“Five-ten,” Dill said.
“Tall for a woman.”
“Yes.”
“You might want me to shut up?”
“It might help.”
“A little hung?”
“A little.”
“Look in that compartment right in front of you — you gotta slide it open. I put three cans of cold Bud in there, just in case.”
“You’re a saint,” Dill said, opening the cabinet and removing one of the still frosty cans. He opened it and drank gratefully.
The sergeant grinned into the rearview mirror. “I always do that on funeral details,” he said. “First thing I do when I get up in the morning is head for the kitchen and pop three or four cans in the freezer — you know, get ’em good and cold. Lotsa people need a little something when they go to a funeral. Sad things, funerals.” He paused. “Well, I’ll shut up now.”
“Thank you,” Dill said.
Anna Maude Singe wore black — simple expensive unrelieved black — except for the white gloves, which she carried. She came out of the Van Buren Towers escorted by Sergeant Mock, who had volunteered to fetch her. Dill slid over into the left-hand corner of the limousine as Mock opened the right-hand door for Singe. She came into the car gracefully, her rear first, followed by her long dancer’s legs, which she swung in with one smooth motion. She turned to examine Dill, who was wearing his dark blue suit, a white shirt, and the knitted black silk tie. Singe nodded both her greeting and her approval. “You look nice,” she said, “and that hangover you’re trying to hide lends a certain sad credence.”
“I somehow knew you’d talk in the morning,” Dill said.
She smiled. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Again behind the wheel, Sergeant Mock started the engine, turned his head, and said, “The lady doesn’t look like she’s gonna need a beer, Mr. Dill, but if she does, you know where it is. Now I’m gonna roll up the divider so you all can have your privacy. People going to funerals always like their privacy.”
“Thanks,” Dill said. Mock pushed a button, the glass divider rose out of the back of the front seat, and the large car pulled away from the curb.
“You want a beer?” Dill asked.
Singe shook her head no. “Where’d you get the hangover?”
“Up in my room alone.”
“I didn’t think you’d drunk that much with me.”
“I had a visitor.”
“Up in your room?”
“Down in the hotel garage. We talked in his van.”
“Who?”
“Clyde Brattle.” Dill paused. “I didn’t tell you about Brattle, did I?”
Again, she shook her head no.
“Maybe I’d better.”
“Where do they keep that beer?” she asked.
“The cabinet in front of you — just slide it open.”
Singe opened the cabinet, brought out a beer, pressed its top down, and handed it to Dill. “Okay,” she said, “Tell me.”
Dill took a long swallow of the second beer and then told her about his meeting in the blue Dodge van with Clyde Brattle and the two men called Harley and Sid. When he was finished, they were nearing Trinity Baptist Church, which was located at Thirteenth and Sherman, a little more than fifteen blocks from the Van Buren Towers.
Singe looked thoughtful for a moment or two after Dill finished his account. Then she frowned and said, “I’d feel better if you’d called the FBI yourself.”
“Yes,” Dill said. “So would I.”
There were far more Baptists in the city and state than anything else, followed — not too closely — by Methodists, Presbyterians, Christians, fundamentalists of various stripes and hues, Catholics, and a surprising number of Episcopalians, whom most people thought of as prosperous, stylish, Eastern, and not nearly so given to strange ritual as the Catholics with their suspect allegiance to Rome. In 1922 a rumor had circulated that the Pope was due in at Union Station on the 12:17 MKT from Chicago and an estimated three thousand persons turned out to see if it was true. Most had come merely to gawk, but others had thought to bring along asphalt and feathers. All were disappointed when Pius XI failed to step down from the train.
Trinity Baptist had been built in the mid-fifties from plans drawn by a professor of architecture down at the university who was noted for his extreme taste in design, women, and politics. The state legislature didn’t necessarily think a man’s womenfolk, or what kind of bricks he favored, were any of its business, but it did know, as one member put it, “right smart about politics.” The members also knew they didn’t want any pinkos teaching the kids down at the university. So they hauled the professor up in front of a state House of Representatives subcommittee on subversive activities and grilled him mercilessly about his crackpot political theories, and after they tired of that, about his women and his draftsmanship.
One seventy-two-year-old representative from an area of the state known as Little Dixie brandished a rendering of a rather free-form piece of statuary that was destined to grace the church grounds. He wanted to know if that was what the professor really thought John the Baptist looked like. The professor replied that he thought it indeed did look a great deal like John. Smiling sweetly, he then asked if the committee had yet found any pink in the beard of the saint, but none of its members could quite figure out what he was getting at. The hearings ended shortly thereafter. The professor wrote a four-word letter of resignation (“Fuck it. I quit.”) and went off to teach at the University of California at Berkeley. The Baptists went ahead and built the church he had designed for them. Almost everybody now liked it immensely.
Dill was surprised by the number of cars that filled the church parking lot and were double-parked out front. He counted twenty-four police motorcycles — all bone-jarring Harley-Davidsons, he noted, and not the infinitely superior Kawasakis. Made in America still counts for something down here, he decided, pushed the button that lowered the dividing window, and asked: “All these people aren’t here just for my sister’s funeral, are they?”
“They sure are,” Sergeant Mock said. “Your sister was a cop, Mr. Dill, and when cops get themselves killed, other cops turn out. I saw the list. Why, we got cops here from as far off as Denver and Omaha and Memphis and all the way up from New Orleans.”
“Where else?” Singe asked.
“Lemme think. Dallas, Fort Worth, Houston, Amarillo, Oklahoma City, Tulsa, Kansas City, Little Rock, Santa Fe, Albuquerque, and — oh, yeah — the one who said he was coming down from Cheyenne. They’re gonna witness, Mr. Dill, that’s what. They’re all gonna witness.”
It was a few minutes before ten when Mock pulled the limousine into the chief mourner’s reserved space, got out, and opened the door for Singe and Dill. Fifty or sixty weaponless policemen were still standing around outside, all wearing their neat dress suntans. For some reason, Dill had expected them to wear blue. He could sense their pointing him out to each other as the brother of the dead Felicity Dill.
A smooth-looking, olive-complexioned lieutenant introduced himself as Lieutenant Sanchez, graciously expressed his sympathy, and offered to escort Dill and Singe. He led them through the police and into the church. It was the first time Dill had been inside and he was impressed by the architect’s wit. It looks like a Baptist church all right, he thought, but like one where they really do make a joyful noise unto the Lord and have just one hell of a good time doing it.
The interior was of granite (with just a blush of pink) and it soared up eagerly, almost happily, as if indeed bound for glory. Dill found the stained-glass windows to be of an interesting, not quite abstract design. He decided that if you got bored with the sermon, you could always stare up at the windows and make up your own stories. If his sister had to be prayed over in a church, Dill thought it might as well be this one. She would’ve liked the architecture, if nothing else.