“Don’t take it too hard, Father. We all know you mean well. But you just ain’t getting it done.”
Still mute, Dan turned back to the street and watched Senator Crenshaw’s limo pull away. On the surface he knew he appeared unscathed, but he was bleeding inside. Hemorrhaging. Crenshaw’s words had cut deep, right to the heart of his deepest doubts. And the elderly stranger had twisted the knife.
Knowing I was not fit for the company of other men, I turned from my southward course and searched the wilderness for a place to spend the rest of my allotted days alone.
I wandered the deserted hills, searching for a sign. Finally, as I climbed a steep incline, I looked up and beheld a bellied cliff with an overhanging ledge. The letter tav leaped into my mind. Tav...the letter to which the Kabbalah grants a numerical value of 400...highest of all the letters.
This was the sign I had sought. This is where I would stay: the lowest huddling in the shadow of the highest.
--from the Glass scroll
Rockefeller Museum translation
THREE
Emilio Sanchez regarded his employer with awe as the limo whisked them uptown.
If only I could use words like that, he thought. I would not have to be a guard dog. I could be anything...even a Senador.
But Emilio had come to terms long ago with who he was...and what he was. He was a guard dog. He would always be a guard dog. And with those facts in mind, he had become the best damn guard dog in the world.
“You sliced up that padre like a master chef, Senador. One would almost think your words were planned.”
“In a sense, Emilio, they were. I spotted the priest and his group on the way in but I didn’t know what they were up to.”
“And you asked me to find out.”
“Right. And when you told me they were homeless types, I spent the time before my speech preparing a few remarks in case they cornered me on the way out.”
Imagine...to be able to come up with word-razors while listening and responding to tabletalk.
“But they didn’t corner you,” Emilio said.
“No matter. I liked what I came up with. Too good to waste. So I let the priest have it.”
“With both barrels.”
The Senador smiled and nudged Emilio with an elbow. “You of all people should understand that.”
Emilio nodded. He understood. One of his rules had always been: Don’t aim a gun if you have no intention of pulling the trigger. And if you do pull the trigger, shoot to kill.
Emilio’s cellular phone trilled softly in his breast pocket. He pulled it out and tapped the SEND button.
“Sanchez.”
“We’ve found him.”
Emilio recognized Decker’s voice.
“Good work. Where is he?”
The Senador stiffened beside him. “Charlie? They’ve located him?”
Emilio nodded as he listened to Decker’s reply.
“Chelsea. Where else?”
“Public or private?”
“A dive called The Dog Collar, believe it or not. On West Street. Want me to bring him in?”
“No. Wait for me outside. And make sure he doesn’t leave before I get there.”
“Will do. I called Mol. He’s coming over. We’ll meet you here.”
“Good.”
Emilio stared straight ahead as he punched the END button.
“Charlie is in a bar in Chelsea. Want me to bring him back to the hotel?”
The Senador sighed and rubbed his eyes for a long moment. Then: “No. Who knows what shape he’s in? I don’t want a scene. Use the jet to take him home, then send it back for me. I won’t be leaving until tomorrow night anyway.”
“Very well. I should be back by early afternoon.”
“No. Not you. I want you to stay with Charlie. Do not let him off the grounds. Do not let him out of your sight until I get back.”
“If that is your wish, then that is the way it will be.”
The Senador laughed softly. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if that were true with everything. I’d have wished Charlie to be a different sort than he is. Let us pray that he’ll cooperate this time.”
He took Emilio’s hand in his and bowed his head. Emilio set his jaw. The very thought of holding another man’s hand, even in prayer, even if it was the Senador, made him queasy. He bowed his head but he did not pray. That was for women. Old women. This incessant praying was the only part of the Senador’s character he did not respect. It was unmanly.
But in all other matters he revered him.
That did not mean that he understood him. Why track down Charlie and bring him back to Paraiso? He had done a good job of hiding himself away. Why ferret him out? Let him stay hidden. Let sleeping dogs lie...
If you’re going to do anything, Emilio thought as the Senador prayed, do something permanent. As much as I like Charlie, just say the word and he will really disappear. Without a trace. Forever.
But he knew the Senador would never order the death of his maricon son.
‡
After dropping the Senador at the Plaza and seeing him safely to his suite, Emilio returned to the limousine, but this time he took the front passenger seat.
“You’ll probably be more comfortable in the back,” the driver said.
“I will not argue with that, Frederick,” Emilio said. He knew the man’s name, home address, and driving record. He’d checked all that out before letting the Senador into the limo. “But I wish to speak to you as we drive.”
“Okay,” the driver said. Emilio detected wariness in his tone. That was good. “But you can call me Fred. Where to?”
“Downtown.”
“Any particular—?”
“Just drive, Fred.”
As Fred turned onto Fifth Avenue, Emilio said, “Have you chauffeured many famous people around?”
Fred grinned. “You kidding? You name ‘em, and if they’ve been to the Apple, I’ve driven them around. Madonna, Redford, Bono, Winona Ryder, Cher, Axl Rose...the list goes on and on. Too many to mention.”
“I’ll bet you can write a book about what’s gone on in the rear section of this car.”
“A book?” He laughed. “Try ten books—all of them X-rated!”
“Tell me some of the stories. The juiciest ones.”
“Uh-uh. No way. My lips are sealed. Why y’think all those folks hire me? Why y’think they always ask for Fred? Because Fred gets Alzheimer’s when people come sniffing around about his clients.”
Emilio nodded. That jibed with what he’d heard about Fred.
He pulled a switchblade from the side pocket of his coat and pressed the button on the handle. The gleaming narrow blade snicked out and flashed in the glow of the passing street lamps.
“Wh-what’s that all about?” Fred said, his voice half an octave higher now.
“I’ve caught some dirt under one of my fingernails.”
“B-better keep that out of sight. They’re illegal here.”
“So I’ve heard.” Emilio used the point to scrape under a nail. “Listen, Fred. We’re going to be stopping at a place called The Dog Collar.”
“Oh, boy. On West Twenty-Sixth. I know the joint.”