’t say that. However, it’s obvious that, in times of crisis, extraordinary measures must be taken. Morally, this country is under attack. We’ve got to repel that attack.” Brusquely turning his attention away, he pointed to a middle-aged, overweight woman who was waving a fat palm high over her head.
“So far as I know,” she said, “you’re the only TV evangelist who’s ever come to San Francisco. Can you tell me why?”
As engagingly as he could, Holloway smiled: a wide, rich smile, especially for her. “Just because everyone gave up on San Francisco without even a fight, madam,” he said, “that’s no reason I should give up, too.”
The ripple of laughter was polite, no more. From this group, the newspaper stories and the TV footage would be mixed at best.
Over the diminishing snickers, she said, “What do you think about gun control, Mr. Holloway? Are you for it?”
“No, madam, I’m against gun control. I’m against violence in all its forms. But I am for self-defense. And the truth is, the criminals in this country are armed to the teeth. In some cases, I’m told, the criminals have better weapons than the police forces they oppose. And so long as that’s the case, then I think the God-fearing among us must arm themselves, too. I’ve never made any secret of it—I carry a gun, a Smith & Wesson .38. And whenever I get the chance, I practice with it.”
Eyes widening, the plump woman sat up straighter. “On you? Do you carry it on you? Now?”
Benevolently, he shook his head. “No, madam. I carry it among my effects. But I can assure you that, at night, it’s never far from my hand.”
The young, aggressive woman who’d asked the first question was the only one still with her hand raised. Regretfully, Holloway acknowledged her.
“You mentioned homosexuality earlier. Do you consider homosexuality a sin, too?”
“Yes,” he answered sternly. “Yes I do. I don’t intend to quote to you from the Bible. But I think there’s ample proof that God considers homosexuality a sin. What other reason can there be for the AIDS epidemic that’s sweeping this city?”
Her retort was cold, contemptuous: “AIDS is God’s revenge against homosexuals. Is that what you mean?”
“I’ve already said what I mean, madam. Plainly, God approves whatever benefits mankind. And if homosexuality should somehow ever become universal, then civilization would surely die out. That should be obvious.”
“It’s just as obvious,” she said, “that unrestrained reproduction would be disastrous.”
He decided to smile, to raise a placating hand in benediction. “I don’t believe, madam, that this is the time or the place to discuss matters of this complexity. Especially—” He smiled out over the audience, at the same time lifting his chin to give one of the TV cameramen a better angle. “Especially since I seem to sense that some of your colleagues are beginning to think about their deadlines.”
Grudgingly, the young woman surrendered the floor as Benton rose to his feet, ready to close the meeting.
29
OUTSIDE, IN THE HALLWAY, they waited. Downstairs, in the lobby, they waited: On the streets, in the cities, everywhere, they waited, the unclean women and the traitorous men—all of them watching, waiting, fingering their weapons, stalking him. Even Mitchell had gone over, had joined them, offered them his weapon. Mitchell, the last of the make-believe friends, the ultimate traitor, the big man with the gentle hands who had pretended to laugh with him when he was a child. But, all the while, Mitchell had plainly been making his plans, biding his treacherous time, patiently waiting for his orders. Until finally, last night, Mitchell had betrayed himself, revealed himself an enemy.
And with Mitchell’s unmasking, the whole plot had come clear. He’d always suspected the truth, and now it had been confirmed: the men, enemies of the light, traitors of God, had always used the women, the unclean women, as their lures. He’d always suspected it, always believed that, really, the men were his real enemies, the women merely the pawns, the moveable whores.
Yet it had taken him all this time, until last night, to be sure. Completely, utterly sure.
From earliest memory, for as long as God had laid the burden upon him, he’d known this moment would surely come when he stood alone, completely alone, one man facing the multitudes, defiantly. Only Christ could have known this sorrow, this burden of betrayal.
Their plan, of course, was plain, transparently simplistic, unbelievably naive. By disarming him last night, they hoped to deter him. But if Christ, surrounded by enemies—and, yes, one traitor—had refused to bend, then he, too, would surely prevail.
But it must be tonight. Now. Before they could make more plans, gather more assassins. He must rise from the chair that, for the last hour, had held him a prisoner. Then he must change his clothes, taking care that his clothes were different, always different. Tonight, he would wear a necktie. One tie, around his neck …
… and another tie, in his pocket, ready.
At the thought, he gently smiled. Because he’d known, long ago, that this moment must come, when they would seek to disarm him, for their own purposes. And, accordingly, he’d anointed this one necktie, this secret necktie, with all the properties that were required.
The foot-long length of three-quarter-inch pipe lay on the bed, heavy enough to make its own indentation in the quilted bedspread. Buttoning his vest and slipping on his jacket, Mitchell picked up the pipe, slipped it up the left sleeve of his jacket against the inside of his arm. Straightening his left arm down along his side, he was able to support the pipe in the cup of his hand, concealing it from all but the most meticulous observer. He stepped in front of the mirror, moved his left arm up and down, closely watching the telltale sag of the sleeve.
It
was possible that, tonight, the police would stop him, question him. The concealed pipe might be all the excuse they needed to arrest him. The .45 automatic in its shoulder holster wouldn’t endanger him. For the .45 he had a permit, a personal permit, separate from the permit he had for the .357 that he carried on duty. The pipe, though, bought two hours ago in a downtown hardware store, could spell disaster.
But the decision had already been made; the choice was no longer his.
He looked at his reflection one last time, verified that, with the arm held straight down at his side, the bulge of the pipe was hardly visible. The surgical gloves, bought in a drugstore before he bought the pipe, lay limp and lifeless on the bureau beneath the mirror. With his right hand, he slipped the gloves in a side pocket.
Conscious of the pipe’s awkward weight, he lifted his left arm, pushed back the cuff, looked at his wristwatch. The time was almost nine-thirty—time to take up his post.
“Why don’t you go to the can?” Canelli said. “Go to the can, and get rid of it. And then go home. Christ, you look terrible, all pale, and sweating. It’s stomach flu, sure as hell. It’s going around, you know. My sister’s whole family had it last week.”
“I’ll go to the can,” Friedman said, rising cautiously to stand erect. “But then I’ll come back, wait for a replacement.”
“Whatever.” Canelli waved the other detective away. “Just go to the can. You aren’t going to be much good with a pants full, you know, if the suspect shows up. Besides, the lieutenant just called about fifteen minutes ago. He’s on his way down, should be here any second. So what’s the problem?”
“All right, I’ll take a crap, then I’ll come back, see what the lieutenant says.” Mincingly, Friedman began walking stiff-legged across the crowded hotel lobby. Sympathetically shaking his head, Canelli settled himself more comfortably against a massive Grecian-style marble pillar, refocusing his attention on the bank of elevators.
“Going out?” Mitchell asked, stepping into the elevator to stand beside Elton. Two men and a woman, brightly talking, companionably laughing, were the only other passengers.
Eyes front, standing close to the door, Elton gave no sign that he’d heard.
“I’ll walk with you,” Mitchell said.
“No.”
Stepping close and lowering his voice, Mitchell whispered, “Then I’ll follow you. Like I did last night.”
The doors slid open. Elton stepped out of the elevator, began walking in a straight line directly across the lobby to the revolving doors. Standing beside the newsstand, Canelli saw the suspect come out of the elevator, closely followed by Mitchell. Canelli stepped away from the newsstand, switched on the surveillance radio clipped to his belt, verified that, yes, the red light was glowing. He put the tiny plastic earpiece in his ear, pressed the “transmit” button, spoke into the tiny microphone concealed in the palm of his hand.
“St. Francis one.” As he released the “transmit” button, Canelli looked anxiously toward the hallway that led to the men’s room. How long had Friedman been gone? Two minutes? Three? It was hardly enough time to let down his pants, get himself settled on the toilet seat.
He checked the radio’s volume control, checked the cord connecting the earpiece to the radio, pressed the “transmit” switch again. Across the lobby, Elton Holloway was halfway to the revolving doors, walking steadily, looking straight ahead, his eyes blank. Mitchell was a dozen paces behind, grimly determined, moving as stolidly as a beat cop grinding out his shift.
“St. Francis one. Smitty, come in. Quick.”
Not even static came from the walkie-talkie. Canelli looked at the north arcade, which led to the hotel’s Post Street entrance. Was there time to reach Smith and Backus, stationed at Post Street? Already, the suspect had his arm raised, ready to push through the revolving doors. Somewhere in the night, Lieutenant Hastings was driving toward the hotel. He could be a block away, a mile away, a city’s length away. Without a radio or a telephone, it was impossible to know.
Friedman—Smith and Backus—Hastings—none of them could help. As Canelli began moving toward the revolving door, he thumped the walkie-talkie hard with his knuckles, and was momentarily rewarded by a brief sizzle of static, followed by silence.
Ahead, the neon glow was growing, an obscene color splash against the dark sky, brighter than the stars, beckoning the sinners, guiding them, luring them, finally snaring them.
If spiders spun webs, then whores lit the neon lights.
First the lights, then the darkness.
And finally, inevitably, death.
If the lights were bright, the body was dark: the pit consuming the shaft of unclean flesh, digesting it, both of them diseased. The woman, like the spider, killed one man, consumed him, then set her snare for the next, and the next.
Until, finally, she must pay with her life.
First she was judged at the bar of celestial justice, in absentia. Then, with the sentence pronounced, absolved of earthly consequences, he was given the warrant. Thus was the Devil defeated, his minions rendered impotent.
Until last night.
Until Mitchell, the Judas traitor, had joined forces with the Devil, betraying him.
Mitchell, the companion of his earliest memories, the big man with the gentle hands, had stalked him last night, betrayed him. Just as now, the enemy unmasked, Mitchell was stalking him again, surely seeking to betray him again.
Unless …
As the beginning of a thought surfaced, the rhythm of his footsteps faltered. His gaze, which must be strictly focused, must be tunneled only straight ahead, was inexorably widening, as if he were about to turn his head, about to look behind.
Because, yes, he could see it now, could glimpse a small forbidden sliver of possible truth, God’s secret stratagem, knowledge denied to all but the chosen, God’s most trusted, most precious few.
Because, yes, even God needed them: the double agents.
Mitchell, and the other chosen few.
Therefore, he was no longer moving forward. Instead, he was standing motionless, feeling the jostling of humanity and yet not feeling them, the unclean bodies, the sinners surrounding him.
If he listened carefully, closely, he could hear the truth, God’s forbidden truth, celestial secrets disguised as ordinary voices, ordinary laughter. He could listen, and even smile as, himself all-knowing, the initiate now, he turned to face the friend of his childhood, God’s double agent, therefore now surely his secret ally.
Lightly, vehemently, Hastings tapped his clenched fist on the steering wheel. Both sides of Post Street were lined solidly with illegally parked cars. The sidewalks were crowded with high-spirited pedestrians, part of the city’s Friday night frenzy of barhopping merriment. During three traffic light changes, he’d advanced less than half a block. The time was almost ten o’clock, the time that Elton Holloway had left the hotel, both on Tuesday night and last night. Impacted in traffic, without knowing the frequency Canelli was using, he was cut off from the surveillance operation during its most critical phase. Ahead, beyond the Powell-Post intersection, a foot patrolman was walking past a brightly lit store window. Should he leave his car on Post Street, collar the patrolman, order him to take charge of his car? Should he try for a patch-through to the desk clerk, who could call Canelli to the phone?
Or should he simply wait it out, try to relax, try to calm a stomach that was beginning to rumble ominously?
Stopping momentarily on the crowded sidewalk, Mitchell stepped into the doorway of a video arcade. Turning to face the display window, he took the surgical gloves from his pocket, surreptitiously slipped them on, then rejoined the pedestrian flow, walking briskly now, to close the distance. Earlier in the day, walking this same route, he’d picked the place where it must happen, barely a block and a half away, on Mason Street.
At the corner of Geary and Powell streets, Canelli stopped, turned, looked back to the entrance of the St. Francis, a half block behind. Beyond a long line of y
ellow cabs, he saw a car that looked like a dark-colored Honda turning the corner from Post Street to Powell. Was it Lieutenant Hastings’s car? Could he afford to wait until he was sure, afford to gamble? Would Elton take the same route he’d taken Tuesday and Thursday, walking west on Geary to Mason, then south on Mason, deeper into the Tenderloin? Already, Mitchell was a half block away, walking steadily. Elton, the smaller figure, had already disappeared in the Friday night crowds.
If he waited for help, Canelli risked losing both of them.
But without help, he might risk his life.
Always, it happened like this: weeks—days—hours of plodding police work compressed into a few make-or-break moments, everything reduced to a single can’t-win decision.
Quickly, he stepped into the intersection, arms spread, palms wide, stopping the slow-moving traffic. Then, jumping up and down in the middle of Powell Street, facing the anonymous Honda, he waved his arms crisscrossed over his head.
The night was a madcap medley of San Francisco sounds: cable car bells clanging raucously, automobile horns bleating, doormen whistling for cabs, Friday night revelers laughing, calling to one another—all of it focused on Union Square, the city’s good-time center, daytime-bright in the glare of a thousand lights. Ahead, down the Powell Street hill, two cable cars were coasting toward the turntable at Market Street. A third cable car had stopped fifty feet short of the St. Francis, waiting for the Powell-Geary intersection to clear before the gripman took another hold on the cable. Two more cable cars, filled with passengers, were coming up from the turntable.
The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 17