“Me?” Harry said. He had long greasy hair, a thick beard matted with the remains of his last three meals, and probably hadn’t changed his four or five layers of clothing since the winter. “I dunno what to—”
“Just keep leading them in the same stuff we’ve been doing all night,” Dan told him. “And give me your posters. I want to get up close.”
Harry lifted the sandwich-board placards over his head and surrendered them with obvious reluctance. Dan grabbed them, waved, and hurried off. He didn’t dare slip them over his own head—not after Dirty Harry had been wearing them.
He headed for the Waldorf entrance. As he squeezed between two of the barricade horses, one of the cops moved to block his way but let him pass when he saw the collar.
Ah, the perks of the Roman collar.
Celebrity gawkers, political groupies, and the just plain curious had formed a gauntlet along the path from the Waldorf entrance. Dan pushed, squirmed, wheedled, and elbowed his way to the front row where anyone exiting the hotel would have an unobstructed view of the sandwich-board’s message:
CONCENTRATION
CAMPS ARE
UNAMERICAN!
Finally he saw his man. Senator Crenshaw appeared at the door. He stopped inside the glass, shaking hands and smiling at some of the hundreds of people who’d plunked down a grand for a chicken dinner. Dan ground his teeth as he calculated how many people he could feed at St. Joe’s for the cost of just one of those dinners.
He watched him through the glass and reviewed what he knew about Senator Arthur Crenshaw, the Silicon Valley giant. At age thirty, he’d started CrenSoft on a shoestring. His software innovations earned him huge profits, which he plowed back into the company, which in turn yielded even larger profits. When Microsoft bought him out for an ungodly sum, he traded the corporate rat race for politics. He didn’t start small. He challenged an incumbent for one of his native California’s US Senate seats and won. Now he had his eye on the Presidency. He hadn’t declared himself yet, but no one seemed to have any doubt that come next winter he’d be stumping in New Hampshire when the next round of Presidential primaries rolled around.
A widower now—his wife had died five years ago—with one grown son, he was a formidable candidate. The born-again line of moral righteousness and family values he spouted guaranteed him a built-in core constituency. But he needed a broader base if he was aiming for national office, and he was steadily building that with his speech-making and his strong-featured good looks. Especially his speech-making. Crenshaw was a mesmerizing orator, whether from prepared text or off the cuff. In unguarded moments even Dan had found himself nodding in agreement with much of his rhetoric.
But when he listened carefully, Dan tapped into an undercurrent that told him this was a man who had quickly become extremely powerful in his own little world and had grown used to having things his own way, a man of monstrous self-esteem who knew—knew—he had the answers, who believed there could be only one way of doing things—the Arthur Crenshaw way.
But Father Daniel Fitzpatrick was here tonight to let him know that there were a few folks around who didn’t think Senator Crenshaw had all the answers, and that he was downright wrong when it came to the Domicile Plan.
Here he comes, Dan thought as the glass door was held open for Crenshaw by a broad-shouldered Hispanic with dark glasses and “security” written all over him.
A cheer went up from the onlookers as the senator stepped outside. Lots of normally liberal Manhattanites seemed enthralled with the man. Dan put it down to his physical resemblance to Bill Clinton, but knew it went deeper than that. The man was magnetic.
And as the cheer rose, so did the chanting from Dan’s homeless. Good for you, Harry, he thought.
Crenshaw walked the gauntlet, shaking hands and smiling that smile. When he came within half a dozen feet, Dan held up his placard and thrust it toward the senator to make sure he didn’t miss it. The dark-skinned security man moved to push Dan back but Crenshaw stopped him. He stared at the message, then looked Dan in the eye.
“Is that directed at me?”
Dan was momentarily taken aback by the man’s directness. He’d expected to be ignored. But he met the senator’s steely blue gaze with his own.
“Yes, senator. And at your out-of-sight-out-of-mind Domicile Plan. You can’t lock the homeless up in camps and think that will solve the problem.”
“I resent that,” Crenshaw said, his eyes flashing, his voice soft but forceful.
The crowd around the entrance had stopped cheering; they were listening instead. Only the chanting of the homeless from behind the barricades disturbed the sudden silence.
Dan was not prepared for this. His mouth went dry; his voice was hoarse when he replied. “And I think the homeless will resent being carted off to camps in the middle of nowhere.”
“What’s you’re connection with the homeless, father?”
“I run a kitchen for them downtown.”
Crenshaw nodded. “That’s very admirable. My hat’s off to you. But how many of their lives have you changed?”
“I don’t under—”
“How many have you gotten off the street and into some sort of self-supporting activity?”
Dan had a feeling he was being maneuvered into a corner, but he had to answer—and truthfully.
“I couldn’t say. We barely have enough money to keep them fed.”
“Exactly! They need funds and there aren’t enough funds to go around. That’s why we have to centralize our efforts to help them.” He gestured to the crowd. “Look around you, father. See these people? They support the Domicile Plan. They’re all willing to put their money where their mouths are, because they’re going to pay for the Plan with their tax dollars. But they want to see those dollars well spent. Soup kitchens only perpetuate the problem—like giving a transfusion to a bleeding patient without sewing up the wound.”
God, he’s good, Dan thought. And he means every word. He truly wants to help. That’s what makes him so convincing. But he’s still wrong!
“I couldn’t agree more,” Dan said, “but concentration camps aren’t a moral alternative.”
Senator Crenshaw’s eyes flashed with sudden anger.
“You’re handy with the loaded terms, aren’t you, father. And I’m sure you have a real talent for dishing out the soup on the breadline at your kitchen, but have you ever actually gone into a factory and worked to earn a single dime to pay for their shelter? Or your own, for that matter? Have you ever labored to grow a single grain of wheat or a single kernel of rice to feed them? Or yourself? Have you ever woven or cut or sewn a single stitch for their clothing? Or for your own? If you want to be a man of God, then limit your concerns to Godly things; but if you want to be a man of the people, then get out and sweat with them, Father. Until you do, you’re nothing but a middleman, trafficking in their troubles. A hand-wringing monger of misery, hoisting yourself up on their crosses to allow yourself to be better seen from afar. Which is fine, if that’s the way you want to spend your life. This is still a free country. But don’t block the way of those who really want to help.”
Dan was stunned by the tirade. Before he could frame a reply, Crenshaw turned away and stepped into his waiting limo. His security man closed the door, glanced at Dan with a smirk on his dark face, then slipped around to the other side.
Someone patted him gently on the shoulder. Dan looked around and saw an elderly stranger standing next to him.