"Julie, you OK?" asked Lorie, or Loretta.
"Not really," Mary Andrea rasped.
"What is it?"
Mary Andrea pressed her knuckles to her eyes and felt genuine tears.
"You need a doctor?" asked her new friend.
"No," said Mary Andrea. "A travel agent."
Joan and Roddy got a copy of The Registerat the Grab N'Go and brought it to Sinclair at the shrine. He refused to read it.
"You're mentioned by name," Joan beseeched, holding up the newspaper for him to see, "as Tom Krome's boss."
Roddy added: "It explains how you're out of town and not available for comment."
"Nyyah nimmy doo-dey!"was Sinclair's response.
The yammering sent a sinusoidal murmur through the Christian tourists gathering along the narrow moat. Some knelt, some stood beneath umbrellas, some perched on folding chairs and Igloo coolers. Sinclair himself lay prone at the feet of the fiberglass Madonna.
Joan was so concerned about her brother's behavior that she considered notifying their parents. She'd read about religious fanatics who fondled snakes, but a turtle fixation seemed borderline deviant. Roddy said he hadn't heard of it either. "But personally," he added, "I'm damn glad it's cooters and not diamondbacks. Otherwise we'd be coffin-shopping."
Sinclair had cloaked himself toga-style in a pale bedsheet, upon which a confetti of fresh lettuce was sprinkled. With surprising swiftness the apostolic turtles scrambled from their sunning stones to ascend the gleaming buffet. Zestfully they traversed Sinclair from head to toe, while he cooed and blinked placidly at the passing clouds. Cameras clicked and video cameras whirred.
Trish and Demencio monitored the visitation from the living room window. She said, "He's really something. You gotta admit."
"Yeah. A fruit basket."
"But aren't you glad we let him stay?"
Demencio said, "A buck's a buck."
"He must've snapped. Stripped a gear."
"Maybe so." Demencio was distracted by a sighting of Dominick Amador, clumping unscrupulously among the pilgrims.
"Sonofabitch. He got him some crutches!"
Trish said, "You know why?"
"I can sure guess."
"Yeah, he finally got his feet drilled. I heard he paid the boy at the muffler shop, like, thirty bucks."
"Psycho," said Demencio.
Then Dominick Amador spotted him in the window and timorously waved a Crisco-filled mitten. Demencio did not return the greeting.
Trish said, "You want me to chase him off?"
Demencio folded his arms. "Now what – who the hell's that?" He pointed at a slender person in a hooded white robe. The person carried a clipboard and moved with clerical efficiency from one tourist to the next.
"The lady from Sebring Street," Trish explained, "the one with the Road-Stain Jesus. She's working on a petition to the highway department."
"Like hell. She's workin' on my customers!"
"No, honey, the state wants to pave over her shrine – "
"Is that my problem? I got a business going here."
"All right," Trish said, and went outside to have a word with the woman. Demencio had always been leery of his competition – he liked to stay ahead of the pack. It bothered him when Dominick or the others came snooping. Trish understood. The miracle racket was no picnic.
And the queer histrionics of the visiting newspaperman had made Demencio edgier than usual. He could cope with hydraulic malfunctions in a weeping statue; a flesh-and-blood lunatic was something else. For the time being, the recumbent and incoherent Sinclair was drawing plenty of customers. But what if he freaked out? What if his marble-mouthed gibberish turned to violent rant?
Demencio fretted that he might lose control of his shrine. He sat down heavily and contemplated the aquarium, where the unpainted baby turtles eagerly awaited breakfast. JoLayne Lucks had phoned to check on the smelly little buggers, and Demencio reported that all forty-five were healthy and fit. He hadn't told her about the apostle scam. JoLayne had promised she'd be home in a few days to collect her "precious babies."
They're precious to me, too, thought Demencio. I've got to milk 'em for all they're worth.
When Trish returned he said: "Let's do the rest."
"What?"
"Them."He nodded at the tank.
"How come?"
"More painted cooters, more money. Think of how happy Mister Born Again'll be." Demencio cut a glance toward the front window. "Crazy dork can bury himself under the damn things."
Trish said, "But, honey, there's only twelve apostles."
"Who says it's gotta be just apostles? Go find that Bible. All we need is thirty-three more saint types. Most anybody'll do – New Testament, Old Testament."
How could Trish say no? Her husband's instincts on such matters were invariably sound. As she gathered the brushes and paint bottles, she showed Demencio the front page of The Register,which had been given to her by Joan and Roddy. "Isn't that the fella went to Miami with JoLayne?"
"Yeah, only he ain't dead." With a forefinger, Demencio derisively flicked the newspaper. "When she called up this morning, this Tom guy was with her. Some phone booth down in the Keys."
"The Keys!"
"Yeah, but don't go tellin' the turtle boy. Not yet."
"I suppose you're right," Trish said.
"He finds out his man's still alive, he might quit prayin'. We don't want that."
"No."
"Or he might stop with them angel voices."
"Tongues. Speaking in tongues," Trish corrected.
"Whatever. I won't lie," Demencio said. "That crazy dork is good for business."
"I won't say a thing. Look here, he's mentioned in the same article."
Demencio skimmed the first few paragraphs while he struggled to uncap a bottle of thinner. "You see this? 'Assistant Deputy Managing Editor of Features and Style.' Hell kinda job is that?Ha, no wonder he's rolling in the mud."
Trish handed him a bouquet of paintbrushes. "What do you think about Holy Cooter T-shirts? And maybe key chains."
Her husband looked up. "Yeah," he said, with the first smile of the day.
When Tom Krome got his turn on the pay phone, he called his parents on Long Island to tell them not to believe what they saw in the papers.
"I'm alive."
"As opposed to what?" his father asked.
Newsdayhad run the story somewhere other than the sports section, so Krome's old man had missed it.
Tom gave a sketchy explanation of the arson, instructed his folks on fielding future media inquiries, then called Katie. He was genuinely touched to hear she'd been crying.
"You should see the front page, Tommy!"
"Well, it's wrong. I'm fine."
"Thank God," Katie sniffled. "Arthur also insists you're dead. He even bought me a diamond solitaire."
"For the funeral?"
"He thinks I think he had something to do with killing you – which I didthink, until now."
Krome said, "I'm assuming he's the one who burned down my house."
"Not personally."
"You know what I mean. The dead body in the kitchen must have been his law clerk, faithful but careless."