Virgin

  A widower now—his wife had died five years ago—with one grown son, he was a formidable candidate. The born-again line of moral righteousness and family values he spouted guaranteed him a built-in core constituency. But he needed a broader base if he was aiming for national office, and he was steadily building that with his speech-making and his strong-featured good looks. Especially his speech-making. Crenshaw was a mesmerizing orator, whether from prepared text or off the cuff. In unguarded moments even Dan had found himself nodding in agreement with much of his rhetoric.

  But when he listened carefully, Dan tapped into an undercurrent that told him this was a man who had quickly become extremely powerful in his own little world and had grown used to having things his own way, a man of monstrous self-esteem who knew—knew—he had the answers, who believed there could be only one way of doing things—the Arthur Crenshaw way.

  But Father Daniel Fitzpatrick was here tonight to let him know that there were a few folks around who didn’t think Senator Crenshaw had all the answers, and that he was downright wrong when it came to the Domicile Plan.

  Here he comes, Dan thought as the glass door was held open for Crenshaw by a broad-shouldered Hispanic with dark glasses and “security” written all over him.

  A cheer went up from the onlookers as the senator stepped outside. Lots of normally liberal Manhattanites seemed enthralled with the man. Dan put it down to his physical resemblance to Bill Clinton, but knew it went deeper than that. The man was magnetic.

  And as the cheer rose, so did the chanting from Dan’s homeless. Good for you, Harry, he thought.

  Crenshaw walked the gauntlet, shaking hands and smiling that smile. When he came within half a dozen feet, Dan held up his placard and thrust it toward the senator to make sure he didn’t miss it. The dark-skinned security man moved to push Dan back but Crenshaw stopped him. He stared at the message, then looked Dan in the eye.

  “Is that directed at me?”

  Dan was momentarily taken aback by the man’s directness. He’d expected to be ignored. But he met the senator’s steely blue gaze with his own.

  “Yes, senator. And at your out-of-sight-out-of-mind Domicile Plan. You can’t lock the homeless up in camps and think that will solve the problem.”

  “I resent that,” Crenshaw said, his eyes flashing, his voice soft but forceful.

  The crowd around the entrance had stopped cheering; they were listening instead. Only the chanting of the homeless from behind the barricades disturbed the sudden silence.

  Dan was not prepared for this. His mouth went dry; his voice was hoarse when he replied. “And I think the homeless will resent being carted off to camps in the middle of nowhere.”

  “What’s you’re connection with the homeless, father?”

  “I run a kitchen for them downtown.”

  Crenshaw nodded. “That’s very admirable. My hat’s off to you. But how many of their lives have you changed?”

  “I don’t under—”

  “How many have you gotten off the street and into some sort of self-supporting activity?”

  Dan had a feeling he was being maneuvered into a corner, but he had to answer—and truthfully.

  “I couldn’t say. We barely have enough money to keep them fed.”

  “Exactly! They need funds and there aren’t enough funds to go around. That’s why we have to centralize our efforts to help them.” He gestured to the crowd. “Look around you, father. See these people? They support the Domicile Plan. They’re all willing to put their money where their mouths are, because they’re going to pay for the Plan with their tax dollars. But they want to see those dollars well spent. Soup kitchens only perpetuate the problem—like giving a transfusion to a bleeding patient without sewing up the wound.”

  God, he’s good, Dan thought. And he means every word. He truly wants to help. That’s what makes him so convincing. But he’s still wrong!

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Dan said, “but concentration camps aren’t a moral alternative.”

  Senator Crenshaw’s eyes flashed with sudden anger.

  “You’re handy with the loaded terms, aren’t you, father. And I’m sure you have a real talent for dishing out the soup on the breadline at your kitchen, but have you ever actually gone into a factory and worked to earn a single dime to pay for their shelter? Or your own, for that matter? Have you ever labored to grow a single grain of wheat or a single kernel of rice to feed them? Or yourself? Have you ever woven or cut or sewn a single stitch for their clothing? Or for your own? If you want to be a man of God, then limit your concerns to Godly things; but if you want to be a man of the people, then get out and sweat with them, Father. Until you do, you’re nothing but a middleman, trafficking in their troubles. A hand-wringing monger of misery, hoisting yourself up on their crosses to allow yourself to be better seen from afar. Which is fine, if that’s the way you want to spend your life. This is still a free country. But don’t block the way of those who really want to help.”

  Dan was stunned by the tirade. Before he could frame a reply, Crenshaw turned away and stepped into his waiting limo. His security man closed the door, glanced at Dan with a smirk on his dark face, then slipped around to the other side.

  Someone patted him gently on the shoulder. Dan looked around and saw an elderly stranger standing next to him.

  “Don’t take it too hard, Father. We all know you mean well. But you just ain’t getting it done.”

  Still mute, Dan turned back to the street and watched Senator Crenshaw’s limo pull away. On the surface he knew he appeared unscathed, but he was bleeding inside. Hemorrhaging. Crenshaw’s words had cut deep, right to the heart of his deepest doubts. And the elderly stranger had twisted the knife.

  … you just ain’t gettin’ it done …

  Knowing I was not fit for the company of other men, I turned from my southward course and searched the wilderness for a place to spend the rest of my allotted days alone.

  I wandered the deserted hills, searching for a sign. Finally, as I climbed a steep incline, I looked up and beheld a bellied cliff with an overhanging ledge. The letter tav leaped into my mind. Tav … the letter to which the Kabbalah grants a numerical value of 400 … highest of all the letters.

  This was the sign I had sought. This is where I would stay: the lowest huddling in the shadow of the highest.

  from the Glass scroll

  Rockefeller Museum translation

  THREE

  Emilio Sanchez regarded his employer with awe as the limo whisked them uptown.

  If only I could use words like that, he thought. I would not have to be a guard dog. I could be anything … even a Senador.

  But Emilio had come to terms long ago with who he was … and what he was. He was a guard dog. He would always be a guard dog. And with those facts in mind, he had become the best damn guard dog in the world.

  “You sliced up that padre like a master chef, Senador. One would almost think your words were planned.”

  “In a sense, Emilio, they were. I spotted the priest and his group on the way in but I didn’t know what they were up to.”

  “And you asked me to find out.”

  “Right. And when you told me they were homeless types, I spent the time before my speech preparing a few remarks in case they cornered me on the way out.”

  Imagine … to be able to come up with word-razors while listening and responding to tabletalk.

  “But they didn’t corner you,” Emilio said.

  “No matter. I liked what I came up with. Too good to waste. So I let the priest have it.”

  “With both barrels.”

  The Senador smiled and nudged Emilio with an elbow. “You of all people should understand that.”

  Emilio nodded. He understood. One of his rules had always been: Don’t aim a gun if you have no intention of pulling the trigger
. And if you do pull the trigger, shoot to kill.

  Emilio’s cellular phone trilled softly in his breast pocket. He pulled it out and tapped the SEND button.

  “Sanchez.”

  “We’ve found him.”

  Emilio recognized Decker’s voice.

  “Good work. Where is he?”

  The Senador stiffened beside him. “Charlie? They’ve located him?”

  Emilio nodded as he listened to Decker’s reply.

  “Chelsea. Where else?”

  “Public or private?”

  “A dive called The Dog Collar, believe it or not. On West Street. Want me to bring him in?”

  “No. Wait for me outside. And make sure he doesn’t leave before I get there.”

  “Will do. I called Mol. He’s coming over. We’ll meet you here.”

  “Good.”

  Emilio stared straight ahead as he punched the END button.

  “Charlie is in a bar in Chelsea. Want me to bring him back to the hotel?”

  The Senador sighed and rubbed his eyes for a long moment. Then: “No. Who knows what shape he’s in? I don’t want a scene. Use the jet to take him home, then send it back for me. I won’t be leaving until tomorrow night anyway.”

  “Very well. I should be back by early afternoon.”

  “No. Not you. I want you to stay with Charlie. Do not let him off the grounds. Do not let him out of your sight until I get back.”

  “If that is your wish, then that is the way it will be.”

  The Senador laughed softly. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if that were true with everything. I’d have wished Charlie to be a different sort than he is. Let us pray that he’ll cooperate this time.”

  He took Emilio’s hand in his and bowed his head. Emilio set his jaw. The very thought of holding another man’s hand, even in prayer, even if it was the Senador, made him queasy. He bowed his head but he did not pray. That was for women. Old women. This incessant praying was the only part of the Senador’s character he did not respect. It was unmanly.

  But in all other matters he revered him.

  That did not mean that he understood him. Why track down Charlie and bring him back to Paraiso? He had done a good job of hiding himself away. Why ferret him out? Let him stay hidden. Let sleeping dogs lie …

  If you’re going to do anything, Emilio thought as the Senador prayed, do something permanent. As much as I like Charlie, just say the word and he will really disappear. Without a trace. Forever.

  But he knew the Senador would never order the death of his maricon son.

  After dropping the Senador at the Plaza and seeing him safely to his suite, Emilio returned to the limousine, but this time he took the front passenger seat.

  “You’ll probably be more comfortable in the back,” the driver said.

  “I will not argue with that, Frederick,” Emilio said. He knew the man’s name, home address, and driving record. He’d checked all that out before letting the Senador into the limo. “But I wish to speak to you as we drive.”

  “Okay,” the driver said. Emilio detected wariness in his tone. That was good. “But you can call me Fred. Where to?”

  “Downtown.”

  “Any particular—?”

  “Just drive, Fred.”

  As Fred turned onto Fifth Avenue, Emilio said, “Have you chauffeured many famous people around?”

  Fred grinned. “You kidding? You name ‘em, and if they’ve been to the Apple, I’ve driven them around. Madonna, Redford, Bono, Winona Ryder, Cher, Axl Rose … the list goes on and on. Too many to mention.”

  “I’ll bet you can write a book about what’s gone on in the rear section of this car.”

  “A book?” He laughed. “Try ten books—all of them X-rated!”

  “Tell me some of the stories. The juiciest ones.”

  “Uh-uh. No way. My lips are sealed. Why y’think all those folks hire me? Why y’think they always ask for Fred? Because Fred gets Alzheimer’s when people come sniffing around about his clients.”

  Emilio nodded. That jibed with what he’d heard about Fred.

  He pulled a switchblade from the side pocket of his coat and pressed the button on the handle. The gleaming narrow blade snicked out and flashed in the glow of the passing street lamps.

  “Wh-what’s that all about?” Fred said, his voice half an octave higher now.

  “I’ve caught some dirt under one of my fingernails.”

  “B-better keep that out of sight. They’re illegal here.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Emilio used the point to scrape under a nail. “Listen, Fred. We’re going to be stopping at a place called The Dog Collar.”

  “Oh, boy. On West Twenty-Sixth. I know the joint.”

  “Some of your famous clients have been there?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. And you wouldn’t believe me if I told you who—which I’m not.”

  “I admire your discretion, Fred. Which brings me to the heart of our little talk. You will receive a generous tip tonight, Fred. An extravagant tip. It is meant to not only seal your lips tighter than usual, but to erase from your memory everything that occurs from this moment until you drop me off at LaGuardia.”

  “You’re not going to mess up my passenger area, are you?”

  “I’m not planning to. But on the subject of ‘messing up,’ I feel obliged to give you a warning: In my homeland we have a way of dealing with someone who has seen too much and talks about it. We cure him of his affliction by removing his tongue and eyes. Unless we’re feeling particularly merciful, in which case we leave the eyes and take only the eyelids. And the tongue, of course. The tongue always goes. Do you understand what I am saying, Fred?”

  Emilio hoped the driver would not take this as an empty threat. He knew of no such tradition in Mexico, but that didn’t matter. He meant every word, and would personally do the cutting. And enjoy it.

  Fred gulped. “Yeah. Loud and clear. No problem.”

  “Excellent. Then you can look forward to being hired whenever Senator Crenshaw comes to town.”

  Fred’s expression did not exactly reflect unbridled joy at the prospect. He said, “You want to hit the Dog Collar now?”

  Emilio folded the stiletto blade and put it away.

  “Yes. Immediately.”

  As they drove on in silence, Emilio hoped the Senador had some plan for Charlie, some solution for the threat he posed. For he was indeed a threat. In order to be president, the Senador first had to be nominated by his party. And in order to secure that nomination, he had to run in primary elections in various states. Emilio had studied all this in his civics lessons for his citizenship test, and he’d heard the Senador discuss it numerous times, but none of it made much sense. However, one thing that did make sense was that many of those primary states were in regions of the country where a the right kind of rumor could tilt a close race the wrong way. And if the primaries were going to be as hotly contested as the experts were predicting, having a maricon son might be the kiss of political death.

  But there seemed to be more to it than that. The Senador seemed obsessed with finding Charlie and keeping him under wraps. Emilio didn’t understand.

  What he did understand was that whatever kept the Senador from the White House also kept Emilio from the White House.

  The White House. It had become Emilio’s dream.

  Not to become president. That was to laugh. But for Emilio Sanchez to accompany the Senador to the world’s center of power, that was the ultimate spit in the eye to the many throughout his life who had said he’d go nowhere, be nothing unless he changed his ways.

  But I never changed, Emilio thought. And look at me now. I am the most trusted aide of United States Senator Arthur Crenshaw. I am riding in a stretch limo through New York City. I have my pick of the women in the Senate Building in Washington.
I own my own Coup de Ville. And I’m still moving up. Up!

  Even now he loved to drive his shiny Cadillac back to his native Tijuana and park in front of the old haunts. Pay some street tonto to guard the car while he went inside and watched their eyes go wide and round as he flashed his money and rings and bought a round for the house.

  In the span of a few heartbeats the word would get around: Emilio’s back! Emilio’s back! So that when he strolled the narrow streets the children would follow and call his name like a deity and beg for his attention. And not far behind them would be their mothers and older sisters, doing the same.

  He loved to drive by the St. Ignatio School where the priests and sisters had tried to beat some religion into him and make him like all the other sheep they imprisoned in their classrooms. He loved to stop in front of the adobe chapel and blow the horn until one of those black-robed fools came out, then give them the dirty-digit salute and screech away.

  He knew where his mother was living—still in the same old shack down in the Camino Verde settlement where he’d been born—but he never visited her. They’d be ice-skating in Hell before he gave that puta the time of day. Always putting him down, always saying he was a good-for-nothing puerco just like his father. Emilio had never known his father, and he’d spent years hating him for deserting his family. But after Emilio’s last blow-up with his mother, he no longer blamed his old man for leaving.

  That blow-up had come when Emilio turned twenty and took the bouncer job at The Cockscomb, the toughest, meanest, low-rent whorehouse in Tijuana. His mother had kicked him out of the trailer, telling him he was going to hell, that he was going to die before he was twenty-one. Emilio had sauntered off and never looked back.