An Absent God

by Vincent Wilde

  Norm scrunched up his lips and moved them side to side in thought. “I guess about three.”

  “See? By your own admission, I’ve been getting screwed when it comes to vacation time.”

  Norm laughed. “You know we don’t have vacation time here. You just don’t get paid.”

  “It’s about the tape. I’ve got some business to attend to before it turns nasty.”

  His eyes brightened and I could see the excitement from my predicament take over his imagination. “Okay,” he said, “but let me know ASAP. I’ll have to get my sister-in-law in here to wash dishes and it won’t be pretty.”

  I had met the woman a few times and he was right. Menial labor did not become her.

  The next morning, I picked up the phone with the intention of calling Rodney Jessup. I punched in about three numbers from his business card and then my fingers froze.

  I had tried so hard since Stephen’s death to isolate myself, and, for the most part, I had succeeded and enjoyed the slow ride down life’s highway. I said no to drama—other than reading my favorite playwrights—and I hadn’t regretted it. There was something to be said for safety and security.

  But by dialing his number, by jumping into the fire, I would once again turn my world upside down. The months of lazing in my apartment would be history. The routine of a job, a good night’s sleep, and a run in Central Park, had become seductive, as addictive as any controlled substance I had ever imbibed. What had become of my man of action? I was suffering from what every American seems to want: a nice quiet life without too much stress.

  When Stephen Cross was kidnapped, I had a good reason to search for him. In my way, I loved the man and he was a good, good friend. Stephen and I never had sex—not that I didn’t want to—but he was in a monogamous relationship when we met. Ophelia was different, but she was a friend, too. With both these men, layers of friendship twisted and turned in bizarre ways that kept us connected throughout our histories. Ophelia was more than a teacher of drag to me. She was a person I respected and wanted to help. When John Dresser asked me to look for Stephen, the decision had been easy. I struggled with this one, but when I thought about it, I had no choice but to dial Jessup’s number. Having some cash on hand wouldn’t be bad either.

  Rodney’s voice sounded jittery when he answered the phone, like he’d been on an all-night bender.

  “Stress getting to you, Reverend?” I asked.

  Rodney paused as if stung by my comment and finally said, “Do you have a soul, Mr. Harper? Because if you do, you would understand the pain that’s being inflicted on my family. Can you really be that heartless?”

  I wasn’t in the mood for tea and sympathy. “If the job is still open, I want it.” He exhaled and I continued. “I can’t guarantee that I’m the answer to your problems—”

  “When can you be here?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Good. Book a flight to Richmond. I’ll have a driver pick you up.”

  “Am I staying overnight?”

  “Pack a bag.”

  “There’s just one little thing. I want half up front, the other half when I complete the job—whenever that is. Finding someone, as you put it.”

  I expected some hesitation, but there was none. He asked for the account number at my bank. I had no problem giving it to him because there was less than five hundred dollars in it. That was a fortune to me, a pittance to him.

  Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars would be there by the end of the business day, he said. I told him I would book the flight once the cash was in.

  “Don’t bother, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll make the reservation for you. I’m sending a car tomorrow morning to take you to LaGuardia. If there’s a problem call me.”

  We hung up and I flopped on my couch, flabbergasted. I suddenly had more money coming to me than I had ever dreamed of. Rodney Jessup was about to make me a rich man.

  The day dragged by. I called Ophelia and told her I had landed a big job and not to worry about getting money for meds. If everything went according to plan, there would be enough money for spa treatments in addition to medical treatments, and then some left over for several nice cruises.

  I called Norm and told him that I wasn’t coming in to work and would be out for at least a week. He groused a bit, but said my job would be waiting for me when I came back. Suddenly, I was able to fulfill everyone’s fantasy of thumbing my nose at the boss and walking out the door. But I couldn’t do that to Norm. I’d return to Han’s if only to work out my notice.

  I rummaged in my closet trying to find something decent to wear to Virginia. I guessed the Commonwealth might be warmer than New York City, but I really had no idea where I was going. I pulled out all my leather and laughed. Chaps and a leather jockstrap might be fun, but probably weren’t appropriate attire for Rodney, or whatever else might come up in Virginia. Drag didn’t seem like a good choice either. Nothing I owned really made sense.

  Finally, I dug out a decent piece of luggage I’d found on the street near Columbus Circle and started to pack—a shaving kit, underwear, for decency’s sake, and toiletries. For a moment, I had to stop, pinch myself, and ask if this was really happening. The money didn’t come without risk, but a quarter of a million dollars?

  A bank account was one of the little luxuries I’d never had before coming to New York. I had to produce ID and go through all the standard procedure of opening an account. The nice people there even gave me a secured credit card with a five hundred dollar limit—since I had no credit history. My meager savings backed it up.

  I looked through my closet, and decided that a trip to Macy’s was in order. After a nice lunch, I purchased some chinos, a few shirts, a handsome jacket, a pair of sunglasses, as well as a pair of gloves and a scarf. Three hours later, my card was four hundred dollars poorer, but I was richer in street clothes. I was beginning to feel like a real person, and I liked it.

  On the way home, I strode into my bank with my red and white bags in hand. The assistant manager who opened my account usually gave me a nod and a quick hello, but this time he broke into a wide grin, rose from his desk, practically skipped toward me, and shook my hand.

  “So nice to see you again, Mr. Harper,” he said.

  He was a portly Hispanic man whose face flushed at the sight of me. “I just wanted you to know that your wire came in safely. If there’s anything we can do to keep your business, let us know. Thank you for trusting us with your deposit.”

  “That’s why I came in,” I said. “I wanted to know if all two hundred and—”

  He put a finger to his lips. “I would say you’re a quarter richer than you were this morning.”

  “That’s good to know,” I said. “Take care of it.”

  He laughed and his stomach jiggled underneath his white shirt.

  I walked out of the bank into the sunshine. I put on my new sunglasses and looked up at the towers around me. A song broke out inside my head: “Money,” from Cabaret. The world was indeed going round at a dizzying pace.

  My view of life was changing dramatically. And it was all happening so fast.

  My alarm went off at five a.m.

  Forty-five minutes later, my apartment buzzer blared with an annoying metallic ring. I peered through the blinds and looked to the right, toward the set of stairs that led down to my door. The light over the door threw its feeble rays on a figure in crisp black pants and polished shoes who stood waiting for an answer.

  I looked to the street. A long, black limo was double-parked in front of my building.

  I went to the door. “Who is it?”

  “Your driver,” a rather stiff voice replied.

  “I didn’t ask for a driver,” I said to throw him off. I wanted to make sure he was legitimate.

  “I know, sir. Mr. Jessup ordered a car service . . . to ensure that you make it to the airport on time.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of Reverend Jessup. I was going to take the shuttle bus. Are you armed?”


  “No, sir!” came the shocked reply.

  I unlocked the door, but kept the security chain on. My driver, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, looked harmless enough. “Give me a minute.”

  I shut the door in his face, and walked through the apartment one more time. I had never been on a jet in my life and, suddenly, I was getting nervous. The thought of flying at thirty-two thousand feet with nothing under me but air turned my stomach upside down. What the hell was happening? Was I a neurotic mess because I had something to lose? Maybe it was my sudden bankroll of close friends who happened to be residing in my account. I used to be fearless. The whole terrible tragedy with Stephen Cross, Chris Spinetti, Carl Roy, and Rodney Jessup ran through my mind. My life had become much too comfortable, and I was no longer used to stepping out of my comfort zone. I thought about what Helen Keller once said about security being an illusion for every creature on earth. I might as well live dangerously. I grabbed my bag and opened the door.

  “This way,” the driver said.

  I carried my bag to the stoop, locked the door, and looked lovingly at the apartment buildings down the street. I missed them already.

  “Allow me, sir,” the man said and picked up the bag.

  He walked to the car with my luggage and opened the rear door. I ducked inside and settled onto a black leather seat. The interior was warm, and gentle string music played over the stereo speakers. The trunk release popped and then closed. The driver got into the front and pulled away from the curb.

  A short time later, his voice came through the speakers over the music. “Help yourself to orange juice and bagels if you like. Just push the button in front of you.”

  I jabbed the button as instructed and a burled walnut panel slid open. A chilled bottle of orange juice sat inside the compartment along with cinnamon raisin bagels and cream cheese. Rodney was putting on the dog for me. I picked up a chilled glass, poured some juice, and leaned back in the comfortable seat. Soon, we were gliding east through the Midtown Tunnel on our way to Queens.

  We arrived at the airport about an hour and half before my flight took off. The driver escorted me to the luxurious flight lounge, which seemed like a classy hotel lobby. It was comfortable, quiet, and well-appointed, with leather chairs and several televisions. Passengers could select from coffee, tea, pastries, water, or snacks for their breakfast pleasure. I watched the morning news, along with men in blue business suits and starched white shirts and women in equally dapper jackets, skirts, and heels. Soon, an agent handed me a ticket and informed me I’d be boarding as a first-class passenger, which was a pleasant surprise. Fortunately, I was dressed in my new chinos and a button-down shirt rather than my usual T-shirt and jeans.

  After boarding, I strapped myself into my seat and tried to focus on enjoying the flight. My first time flying was turning out to be quite the adventure, after all. That line of thinking kept me calm until the plane took off. My heart raced along with the jet engines. I looked out my passenger window to see the streets of Queens and Manhattan sink below me. In seconds, we were over the East River. Looking south, I saw the Empire State Building and the World Trade Center rise like monoliths, their tops skirting the early morning clouds. In a short time, we were over the industrial wastelands of Jersey and headed south to the Piedmont region of Richmond. I sank into my seat, closed my eyes, and tried to nap.

  A driver carrying a sign marked Harper met me at the Richmond airport. He led me to my second limo ride in a day. This car was stocked with a full bar of nips. I couldn’t decide whether Jessup was trying to get me drunk or just tempt me. Either way, the man of God certainly knew how to put the itch under my skin. I lit a cigarette, hit the button on the arm console, and cracked the window. We drove west for about an hour and a half across rolling hills before traversing a mountain range. We skirted a small town called Buena Vista. In each direction there were green peaks awash in pale blue. The driver told me Rodney Jessup’s home was about three miles from the center of town.

  The limo wound its way through densely wooded areas of pine and tall oaks, thrusting us into alternating patterns of shadow and sun. I knew we were nearing Rodney’s home when the car slowed and turned right down a road bordered on each side by cedars, maples, and stands of tall pines. Soon, we came to a stop in front of an ornate wrought-iron gate. The initials RJ were fashioned into the top. Two gilt stone lions sat looking at us from atop their perches of red brick. The gate split open and we slipped through. We drove at least a half mile down the road before the house came into view.

  To describe the house as large would be an understatement. The red brick colonial, with immense side wings, stretched the length of the mountain base it sat upon. The land around the structure was cleared, but the tree line was so close it gave the inhabitants privacy in every direction. A large white-columned portico, which would be particularly useful in winter snows, graced the circular drive. The car glided to a stop under it and the driver came around and opened the door. He then took my bag from the trunk as the front door to the house opened with a slow creak.

  The person who greeted me was not Rodney Jessup. She was a young Hispanic woman with dark hair and even darker eyes, and I assumed she was part of Jessup’s household staff. She welcomed me as I entered the house, and she led me to a living room that was straight out of House Beautiful, not to mention the killer view of the lush landscaped grounds that stretched to the base of the mountain.

  The most striking feature of the room was the gigantic stone fireplace that took up nearly half a wall. Floor-to-ceiling glass framed it. That architectural element gave the effect of being outside at a campfire, when in actuality you were seated comfy and cozy in one of the zillion chairs and sofas scattered about the room. I noticed the fabric label on one of them. Scalamandré, of course.

  “Reverend Jessup will be in to see you in a moment,” the woman said. “Lunch will be served soon.”

  “Thank you . . . uh . . . ”

  “Abby,” she replied.

  She turned and left me alone with my bag, which the driver had deposited near my chair.

  “Thank you, Abby,” I said to the empty room.

  Jessup didn’t keep me waiting long enough to feel like a second-class citizen, but my arms were getting itchy by the time he appeared. To pass the time, I looked at Christian magazines, many featuring interviews with Rodney, enough to fill my lifetime quota.

  Finally, he sauntered in from the left wing. He looked considerably more relaxed than the last time I saw him, when he was parked outside my apartment in New York.

  He wore blue slacks and an expensive maroon cashmere sweater over a white shirt. His hair looked a touch darker than I remembered from our meeting at the church in Manchester, New Hampshire. Perhaps in preparation for announcing his bid for president he had indulged in a dye job. Cosmetic aids certainly weren’t out of his range of vanity. His face was a soft pink. In the light that filtered in through the large windows he looked to be in good health.

  At first, I didn’t notice someone was walking behind him. But when Rodney took a few steps down to the living room, a swarthy face popped into view. He was the driver I’d seen in New York, Rodney’s bodyguard. He carried himself confidently with a touch of swagger and was dressed in a double-breasted black suit complemented by a muted checked tie. His muscular body was almost bursting under the fabric. Clearly, this man was no stranger to the gym or he had unbelievable genes. I couldn’t help but notice the outline of a shoulder holster underneath his suit. That wasn’t the only outline that attracted my attention; his pants were bunched at the crotch. He was packing heat there as well. His velvety brown eyes took me in as I sat transfixed in the chair.

  “Mr. Harper.” Rodney extended his hand. Because I was his reluctant employee I chose to shake it. “I trust your trip went well.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I didn’t expect the royal treatment, but as long as you’re buying I’m happy.”

  “You’re under my employ
as of now,” he said and looked down at me with a smile that smacked of condescension.

  I was about to reply when he turned and introduced the stud who was waiting patiently behind him like a trained bear.

  “This is Anthony Vargas,” Rodney said. “He used to work for the local police department, but he’s a private investigator now.”

  “Oh, a private dick,” I said and rose to shake Mr. Vargas’s hand. “I’ve been wondering who you were—actually more than wondering.” I couldn’t help but snicker.

  “Pleased to meet you, Cody,” he said and then smiled.

  I melted a little when he clasped my hand. Horns sprouted out of my head.

  “We can talk over lunch,” Rodney said and pointed to the dining room situated to the right down the hall.

  Abby had apparently sneaked in with the salads when I wasn’t looking. Rodney sat at the head of a large mahogany table. Anthony and I took places across from each other. I chose the seat with the view of the expansive lawn. Soon, Abby appeared with a carafe of white wine. She served Rodney a generous glass.

  The dick and I said a polite, “No, thanks.”

  “So, Reverend Jessup, let’s get to the point,” I said. “I get the feeling you need to fill me in on a whole lot of history before we get to the purpose of my job.”

  Rodney sipped his wine and then placed his fork on the salad plate. “Tony has been on the job a bit longer than you, so I’ll let him explain.”

  So, it was Tony. Not only did Rodney hire a looker, he was on a nickname basis with him as well.

  “Okay, Tony,” I said. “Spill.”

  Tony was not outwardly amused at my pseudo command. However, I detected a ripple of laughter behind the irises. I wasn’t sure, but I thought he liked me. I was jumping the gun a bit. I wasn’t even certain he was a friend of Dorothy’s, but my gaydar was getting positive returns from the hunk across the table.

  Tony had only poked at his salad. He sipped his water and began. “You might remember that two men were shot in the head near the National Zoo last April.”