Heavenly Hoboes

To: God c/o Scribe

  cc Book of Records last entry

  Supreme Being: The far reaching effects of our mission are about to be set in motion. We now have most of the principal players on board. Of course you already knew that, but Gabriel will be interested. By the way, thank Gabe for filling in for me and keeping our subjects out of harm’s way during the big crash scene. Good job. Host

  To: Host. Yes, job well done, Gabriel. It’s nice that you two are communicating again. God, cc etc. etc

  Before the station wagon’s smoke evaporated into the air, all the kids except Alvin came running through the thicket of oleanders that lined the driveway. “We heard the noise,” one of the older children said, panting as he ran up to Abe and Shorty. Then he saw the missing fence and gray sedan sitting lopsided in the drainage ditch. “Wow! What happened? Where’s your car?”

  “The captain’s going to ask the same question,” Abe said to Shorty before answering the boy. “Don’t worry, everything’s okay. Some men just ran their car off the road and borrowed ours. Do you know if maybe Miss Haggard has a car we could use?”

  “Huh-uh,” the boy said, shaking his head. “We had a truck but that was Mr. Lafferty’s and he’s not here anymore.”

  “Well.” Shorty shrugged it off. “In that event would ya be havin’ a couple of beds we could use fer the night?”

  “You can have mine,” the boy said, his eyes reflecting pure joy at the idea.

  “Mine, too,” another boy said.

  Abe interrupted them and deflated the moment of elation. “We won’t be staying, kids. Mr. McDougal and me have an important meeting to be at in a little while, and we can’t miss it, can we, Mr. McDougal?”

  The look of disappointment shone on the Irishman’s face as much as it did on those of the children. “Mr. Douglas is right,” he said, in a halfhearted tone. “I suppose we do have to be on our way.”

  “You kids run back and tell Miss Haggard that nobody’s hurt or anything,” Abe told the youngsters. “We’ll see you again as soon as we can.” He turned and started down the road. “Come on, Mr. McDougal, we’ve got a long way to go.”

  Less than a mile down the highway Shorty stopped and sat down on a guardrail post. “It’s me feet, Mr. Douglas,” the little man explained when Abe asked him what was wrong. “They’ll never be carryin’ me all the way to town.”

  Abe sat beside him. “I thought you said those were the most comfortable shoes you ever owned.”

  “They are. But I’ve not had the chance to walk this far in ‘em before.”

  “Well, just try to keep your mind off your feet,” Abe said. He pointed up the highway. They were heading up one of the few rolling hills on the road. “When we get to the top it’ll be easier walking. Or, I can go on and you can wait here. Someone might come along and give you a ride, then you can have them stop and pick me up, too. Would that be better for you?”

  Shorty stood. “No, no, I’ll do like ya said and keep me mind on somthin’ else.”

  “Good. I’ll try to slow down a little and stay with you. Let’s go.”

  They had just topped the hill when a car passed them by. The driver honked and a young boy, looking at them through the rear window, stuck his tongue out. “I hope they’re takin’ him to the meetin’” Shorty snarled.

  “If you don’t hurry it up a little there won’t be a meeting,” Abe answered. The Irishman groaned. “I know, I know, it’s your feet,” said Abe, cutting his complaint short. “Mine aren’t doing too well either. Come on.”

  A few hundred feet beyond the hilltop Shorty stopped abruptly and turned around to see what was making the noise behind them. He squinted to shield his eyes from the glow of the setting sun. “Do ya hear that, Mr. Douglas?”

  Abe turned. “Sounds like a tractor to me,” he said, holding a hand over his brow. “But I don’t see it.”

  Moments later an abbreviated line of wooden crates came into view above the horizon. Quickly the line took on the shape of a stack of crates above the silhouette of a farm tractor. It chugged over the hilltop. Abe and Shorty could see now that the tractor was pulling a trailer loaded with boxes of chickens. The driver braked to a stop when he reached them. “That your car in the ditch back there?” he asked, petting the head of a potbellied pig that sat in the seat next to him.

  “Nope,” Abe answered. “But we could use a lift. You wouldn’t happen to be going all the way to Midvale, would you?”

  “I sure am.”The driver motioned behind him. “These chickens got to be to the plant today. If you don’t mind riding on the back, you’re welcome to jump on.” The pig squealed. “This is Elijah. Say howdy, Elijah.” The pig squealed again. “Smartest pig in the country,” the man boasted with a hearty laugh. “Jump on. Where’d you want me to drop you?”

  “The park’d be fine,” said Shorty, eyeing the pig. The fat little creature seemed content with its station in life. “Does he always ride along with ya?”

  The driver smiled. “Only on special occasions,” he said. “I’m going right by the park. Glad to help you out.” He motioned them to get aboard, put the tractor in gear and switched on the lights. “Hold on, Elijah,” he said, and the miniature pig flopped down on the seat and squealed again.

  Abe and Shorty found a place to sit on the very back end of the trailer and jumped on. The swarm of chickens squawked and fluttered against the wooden slats of their crates sending a shower of tiny white feathers down on them.

  “They’ll blow off,” Abe said after trying unsuccessfully for a minute or two to brush them away. But as the chicken rig rolled on at twenty miles an hour, rather than clearing the atmosphere, the situation only worsened. They were soon covered with the sticky little bits of fluff and gave up on trying to remove them.

  While Abe and Shorty bounced along on the back of the trailer watching the centerline and the countryside melt into darkness activities at the park were gearing up.

  The clergy was there early, but not obvious. It had been Bishop Riley’s suggestion that the ministry members wear casual clothes in lieu of their working suits and mill through the crowd like common folks. All approved the idea, but none of them wanted to give up the seating arrangement when it came meeting time. As a courtesy to the pulpit, the Jaycees had manned the chairs all day to make sure they were available when the show began.

  Roland Thompson had lolled around for an hour or two taking snapshots of interesting looking people. Black and white, low-light photography was his real passion and he was good at finessing details in his work. He was down to his last frame in the roll of film when Antonio Pasta and the boys from Windsor strolled in at seven o’clock. Like the ministry, they had opted to drop their normal dark suits for a more relaxed look. The change of attire however did not change their roughshod attitudes. They walked directly to the row of chairs. It made no difference to them that the seats were occupied. Thompson didn’t know them but their swagger and forwardness intrigued him. He waited until they reached the chairs then clicked his last shot. Not giving them another thought, he walked into the shadows behind the bandstand to reload his camera and attach the flash unit.

  “These are reserved,” the Jaycee said when Guerro told him to get up.

  Pasta bent at the waist and came eye to eye with the man. “We’re the ones they’re reserved for,” he said in a cool, deliberate voice. “You got a problem with that?”

  The Jaycee stumbled in his hurry to evacuate the chair. The four other Jaycees down the line jumped to their feet as well, and Pasta and the boys sat down. They had checked around town all afternoon but nobody could help them find the guys who were responsible for their trip to this Godforsaken place. And they weren’t happy about having to come to the park to finish the job. “This ain’t good, Tony,” Lido whispered after a few seconds of silence. “What if someone recognizes us?”

  “What? You got your picture in the Post Office or som
ething?” Pasta said. “Who’s gonna recognize you?”

  Guerro leaned over. “You ain’t a little nervous?” he asked Antonio.

  “Yeah, I’m nervous. Santini’s too quiet.”

  Santini heard him. He stood and started to say something but stopped immediately. Dwayne Pearson of Channel Three was walking fifteen feet behind them talking to a cameraman. Instead of finishing what he was going to say, Santini gave Pasta a look that said he ought to check over his shoulder. Pasta turned his head.

  A man was setting up a stationary video camera some thirty feet from the bandstand and Pearson was giving last minute instructions to his roving cameraman. “See if those guys will move their chairs and leave an aisle for us,” he said, referring to Pasta and the others. He was close enough to be heard.

  Without waiting to be asked, Pasta stood, picked up his chair and headed towards the backside of the bandstand. Lido, Guerro, Santini and the injured chauffeur followed suit and removed themselves from camera sight.

  Roland Thompson had no idea what a turn his luck was about to take when Pasta and the boys set their chairs down behind him. He was stooped against the fence with his back to them finishing up the film and flash changeover.

  “What’d you mean back there, Tony?” Santini continued his retort. “You still think I’m in the middle of this, don’t you?” He held a hand out to Pasta. “Give me the gun. Give me the gun. I’ll do ‘em myself.”

  “Keep your voice down, you idiot,” Pasta warned, turning his head from side to side quickly to see if anyone may have overheard Santini. Roland was behind them and out of Pasta’s line of sight, but close enough to clearly hear the threat. He stayed still and turned his head just enough to see the backs of the five burly-looking men. He saw Pasta pat the side of his shirt. The bulge the pistol made was obvious. “They’ll get what’s comin’ to them when the time’s right,” Pasta said in a lowered voice. “’Til then keep your mouth shut.”

  “I ain’t taken this quietly, Tony,” Santini said.

  Lido slapped a hand on Santini’s shoulder. “You gotta learn to listen, Louie. Tony’s gonna take care of it and that’s that. Now shut up or you might be taken care of at the same time, lo capite?”

  Thompson had heard enough to cinch his dreams of winning the Pulitzer. He crawled down the fence-line as quietly as he could until he was far enough away not to be noticed by the gangsters then got up and ran. Since he had seen no sign that Douglas or McDougal were present, he figured he had time to call his uncle with the latest news and then get back to actually witness the massacre. The only thing standing in his way of getting another scoop was the Channel Three news team. When he got to their news van he jerked the ignition wire out of their portable generator.

  “Hey, you?” Officer Robins shouted at him. Roland froze with the wire still dangling from his hand. Mayor Junior Williams had personally assigned Robins and Clements to night watch at the park just in case a problem arose from the ridiculous mafia story. The mayor, due in large part to Hattie Scott’s experience, was inclined to believe the Lord’s presence was on the up and up. In view of his political position, however, he had purposefully refrained from becoming an eyewitness. But if big trouble was afoot, he wanted to be the first to know about it. As a result, for the last few days the two officers had taken on the role of being his personal stooges. When Roland vandalized the generator the policemen were finishing off a hotdog in the shadows behind a foodstand and saw him do the deed. Robins walked up to him. “What are you doing, there?”

  Roland stammered. “I…I… I was just trying to repair this.” He held the wire out to Robins.

  “You work for Channel Three?” Officer Clements asked.

  “I’m a reporter for the Windsor Chronograph,” Roland answered shakily. He pulled a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Clements.

  Clements glanced at it and gave it to Robins. “Uh-huh,” he said. “So why were you trying to, ah, fix this for Channel Three?”

  Roland broke down. “I wasn’t,” he confessed. “Actually I was trying to keep them from getting my story.”

  Dwayne Pearson came around the front of the van. “Hey, Roland,” he said, walking over to them. “What story?”

  Robins saw the Channel Three patch on Dwayne’s jacket. “You know this guy?” Robins asked.

  “Yeah,” Dwayne answered, and Robins held the ignition wire over to him. “He just broke your generator,” the officer told him.

  “What?” Dwayne’s eyes darted to the machine. “Oh, for crying out loud, Roland! That’s going to cost you.”

  “You want to press charges?” Clements spoke up.

  Dwayne grabbed the front of Roland’s shirt. “I ought to beat you to a pulp right now!” He shook Thompson hard before Robins stepped in and pulled them apart. Dwayne glared at Roland. “What story could be this important to you?”

  Roland clamed up.

  “So?” Clements asked again.

  “Yes. I do want to press charges,” Dwayne answered. “Jail’s where he belongs. Get him out of here.”

  “Aw, come on, Dwayne,” Roland pleaded. “You’d have done the same thing to me if you’d had the chance.”

  “I don’t have time for this, Roland,” Dwayne said, cocking his eyebrows at the reporter. “You going to let me in on the story or not?”

  “Huh-uh,” Roland replied.

  At that, Officer Clements addressed Dwayne. “You’ll have to come down to the station with us to file the complaint.”

  Pearson’s face went sour. “Can it wait ‘til after the broadcast?”

  Clements looked at Robins and shrugged. “Sure, I guess that’d be okay. It’ll take us a while to book him anyhow.”

  “Thanks,” Dwayne said. “Take your time.”

  “You’re going to regret this, Pearson,” Thompson rattled loudly. “Just wait ‘til Uncle Rayford hears about it.” He turned to the officers. “I do get a phone call, don’t I?”

  “Yeah, one,” Robins said, taking a hold on Roland’s arm. “Let’s go.” The officers locked the red-faced reporter between them and led him to the squad car.

  As Dwayne Pearson and his crew were making a hectic search for an electrical outlet, the Jaycees were rounding up the replacement chairs, and the ministry members were gathering to the front. In civilian clothes and solemn demeanor they aired the appearance of a possible threat to Pasta. He leaned over to Guerro. “You got any idea who they are?”

  Guerro stood to get a better view then shook his head. Lido answered Pasta. “The one in the middle’s a Bishop from Windsor.”

  “Does he know you?” Pasta asked.

  Lido shook his head. “I don’t think so, Tony.”

  “Good. Keep your head down just in case. And don’t nobody look at a camera.”

  “How long we gonna sit here?” Guerro asked nervously.

  “As long as it takes,” Pasta answered. “We ain’t gonna leave ‘til it’s done.” They all settled back in their chairs and surreptitiously watched as the crowd grew over the next quarter hour to three hundred or more people. A small crowd in relation to what it would have been if Roland’s fictitious story had not been printed. However, except for a few like the ministry, Sister Allecia and Pasta’s bunch, those three hundred people were true believers. They had seen the Light of the Lord and felt His presence within themselves. No newspaper story could quell their faith or hinder their return to witness again the magnificent glory of God. Their prayers, the ministry’s, Sister Allecia’s, and Pasta’s were all soon to be answered.

  Dwayne Pearson stood in front of the empty, decorated bandstand as his producer gave him the countdown. At seven-thirty, television stations around the country interrupted their programming to air a special report, live from Midvale. The red light on the shoulder camera blinked on, and Dwayne started his report. “From above this platform, just behind me, we are told that a great light will soon app
ear. For some, it will be the realization that a higher power truly exists. For others, the light will be confirmation that a more earthly power is at work. We will bring you full coverage as the evening progresses, but for now, we take you to our newsroom where Janet Neighbors is standing by to bring you some opposing interviews we obtained earlier today. Janet?”

  “Thank you, Dwayne,” Janet said, beginning her part of the program. Dwayne unhooked his mike. “This’ll take about five minutes,” he said to his cameraman. “Is the stationary cam ready?”

  “If the wire holds up,” the man answered. “I’ve got the Jaycees looking for a heavier extension cord but they’re not back yet.”

  “Keep your fingers crossed,” Dwayne said, and walked to the van. “What do you think, Ernie?” Ernie, his tech man, was busily trying to re-attach the ignition wire on the generator.

  “They didn’t make these things to be repaired,” Ernie said in disgust. “Look at this. He tore it right out of the magneto. We’re going to have to rely on city power, boss. But we need a higher amp cable.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Dwayne said. “Bud’s trying to locate one.” His cellphone rang and he pushed the button on his belt. “Yeah?” he answered.

  “Pearson.” Childers voice traveled into his earpiece. “That’s some good stuff your girl is running. Keep it up.”

  “Thanks,” Dwayne said, but Childers had already hung up.

  “Him?” Ernie asked, and Dwayne nodded. “Hope Bud’s lucky with that cable,” the tech said as he went back to unbolting the engine shroud.

  The arrival of the chicken rig at the park’s entrance went unnoticed as the driver and Elijah pulled the tractor to a stop. Abe and Shorty came around to thank him. “No thanks necessary,” the driver said with a smile. “Looks like something important’s going on at the park.”

  “Their waitin’ fer the Lord,” Shorty provided. “Would ya care to be joinin’ us?”

  The man shook his head and Elijah squealed. “We’ll drop by on our way back,” he said. “Gotta be getting these birds to the plant right now. But good luck to you.”

  Abe and Shorty thanked him again and walked up the paved path through the archway. They were still trying to dust off the thousand little pieces of chicken feathers that clung to them like hungry leeches.

  “Here he is!” a voice from the rear of the crowd yelled out.

  “Get on the monitor,” Dwayne ordered Ernie. “Tell them it’s live time again.” He ran back to take his position in front of the bandstand. “Get ready to roll,” he told his cameraman.

  Sister Allecia strong-armed her way through the crowd but stopped short when she saw the feathered mess Abe and his sidekick were in. She pointed half her large body at them and let out a thunderous laugh. “Somebody beat us to it, Ladies!” she said, then made a mock chicken sound as Abe and Shorty passed her. She and her contingent of vigilantes were still laughing as Abe reached the steps and gave himself a final dusting off.

  “Roll ‘em,” Dwayne said, and waited to see the red light. It didn’t come on.

  “And, now, back to you, Dwayne,” Janet said, wrapping up her portion of the report. A ‘Technical Trouble’ sign flashed on the screen. A moment later Dwayne’s cellphone rang. “What the hell are you doing, Pearson?” Childers yelled. “I haven’t seen a tech-flash in years!”

  “We’re trying to get it fixed,” said Dwayne.

  “Quit trying and do it! Tell the station to run some more footage on the interviews.”

  As Dwayne sprinted to the van, Lido looked up from concealing his face and saw Abe. “Is that the idiot who’s causing us trouble?” he said, startled by seeing him. The rest of the gang lifted their faces.

  “Ha,” Pasta started to chuckle. “Ha, ha-ha.” He broke into a full laugh, and the others joined him.

  “This is gonna be a real pleasure,” Guerro said.

  Shorty peeked around the corner of the stand to see what the commotion was about. “Oh, me everlovin’ mother,” he gasped when he saw Pasta. He reached up to warn Abe then thought better of it and crawled under the stand.

  Abe climbed the steps and walked to the middle of the platform. He looked down directly at Bishop Riley and nodded his head. The bishop crossed himself, and Abe gave him a warm smile, then raised his hands. Myriad feathers fell like snow but the bits of chatter amongst the crowd ceased. “I’m sorry we’re so late,” he apologized, lowering his hands. “The chicken business seems to be a little slow these days.” He paused to brush off some more feathers and to let the few chuckles fade.

  “But the Lord’s never slow,” he continued, holding his hat at his side. “He’s always a step ahead and waiting for us to catch up. I’ll tell you, it’s a good thing He’s patient, too. It seems like we’re never in a hurry to gain on Him. I used to be that way, myself. I’d drag my feet at every stream I came to instead of jumping across right quick to find out what was on the other side. You all know what I’m talking about. You’ve probably done a little foot dragging yourselves, haven’t you?” He paused again and settled his eyes on Bishop Riley for a quick moment. While the rest of the ministry appeared only restless, the bishop now seemed intent on hearing him out.

  Abe looked back out over the crowd. “Tonight, folks, if we’re lucky, the Lord’ll help us across a river. He’ll give us a glimpse of the beautiful shore He’s built for us on the borders of heaven. About the only thing He asks from us is that we be good to ourselves and good to our neighbors. And, in my way of thinking, that’s not asking for too much.”

  Some one said, “Amen,” and Dwayne’s floodlights flared on.

  Abe held his hat up to block out the glare. “Well, that’s about all I wanted to say, anyhow. Oh, except that if any of you want to give money, give it to the Waverly Home. They’ll surely appreciate it.”

  The row of ministers mumbled something among themselves, and Dwayne’s lights, and the rest of the park lights died.

  In an instant the lights flashed back on, but they weren’t KRTV’s. Everybody looked up expecting to see the gleaming light of the Lord pouring down upon them. Instead, as if they were gazing through a celestial telescope, a single star drilled through the clouds above them and zoomed in, doubling in size and intensity. Then, as though an effervescing veil of transparent hues had been dropped horizontally across the sky, the star winked its new colors then shot back into its space above the clouds. To the believers and to those caught in the act of prayer, the sparkling orb of light was unmistakably God-sent. To those with ulterior motives it came as unexplainable and unusual but not necessarily heavenly. “The Lord is with us,” Abe called out, as the star resumed its natural home and the veil of color and cloud cover melted away.

  The floodlights snapped back on and the cameras flashed the picture of a bright, starlit sky to television sets wherever people were tuned to the CBC network. And Childers was back on the phone. “You’ve really done it this time, Pearson!” he yelled.

  “The Lord did it,” Dwayne answered back, and pulled the earpiece out while Childers was threatening to have him fired. As Dwayne silently trudged towards the van, Abe turned to walk off the stage. He was stopped quickly by the raised voice of Archdeacon Coleman.

  “This scheme will damn you to the burning fires of hell much quicker than you think,” he warned, shaking a finger at Abe.

  Abe turned back to him. “Maybe you should keep an eye on your own coat-tail, Sir,” he said, causing the gun-shy archdeacon to spin his head to see if anything was behind him.

  “What is this Waylayer’s Home?” The out-of-town Bishop Duncan injected.

  “An orphanage,” Abe replied. “And it’s not Waylay…”

  “For young hoodlums, I’d wager,” Duncan snapped before he could finish his explanation. Abe started to try again but the bishop wasn’t through. “Abraham and the Lord, indeed. Just how gullible do you think people are? Why not call yourself Moses and be done w
ith it? Or, better yet why not claim to be the Lord, Himself?”

  “And,” the archdeacon carried on, addressing the melting crowd, “this fool who calls himself a prophet is not even an ordained priest, or a minister of any kind for that matter.”

  “I doubt if the man even knows how many books there are in the bible,” Reverend Meade butted in. He glared at Abe. “Do you?” he asked sarcastically.

  Abe said, “No.”

  “Or who was the first martyr?” Reverend Atchinson said.

  The grilling would have continued had it not been for the unnerving bark of Sister Allecia’s overwhelming voice. “Come out of there you sniveling scum of a snake!”

  The crowd had already begun to breakup but at the grating sound of her voice it started moving away at a much faster pace. Antonio and his crew, who had stood to make sure they were next in line for a go at Abe, backed off. The ministry fell silent.

  Worried about Shorty, Abe jumped off the platform and nearly landed on the big sister as she pulled the squirming Irishman onto the paved area. “Get the buckets, Ladies,” Allecia yelled joyously as she reached over and single-handedly tackled Abe. The two impostors were no match for the twin-sized heavyweight. She brought Abe to the ground and threw herself on top of him.

  Although the big sister was totally disheveled, her floral dress hitched far too high and one shoe missing, she fairly beamed with elation as she lay pressing her quarry into the pavement. “Where’s the tar?” she called out again. When no one came forth, her eyes hurriedly searched for a familiar face but found none. Either her entire crew had lost heart or they had been converted. Either way she had Abe and Shorty pinned but she was all on her own. She moaned a disheartened sound and let her legs thud down on Shorty’s back.

  Bishop Riley, who had been the only silent member of the clergy to this point, stood from his chair when Shorty let out a cry of pain. “Let them go,” he said in a voice that demanded attention.

  Sister Allecia jerked her head up. “Who said that?” she bellowed.

  Bishop Riley took the few steps to look down on her. “I did,” he answered. “What you have in mind is not the way God would want this handled.”

  Allecia groaned her disappointment and shot a pleading glance at Reverend Atchinson. When he nodded she shifted her weight, and with a show of belligerence, she took her time and slowly rolled off the two downed men.

  “I’m leaving town tomorrow,” Riley said when Abe and Shorty got to their feet. “I might suggest you do the same.” He turned to the rest of the clergy. “Gentlemen,” he said, and took the lead as they filed away. Sister Allecia glared a final threat and huffed away behind them.

  Abe raised his eyebrows and shook his head, but before he could make a comment, Antonio Pasta tapped him on the shoulder with the switchblade. Abe turned then batted his eyes. “That’s good, you remember me,” Pasta said, thumping the big knife against Abe’s chest. “We’ve been thinkin’ about all the things that could happen to you.” He shook his head and frowned. “You know, there’s a lot of bad stuff goin’ on in the neighborhood.”

  “Hey, that’s just the way it is,” Santini said, and Lido nodded.

  “Now that you know how things could be for you,” Pasta went on. “Why don’t you make it easy on yourselves and tell me about the operation. Like what’s the game and who’s the boss. Things like that.”

  Abe was noticeably at a loss. “I work for the Lord, if that’s what you mean. I don’t know anything about an operation.”

  Guerro gave Pasta’s arm a little tug. “Let me see you for a minute,” he said, motioning for Pasta to follow him. They walked a few paces away. “Let’s just scare ‘em and get outta here, Tony.”

  “You serious?” Pasta said, almost laughing at the idea. But Guerro was insistent.

  “Something tells me he’s on the level, Tony. It’s in my guts.”

  Pasta shrugged. “The boss ain’t gonna like it.”

  Guerro’s eyes pleaded with him. “I gotta feelin’ it don’t make much difference if he likes it or not.” His voice held a tremble as he pointed skyward. “Just look around, Tony. How could the guy cause something like that? There ain’t nothin’ up there to work with except the real thing.”

  Pasta looked up. Nothing but normal stars looked back at him. He nodded. “Okay, let’s do it,” he said, then made a cutting motion across his neck. “You know if we’re wrong there’s gonna be four of us in that special place of yours.” Guerro shrugged, and the two rejoined the group.

  Pasta sauntered up to Abe and put his face way too close to Abe’s for comfort. “So, we talked it over and we’ve decided to be as fair with you as the fathers were.” Lido nodded his approval but Santini started to complain. Pasta turned and shot a glare at him. “You want the word to get back that you were uncooperative?” Santini silenced his thoughts, and Pasta returned to Abe and Shorty. “So here’s the decision. If you’re gone in the morning when we come looking for you, you got no worries. If we hear of you working again in this part of the country, then you got a problem.” He raised the hem of his shirt and flashed the handle of the pistol. “We got an understanding here?” Abe and Shorty nodded. Ending the conversation Pasta said, “That’s good. That’s very good.”

  Santini looked over his shoulder as they strolled away. “Sleep tight,” he said with a wry wink.

  “Can ya imagine that?” Shorty said after the thugs had gone. “Us bein’ run out of town on account of the Lord.”

  Abe sat down on the edge of the platform and put his face in his palms. He rubbed his eyes for a moment then stared off into the empty park. “I wonder if this is what it’s always going to come down to, Mr. McDougal?”

  “What are ya sayin’, Mr. Douglas?”

  “Us getting kicked around from one place to the other.”

  “Oh.”

  “You know, like we got kicked out of the alley. The Lord followed us then. Maybe he’ll just keep on following us. Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “I suppose ya could be right in yer thinkin’,” Shorty agreed. “But it’d be nice if we knew fer certain, wouldn’t it?”

  Abe answered with a brief “Uh-huh” as he got up. “Well, let’s get home and get packed. We sure don’t want to be here in the morning.”

  “What about the capt’n’s car?” Shorty asked as if it had just dawned on him.

  Abe swung around. “Good Lord, I forgot all about it! We’ve got to find it, Mr. McDougal.”

  “Are ya thinkin’ they might’ve left it here in town?”

  The thought that the captain’s car might not be in Midvale brought an amazed look to Abe’s face. “I sure hope so, Mr. McDougal,” he said. “If they didn’t we’re in really big trouble.”

  With their minds now set on finding the car they hurried out of the park and walked briskly towards the center of town.

  The basement lights were on in the Free Gospel Church when Abe and Shorty passed by it but they had no idea that they were the topic of the conversation taking place there.

  The preliminaries of the minister’s success had been touted earlier, and now Bishop Riley had the floor. “As you all know, I didn’t want to be here tonight. In fact it’s a fluke that I’m here at all. I was supposed to be on my way home yesterday but Bill,” he pointed to Bishop Duncan, “talked me into coming with him. Thought I might be of help in getting this thing straightened out. Then I wanted to leave earlier today and that didn’t work out either. The thing that tops it all off, though, is that I had my hearing aid tuned all the way to mute tonight when this man, Abraham, took the stage. Now Bill can attest to this. I can’t hear a thing without my aid.” He looked at Bishop Duncan. “Isn’t that right?” Duncan nodded. “But, gentlemen, I heard every word the man said. In fact I could repeat it verbatim if that’s what’s needed to prove it.”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Archdeacon Col
eman asked.

  Riley laid his hearing aid on the table. “Exactly,” he said, and watched as all the ministers gazed at the little piece of tan plastic. “I felt the hand of God reach into me and restore my hearing.”

  “My God, man!” Father Coombs said. “Why didn’t you say something at the park?”

  Riley looked hard at him. “Would you have believed me, under the circumstances?” Coombs didn’t have an immediate answer. “I’m not too sure all of you believe me even now. But look into your hearts, Gentlemen, or at any rate look at the logic of it. You saw the Light just as I did. Do you really think it was a prank?”

  Reverend Elroy spoke up. “What makes you so special? Why would the almighty God pick you out of the bunch of us to make a point? I think I’m just as virtuous as any man here. In fact, as the man was speaking, I was closing my mind to the blasphemy.”

  “Same here,” Reverend Meade said, causing a mumble of chatter to breakout among the others.

  “Were any of you praying?” Riley asked.

  The door behind him opened and Brother Michael stepped into the room. Atchinson, seeing that Michael didn’t have his glasses on, picked up his wine glass and took a couple of steps away from the table. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I know I wasn’t invited,” Brother Michael said in an unexpectedly strong voice. “But I knew you’d all be here.” He walked over to the table and laid his glasses beside Riley’s hearing aid. The group looked bewildered. “I went to the meeting at the park tonight at Hattie Scott’s insistence. Some of you know her.” He paused but no one, not even Father Coombs, commented. “She had an injured leg and it was healed last week at one of the meetings. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it.”

  “I heard about it,” Father Coombs then said. “She’s been on our prayer list for quite some time. I simply put her healing to that.”

  “Well, I’m sure I haven’t been on your list,” Brother Michael said. “And tonight I got my sight back.”

  A curious look flashed on Bishop Riley’s face. “Were you praying at the time?”

  “Of course,” Brother Michael answered. “That’s what I was there for.”

  At that Bishop Riley redirected the question back to the rest of the clergy. “Were any of the rest of you praying?” In answer all he got was silence. He looked back at Brother Michael. “I was praying, too,” he said. “Not for my hearing, though. I was praying that I wasn’t getting involved with the Mafia again.”

  Brother Michael smiled. “I was praying it was for real.”

  Riley nodded. “It looks to me, Gentlemen, like we’ve all made a terrible mistake. I can’t speak for the rest of you, but as for myself, I’m going home and spreading the word that what happened here is truly a miracle. God was trying to get our attention and we sent Him away.” He hung his head. “What a way to end a career.”

  “Or start one,” Brother Michael said and dropped an arm over Riley’s shoulder. “It would be a good way to start one.” He looked at the other ministers. “I think we all should go home and pray that God will give us a second chance.” He turned to the door. “Goodnight, Gentlemen,” he said as he walked away without his glasses.

  Abe and Shorty were standing across the street from the Cock’s Crow Inn six blocks away when the meeting ended.

  Pasta and his henchmen had registered at the best hotel in town, and were lucky enough to park curbside in front of it. They were enjoying an alfresco dinner by gaslight in the courtyard when Abe and Shorty spotted the captain’s old yellow wagon. On the surface the car appeared to be no worse for wear. Only after they got it started would they know for sure, but that would have to wait until the gangsters had moved inside.

  “I’ll come back a little later and fetch it,” Shorty said when they saw Pasta and the boys being served their entrees.

  “How’re you going to do that?” Abe questioned. “They’ve got the key.”

  Shorty flashed him a quick grin. “I’m thinkin’ ya really don’t want to know that, Mr. Douglas,” he said, and abruptly changed the subject. “Ya didn’t happen to see the capt’n at the meeting, did ya?”

  “If he’d been there I’m sure he would have looked us up,” Abe answered. “What are we going to tell him about his car?”

  Shorty shrugged an ‘I don’t know’ then said, “I suppose we could both wait around ‘til they go inside, huh?”

  “It’s getting pretty late,” Abe said. “Peon’s going to be locking up soon, then neither one of us will be able to get in. I guess I’ll just go on. I’ll tell the captain that you’re bringing the car, okay? You can drive, can’t you?”

  Shorty nodded. “That’s the plan then,” he said. “I’ll be comin’ along shortly.”

  Leroy Titus met Abe at the door with a telegram in his hand. “It’s for you, Mr. Douglas,” he said excitedly as he handed it over.

  “A telegram?” Abe asked as though it was unbelievable. He had never before received one. “Who’s it from?” Titus started to answer but quickly changed his mind.

  Abe turned it over in his hand. He could see that the envelope had been steamed open and sloppily resealed. “Well, what does it say?” Titus dropped his stare to the floor, and Abe reopened the flap. The sender was Gerald Dodge, the F.B.I. guy, using the alias Marion Hail. Thanks to the enthusiastic cooperation of Rayford Manson it took only a single telephone call to obtain Abe’s address at the Salvation Army. “Gees!” Abe said after reading it twice. “Does Captain Hedges know about this?”

  “He’s not here,” Titus said, shaking his head. “He’s still at the hospital.” Abe’s surprised look prompted him to go on. “The Captain’s okay. He’s not there for himself,” Titus added. “His sister’s having a baby and her husband’s out of town. So Captain’s been sitting with her since early this afternoon.”

  “You had me worried,” Abe said. “Well, if you’re still up when he comes back would you ask him to come see me? I really need to talk to him. Would you do that?”

  “Sure will, Mr. Douglas,” Peon said, nervously eyeing the telegram. “Do you really talk to God?” he asked as Abe was about to walk away.

  Abe smiled at him. The frail man’s eyes and sloping chin were dancing with anticipation. “I have talked to Him a couple of times. But mostly He just lets us know He’s here with a beautiful light. You never got the chance to see Him, did you?” The excitement drained from Peon’s face, and Abe patted him on the shoulder. “Someday you will.”

  “Really?” said Peon.

  “Sure,” Abe answered just as Shorty came through the door.

  “The car’s put away all safe and sound,” the Irishman said with a quick wink at Abe. “Where’s the Capt’n?”

  “He’ll be here pretty soon I imagine,” Abe answered before Peon got the chance. “We need to be getting upstairs.” He nodded to Peon. “Let me know when he gets in.”