Eileen waved and flicked her cigarette over her shoulder.
"So I wanted to suggest," said Frank, "that if you had a mind to remove yourself from the premises before Uncle Sam comes looking for his guns and the shit starts flying—excuse the expression—I'd be more than pleased to get you the hell out of here."
She stopped to look at him. Yes; genuine American sincerity.
"That's a very kind offer, Frank."
"My pleasure."
"But I'm afraid I can't leave at the moment. Not without Jacob."
"The old man."
"He's not that old. Does he look that old to you?"
"He's not your husband, is he?"
"No."
"Good," he said, with the first authentic grin she'd seen since they'd left the hotel. "Then we'll bring Jacob along."
"I'm afraid it's not going to be as simple as that," she said.
He looked at her. "Not for me either, exactly."
She glanced around at the white shirts on the street, gestured discreetly, and they moved around a corner into an empty alley.
"You start," she said.
Frank pushed his hat back and hooked his thumbs on his belt. "I'm gonna have to ask you about the Chinaman."
She squinted her eyes and studied him again; for such a good-looking man, she had to admit, his character didn't seem all that deficient.
"Have you had any unusual dreams lately, Frank?"
Frank thought for a moment. "No, ma'am."
"Then first I have to tell you a very strange story."
"Come in, come in, Rabbi Jacob Stern," said the Reverend, waving an arm toward a velvet sofa in the corner of his office. "Delighted to see that you could join me today."
"I was able to find time in my busy schedule," said Jacob.
The Reverend did not rise from the desk or offer to shake his hand; Jacob took a seat on the sofa beside a large globe resting on an oak stand. Aside from a gilded Byzantine icon on the wall behind the Reverend's desk and a King James Bible lying open on a reading stand, nothing suggested that this served as the office of a cleric. Furnishings plush, even opulent, like a picture Jacob had seen of John D. Rockefeller's study. The air felt heavy and cool. Thin strands of brilliant white light cutting through wooden window blinds into the shadowy room were the only reminder that the house rested in the middle of a desert. Motes of dust spiraled up from the heavy Persian carpet and danced in the beams. His eyes adjusting to the half-light, Jacob couldn't see the Reverend distinctly in the darkness behind his desk.
"A very comfortable room," said Jacob.
"Do you like it? I had them build my House with the thick adobe walls that are such a characteristic feature of the local architecture; it keeps the heat at bay until well into the afternoon. The furniture is all donated, by the way, gifts from my more generously endowed followers. I don't believe a man of the cloth should receive a regular salary, do you, Rabbi? I think it violates the sacred trust between God and his ... representatives."
"All very well for God, but a man's got to eat."
"Tithing; that's the answer, and of course, like most common sensible ideas, it's been with us for hundreds of years. Everyone in the community making the same sacrifice—or shall we say contribution—setting aside a portion of their earnings to support the shepherd of their spiritual flock, be it preacher, priest, or rabbi."
"Ten percent is the usual figure," said Jacob.
"I've made the tiniest innovation," said the Reverend, leaning forward into a scallop of light. "I take one hundred percent."
Day's eyes crept into view for the first time in the hot slice of sunlight. Jacob felt them reaching out at him like oiled tentacles and looked away. He swallowed hard. His heart skipped a beat.
"I had the great fortune to baptize a steady stream of millionaires into our church early on in my ecclesiastical career. I can't tell you the tithing was entirely their idea, but once the suggestion entered their minds it met a remarkable degree of receptivity. And I discovered there is an extraordinary surplus of wealth in these western states; shipping, cash crops, silver, oil. Millionaires are hardly the rare bird you find in the East— to be blunt, out here they are practically a dime a dozen. And despite all this talk about camels and the eyes of needles, I have found that a rich man is just as desperately in need of salvation as any destitute sinner."
"They're still with you, these former millionaires."
"Oh, yes. Right here, in The New City," said Day, neglecting to mention how the sight of these former captains of industry and their pampered wives mucking out the latrines still filled him with happiness. "And if you were to ask them, well, I'd be shocked if to a man they didn't say that their lives were one hundred percent richer today."
"One hundred percent."
"So much senseless heartache, the strictly material life. So much disquiet and worry about holding on to what you've accumulated. Straining to make its value grow beyond any reasonable fulfillment of one's needs. And what a powerful joy to be released from that suffering and rededicate oneself to a life of spiritual simplicity."
"Must be a terrible burden, all that money," said Jacob, looking around at the riches in the room. "Tell me, how do you manage it so well?"
"I consider myself blessed, I really do." Reverend Day stood and limped slowly around his desk toward Jacob ' 'Enormous wealth seems to place no untoward weight upon my soul whatsoever. It rests on my broken shoulders like a hummingbird." He waved his hand through a ray of light and the dust ducked and swirled.
"What's your secret?"
"I claim nothing for myself. I am a servant, not a master. I live to fulfill my obligation to God, and what earthly goods pass through my hands leave no stain. Ask what all this money means to me and I would tell you truly, Jacob Stern, that I cannot tell a silver dollar from a buzz saw. Money is merely a tool given to me to complete the Holy Work."
"The Holy Work..."
"Why, The New City. Our cathedral. Everything you see around you."
"And its purpose?"
"To bring man closer to God. Or should I say to bring Him closer to man...." The Reverend stopped himself and smiled curiously. "You're filled with questions, aren't you? Why don't we speak more ... directly?"
"What about?"
"I know you, Jacob Stern," said Day, taking a seat across from him. "I admit I could not place you at first; you've shaved your beard, old man. The Parliament of Religion, last year in Chicago, yes?"
Jacob felt the throbbing in his chest approach like the footsteps of a giant. He nodded.
"You are no pleasure-touring retiree. You are a scholar in Kabbalah, as I recall, and one of the foremost. Kabbalah is one of the holy books I've been attempting to decipher since I began my serious collecting. So naturally I am very curious to know. Rabbi Stern, just exactly ... what... you are doing here?"
Jacob felt a wave of energy slide around his head and chest like a slick spineless insect, probing for a weakness. He summoned his strength, erecting a barrier of thought to hold off the gnawing insinuations. His life felt as fragile and indefensible as the dust drifting in the mottled air.
"I believe I asked you first," said Jacob.
"Fair enough," said Reverend Day. "We have time; you don't have anywhere you have to be." He laughed, a first hint of cruelty.
"I'm listening," said Jacob.
Reverend Day leaned forward and spoke in a theatrical whisper, like an adult telling a child a bedtime story. "One day, a man awakens and discovers burning inside himself a light. A tremendous well of Power. Call it a spark of the divine, whatever you prefer; he has been touched by grace."
"It's been known to happen," said Jacob.
"In time he learns to use the Power—no, that's not right: He learns how to enable the Power to perform its sacred work through him; a more modest way of putting it. From that moment, the Light guides his every thought and action, directing the man to gather about him a congregation and lead his people away from the corrupted world of man. Into the desert. To build a new Jerusalem. The Power provides him with a Vision to show how and where they should remove themselves; a dream about a black tower, his church, rising from the sand."