They take me to “headquarters,” which is located in, of all places, the abandoned rectory of old Saint Michael’s in the plaza. A good choice: its construction is sturdy and there are no windows to defend.
We drive through Paradise in the armored golf cart, I squatting behind Uru and Victor in the bag well. Victor drives. Uru keeps an eye on me.
Uru is feeling good. “Chuck, you have to admit that Victor here is a remarkable man. He still thinks he can get along with you chucks, sit down and talk things over.”
“That’s right!” says Victor sententiously. “You can talk to folks! Most folks want to do what’s right!”
“Uh huh,” says Uru. “They really did right by you, Victor. Here you are fifty years old and still shoveling dog shit. And Willard. Ten years with the U.S. Army in Ecuador and they’re nice enough to put him on as busboy at the club. I’ll tell you where right comes from — they know it, Chuck knows it, only you don’t.” Uru swings the muzzle of the M-32 into Victor’s neck.
“Ain’t nobody going to hold no gun on me,” says Victor, frowning and knocking down the barrel.
“That’s where they’re smarter than you, Victor. They don’t need a gun. They made you do what they want without a gun and even made you like it. Like Doc here, being so nice, sitting with your auntee. That’s where they beat you, Victor, with sweet Jesus.”
“What you talking about?”
“These chucks been fooling you for years with Jehovah God and sweet Jesus.”
“Nobody’s fooling me.”
“And what’s so damn funny is that you out-Jesused them.”
“What you mean?”
Uru winks at me. “Doc here knows what I mean, don’t you, Doc?”
“No.”
“He knows the joke all right and the joke’s on you, Victor. All these years you either been in trouble or else got nothing to your name, they been telling you about sweet Jesus. Now damned if you don’t holler sweet Jesus louder than they do. What’s so funny is they don’t even believe it any more. Ask Doc. You out-Jesused them, Victor, that’s what’s so funny. And Doc knows it.”
“Now Doc here is a Catholic,” says Victor. “But that don’t matter to me. I never had anything against Catholics like some folks.”
“I’m sure glad to hear that you and Doc have composed your religious differences,” says Uru, grinning.
“I don’t see how a man can say he doesn’t believe in God,” says Victor. “The fool says in his heart there is no God. Myself, I been a deacon at Starlight Baptist for twenty years.”
“Christ, what a revolution,” mutters Uru, eyeing a burning house.
While he and Victor argue religion, I notice something: a horse and rider, glimpsed now and then through the side yards of houses. The horse must be on the bridle path that runs along the margin of the links behind the houses. His easy trot just keeps pace with the cart. It is—!
— Lola! on her sorrel mare Yellow Rose. She could be out for her morning ride, erect in her saddle, hand on her thigh, face hidden in her auburn hair. Foolish impetuous gallant girl! Beyond a doubt she’s trailing me, out to rescue me and apt to get herself caught or killed or worse. Something else to worry about, yet worry or not and despite my sorry predicament I can’t but experience a pang of love for this splendid Texas girl.
As we leave the pines and head straight out across the deserted plaza, I sigh with relief. Lola is nowhere in sight. At least she has sense enough not to show herself. But what is she up to?
The Anser-Phone buzzes on my chest. Feigning a fit of coughing, I switch it off. Uru doesn’t seem to notice. Ellen is calling! Somehow I must reach her. At least she is well And Moira, my love! Pray to God the Bantus don’t search me and take my Anser-Phone. My heart melts with love and my brain sings in the musical-erotic sulcus when I think of Lola and Moira. How lovely are the daughters of men! If I live and love Moira, who’s to love Lola and how can I tolerate it? Same with Lola-Moira. And will Ellen stand for it in either case? Only one solution: I must live with all three.
Victor parks at the cloistered walk between church and rectory. Up the steps past the Bantu guard in a dirty white belted kwunghali stationed behind the concrete openwork (has he been here for weeks?) who salutes Uru with respect. He carries a Sten gun propped in his waist.
Time for one quick glance toward Howard Johnson’s: all quiet. The balcony is deserted.
Down the front hall of the rectory and through the parlor with its ancient horsehair nose-itching furniture. From his izinkhonkwani Uru takes out a key chain, unlocks the door to Monsignor Schleifkopf’s office and without further ado bumps me inside — with a basketball player’s hip-bump.
“Sweat it, Chuck,” says Uru, closing the door.
“Sorry, Doc,” says Victor as the latch clicks.
Try the switch. No lights, of course. No windows either, but a row of glass bricks under the ceiling mutes the July sun to a weak watery light like a cellar window.
The trouble is the room is as hot and breathless as an attic.
While my eyes are getting used to the gloom, I call in to Ellen. She and Moira are still in the motel, safe and sound but nervous.
“Chief,” says Ellen in a controlled voice. “The news is bad. We watched on TV. There is fighting on the highway.”
“You mean the guerrillas have gotten that far?”
“No, Chief. It’s the town people fighting the federal people. Not two miles from here. And Chief,” says Ellen, lowering her voice. “You better do something about your so-called friend.”
“Friend? Who’s that?”
“Miss S. She’s getting a little hysterical.”
“Where is she?” I ask in alarm.
“In the bathroom. I never saw anybody go to the bathroom so much.”
“Hm. Have you seen anybody around there?”
“Not a soul. But, Chief, I think you better get over here. Things are coming unstuck.”
“I’m tied up just now. Perhaps later. I was wondering—”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps the best thing for you to do would be to get back to town.”
“Chief, you’ve got my car!”
“So I have.” What did I do with it? Oh yes, gave it to Mother.
“Anyhow, there’s fighting between here and town.”
“Well, sit tight.”
“All right. But it’s so hot here.”
“Here too. But don’t make any noise.”
“Very well, Chief.”
“Over.”
“Over and out.”
My eyes have accommodated to the gloom. Rocking back in Monsignor Schleifkopf’s executive chair, I survey the room. Evidently it has been used by the Bantus. A couple of ceremonial garlic necklaces hang from the hat-rack. A Coleman gas stove sits on the coin counter. Baby Ruth wrappers and used TV dinners litter the wall-to-wall carpet; shreds of collard greens bestrew the desk.
Behind me the door of the walk-in vault swings open. In one corner stands a stack of boxes full of Sunday envelopes exactly as they stood years ago when I used to attend Holy Name meetings here. Good rough fellows they were, the Holy Name men. We’d meet once a month and mumble gruff embarrassed prayers for the intentions of the Holy Father and so that we might leave off swearing and using the name of our dear Lord in vain and uttering foulness in general.
The four walls are hung with huge Kodacolor murals of Monsignor Schleifkopf’s native Alps. Tiny villages are strung out along narrow green valleys. Great snowy peaks indent a perfect cobalt sky. In the foreground rises a rude roadside crucifix.
I am sweating profusely and breathing through my mouth. I am losing water and there is no water here. They had better turn me loose soon. Or I had better get out.