Cross Dressing (38 page)

A deafening chorus of cheers spread through the crowd like waves and Mrs. Ciocchetti updated the tote board to $102,900.

T
he Third World Man is in his room at the Sunset Palm Motor On Inn, depressed and seriously drunk. He is trying to get his
mind off the fact that he can’t find the damn priest. He’s depressed because if he fails to collect the money or kill the priest who owes it, General Garang will kill him instead when he returns to Africa.

He decides to change clothes. He’s been wearing the clericals for four days running and they’re getting ripe. He puts on a white pullover shirt and some Dockers. He pours another drink and turns on the television, hoping for something to distract him from his troubles.

He surfs for a minute before he sees an attractive reporter. He likes the way she’s dressed. She is interviewing a priest, and not just any priest either. The Third World Man drops his glass. He can’t believe his sudden good luck. “Praise Allah,” he says.

A
fter taking Peg back to her room, Dan returned to answer a few more questions for the press. They were still talking when the front door opened again and Ruth stumbled out, blood flowing from where she had cut herself. She stood there, her arms out to her sides, as if she were nailed to an invisible cross. Her palms were bleeding.

Dan was horrified for a moment, then his mother winked at him, ever so slightly.

A devout Latina saw Ruth’s bleeding wounds and collapsed in a heap.

Dan pointed at his mother and shouted, “The stigmata!”

Another woman saw it and crossed herself. “Santa Maria!” she yelled, before falling to her knees in prayer. The TV cameramen caught the whole thing. Dan rushed to the porch, where Ruth collapsed dramatically at his feet. He lifted his mother’s head for the camera, then he whispered to her, “Nice one.”

“Just trying to appeal to the crowd,” she said. “The minorities love this stuff.”

•        •        •

S
cott Emmons was at Elite Electronics, thoroughly depressed. He’d been to confession at every Catholic church in greater Los Angeles without finding Dan. To make matters worse, and to make ends meet, he still spent his days surrounded by Fujioka products. Scott longed for something to distract him from the wall of televisions which served as a constant reminder of his father’s assessment of him.

“Hey, dude,” a young man said, tapping Scott. “Can you show me how the picture-in-picture works on that Fujioka?” He pointed to a huge flat-screen television that was showing a college basketball game.

Scott handed the young man a remote control. “Okay, it’s on ESPN now, right? Let’s say you want to see what’s on Channel Two …” Scott pointed at a button. “Push that.”

The young man pushed the button and KCBS popped up in the corner of the screen. They were replaying the interview with Dan just before Peg emerged from her coma. Scott snatched the remote from the young man and put KCBS on full screen. He stared at it for a moment. “Jumpin’ Jesus,” he said.

D
an was sitting next to his mom on the edge of her bed. He was wrapping gauze around her hands. “I hate to encourage this sort of behavior,” Dan said, “but that was a stroke of genius.”

Ruth looked pleased. “I bet there are thousands of people out there planning a pilgrimage at this very moment,” she said. “And they’ll bring money.”

“Yeah, well, they better hurry or they’re gonna find a strip mall for a shrine.” Dan finished the bandages and helped his mom into the bed. “But at least they’ll be able to get a Big
Gulp and some corn nuts.” Dan tucked the covers under her chin. “Do me a favor, no more miracles, okay?” Dan kissed her cheek, then stood. “I’m gonna go check on Sister Peg.”

Dan walked to the end of the hall and looked out the window. There were people as far as he could see. It was the most amazing thing Dan had ever experienced.
These people actually care. They want to help. They rise in times of need.
They were compassion and generosity and the best of the human spirit, and Dan felt them touch his heart.

The next thing Dan knew he was tapping his foot to the rhythm of Los Lobos tearing through their version of “La Bamba.” He looked down and saw a couple of nuns leading a conga line through the crowd. Dan felt like the benevolent patriarch of a great family. That’s when it dawned on him that Michael was right. He needed this. He needed these people as much as they needed him. That’s what made him get up every day and get out there. He liked that people were counting on him.

Dan backed away from the window until he could see his reflection. Technically he was a fraud, but he didn’t feel like one. In fact, Dan felt like he had realized the potential of his outfit better than many. Best of all, it looked as if he could continue to do so. Dan turned and walked down the stairs, stopping near the bottom. He looked around at the old house and thought about the morning he arrived there and the strange sensation that came over him that day. He had finally come to the conclusion that the tingling was the feeling of his soul breaking free of his denial. And once again he realized his brother had been right.

He remembered the moment he first saw Peg, how he had caught himself staring at her eyes. Dan was standing on the exact step where he had been when he first saw her, and as he stood there, thinking about her eyes, Dan felt the sensation again, not the exact same tingling, but something similar,
maybe better. But this time he knew what it was. He was in love, and maybe a little nervous.

Dan walked down the hall to Peg’s room and knocked. She was back in bed, where Dan had taken her after her miraculous recovery. “Hi there,” he said. “It’s time for revelations.”

Peg sat up. “Okay.” She had no idea what he meant.

Dan walked to the foot of her bed and laid his hands on the footboard. He looked up at Peg and smiled. He didn’t know where to start. He hadn’t really thought this through, but he knew he had to do it. He smiled again, then just blurted it out. “I know you’re not a real nun,” he said.
Oh God
, he thought,
that sounded terrible.
Dan started waving his hands as if to erase what he’d said. “But I don’t care. In fact, it’s good, no, it’s great because it, uh … oh, Jesus, what I’m trying to say is … let me start over.”

Peg put her hand over her mouth to hide her smile. Dan’s stammering display of anxiety reminded her of every infatuated boy she’d ever known. His tone and sweet expression put Peg at ease. He wasn’t here to bust her. “What
are
you trying to say, Father?”

“Well, a couple of things,” he said. Dan sat down on the edge of her bed. “First of all, I’m not a priest. I’m Father Michael’s brother, his twin actually. My name’s Dan.” He told her the whole story, from Michael’s hospitalization to his own epiphany the day he arrived.

Peg’s expression was somewhere between a mild
you’re kidding
and an extreme
I don’t believe this.
“It seems like I ought to feel betrayed by this,” she said.

“Do you?”

She shook her head. “How did you find out about me? Monsignor Matthews?”

Dan shook his head. “No, Josie squealed on you, but it’s not her fault.” He gestured at Peg’s thigh. “I saw your tattoo
and I made her confess.” He explained how it happened. “It’s a great tattoo, by the way.”

Peg wasn’t exactly mortified, but she wasn’t bursting with pride either. She couldn’t look Dan in the eyes. “So, do you think less of me?”

Dan shook his head. “Nah, I used to be a whore too.”

“I was a call girl,” Peg said rather indignantly.

“Excuse me, call girl,” Dan said. “I was just a flat-out whore myself.”

Peg was quiet for a few moments as she considered the implications of these facts.

Dan made a self-mocking face. “I was in advertising.”

Peg looked at Dan. “Prove it,” she said.

Dan was confused. “Prove I was in advertising?”

“Prove that you’re not a priest.”

Dan thought about it for a second, then he did the only thing he could think of. He leaned down and kissed Peg until her wimple fell off. To be fair, it had to be said that Peg kissed back pretty good. They both knew it didn’t prove a thing about Dan’s status as a priest, but they were past caring about that.

R
azor Boy and Charlie Freak are swept up in the wave of charity to the extent that they are helping themselves to the contents of all the cars parked along the side streets near the Care Center. The two of them are so loaded down with stolen property that they’re talking about stealing a car to get it out of there. So when a red Chrysler Le Baron pulls over, and the driver asks where the fund-raiser is being held, the two gangstas sneer at one another. “Let’s jack this punk,” Charlie Freak says.

Razor Boy abruptly pulls his gun and yanks the car door open. “Get outta the car, nigga!” he screams as he yanks the man out. The driver is wearing a white pullover shirt and Dockers, and he suddenly has murder in his eyes. He is annoyed that this
brown idiot has jammed a gun in his face and called him a nigga.

“Cap his black ass!” Charlie Freak feels the man isn’t showing proper respect.

Razor Boy thumbs back the hammer on his .38 and is about to utter a gang slogan when the Third World Man pulls his own trigger. His shot rips through Razor Boy’s gut and severs the thick cord of nerve tissue that is his spine. Razor Boy dies paralyzed.

For a moment Charlie Freak is paralyzed in his own way, then he fires a shot. It knocks the Third World Man backward into his car, cracking his head. He lies there, bleeding badly. His eyes are shut. Charlie Freak walks over to finish the job, but the Third World Man suddenly opens his eyes and fires. Part of Charlie Freak’s head disappears and he crumples to the ground.

D
an had never been kissed the way Peg kissed him. “Wow,” he said, “you
were
a pro.”

Peg shook her head. “I never kissed back then,” she said. “What you got was strictly from the heart.”

Dan started to imagine some of the things she might be capable of. He swallowed hard and mustered all the self-mastery he could. “I think we better go outside.”

They walked out the front door and waded into the crowd, thanking everyone as they went. “Holy cow,” Dan said. “Looks like the celebrities have finally opened their checkbooks.” He pointed at the tote board. It showed $179,664 raised.

After grabbing some cheese-on-a-stick, Dan and Peg stopped at the dunking booth to say hello to Monsignor Matthews. He was wrinkled and wet, having spent the last two hours being dropped into the tank. “Hey, Father,” he yelled. “I bet you throw like a nun!” He made some taunting gestures from his moist perch.

Peg poked Dan with her elbow. “Don’t let him dis you that way.”

Dan picked up a ball and tried to think of a good baptism joke for the Monsignor. As he stood there in the middle of a sea of humanity, tossing the ball from one hand to the other, surrounded by the joyous noise of the fund-raiser, Dan marveled at how everything had finally come together for him. He had everything he wanted. He was truly blessed, and he knew he could drop the Monsignor with one good throw. Dan was halfway through his windup when he suddenly felt a warm breath on his ear. A familiar voice spoke to him. “Dan, can I see you for a second?”

Dan?
He knew the voice just as sure as he knew there was no escape. So much for being blessed. Dan turned to face Oren. “I’m sorry,” Dan said, “I’m Father Michael, but I had a twin brother named Dan.” He didn’t know if Prescott had come to blackmail him or what. Dan just hoped he could keep Oren from making a scene. “You must have us confused.”

“Perhaps,” Oren said, his throat tight. “Still, I’d like to speak to you, Father. Or should I go talk to one of those reporters?”

Peg saw Dan’s face sag. “Is something wrong?” She was feeling protective of her man.

“No,” Dan said. “No problem. I just need to talk to this gentleman for a minute. He wants to make a donation.” He tossed Peg the ball, then pulled Oren aside. “Don’t blow this for me, Oren.”

“Look,” Oren said, “I don’t care why you faked your death and I couldn’t care less why you’re dressed up like a priest. I got my own fucking problems. Fujioka is going to pull their goddamn account if I don’t give them a follow-up to the ‘More Is More’ campaign. I need your help.”

“I appreciate that,” Dan said, “but—”

“Holy shit!” Oren shrieked like a schoolgirl. He grabbed Dan and spun him around, using him as a human shield.

O
ut of the crowd the Third World Man comes staggering toward his quarry. His countenance is strained, his eyes bulging and bloodshot. He ignores the transfiguration of the faces shifting from joyous to horrified. He is the carnival’s uninvited sideshow. He will provide the macabre. He clutches his bloody wound with one hand and waves his gun with the other. He is screaming
, “La illah illa Allah!”

D
an had no idea what that meant, but it gave him the distinct impression that he was about to die for someone else’s deity.

The fund-raiser came to an abrupt and complete halt. The music stopped and the Ferris wheel ground to a standstill. A hush spread through the crowd outward from the epicenter as all eyes turned to the gunman and the priest.

“G
eneral Garang wants his money,” the Third World Man said. His white shirt was washed in blood. He looked thoroughly deranged. “If I must die, you must die with me,” he said.

“But … why?” Dan asked feebly.

“It is Allah’s will!” he said.
“Allah akbar!”
Before anyone could do anything, the Third World Man pressed the gun against Dan’s head.

Suddenly someone in the crowd screamed, “Nooo!” A split second later, everyone heard the gunshot. The Third World Man wobbled a bit, then hit the ground like a wet puppet.

Scott Emmons emerged from the crowd with the smoking gun. He looked disappointed. He had been aiming for Dan,
but he missed. A moment passed while the crowd processed the information, then they erupted with a huge cheer. They rushed Scott, hoisting him onto their shoulders, hailing him a hero. The music started back up and the Ferris wheel roared back to life.