Heart of the Assassin (13 page)

Baby clapped along to the gospel choir as the Old One danced in the aisle of the gigantic tent, hands waving, praising the Lord along with the hundreds of other participants who had rushed from their seats to lurch and howl and talk in tongues like fucking idiots. She saw Gravenholtz watching her from one of the exits, red hair slicked back so he looked almost human. He tossed aside the white carnation he had been given at the door, barreled up to one of Crews's deacons and jabbed him with a forefinger.

In the pulpit, the minister Malcolm Crews dipped and capered, long legs flying to the beat, his image magnified by the TV cameras on the jumbo screens on the walls as well as beamed out to the rest of the Belt. She saw the Old One bump into an enormous black woman in a polka-dot dress, then grab her hand and swing her round and round, sweat rolling off both their cheeks in the Atlanta heat. Baby clapped along with the soaring vocals of the choir, grateful to be back in the Belt.

At the last minute Ibrahim had tried to talk the Old One out of leaving Nueva Florida last night, warning of crime or illness from the strange food, even suggesting that Baby planned to assassinate the Old One far from the protection of his loyal retainers. She had remained silent and when Ibrahim ran out of breath, the Old One had kissed him on both cheeks, thanked him for his concern and told him not to worry.
I journeyed alone into the teeth of our enemies before your mother was born...before your mother and grandmother drew their first breath. Am I less now than I was then?

"Feel God's healing grace crackling through this temple! Feel God's power shake your bones and roil your blood!" shouted Crews as he strode back and forth, his face all sharp angles, ax blades for cheekbones, a man always in motion, strutting and capering so that the cameras could barely keep up with him. "God's lightning gonna set you up, brothers and sisters, twist you up, juice you up!"

The Old One thumped and bumped along with the crowd, arms flailing, hair plastered to his forehead as he shouted "Praise Jesus!" to the heavens. Without his beard and with his hair dyed, he looked younger, and the stylish checkerboard suit wasn't much of a Sunday-go-to-meeting outfit, but more like something a wolf on the prowl might sport to sweep a girl off her feet. Ibrahim would positively
shit
if he saw him now.

Daddy had been acting
very
weird these last couple of weeks. He had always been steady, hardly showing any emotion at all, just watching things play out behind those cold dark eyes of his, but lately...he had been positively erratic--gloomy one day, just staring into space, and the next day, heck, the next
minute,
he was charging around, demanding everybody jump, acting like a man whose rent was about due and he didn't have money for the landlord. Now here he was in Atlanta, banging hips with strangers, sweating up a storm and seeming to have the time of his life.

It had been a year since Baby had fled the Belt. Miami was fun, but she had quickly grown restless. Eager to impress her father, she made use of her contacts in the Belt, gathering information, waiting for an opportunity. She didn't have to wait long.

Belt president Raynaud was derided for his upper-class accent and fake populism, but his wife, Jinx, flighty and beautiful, had charmed the nation with her honest smile and her small-town ways. Every time she changed her hairstyle the beauty parlors filled. Her only son's health problems made her even more beloved. It was when Baby got word that Malcolm Crews had resurfaced as a backwoods preacher in the Carolinas that she got excited. She had an eye for men she could use, always had--that's how she'd ended up married to the Colonel, a man in his sixties when she was still a teenager. It was nice being the wife of the Colonel, but what she was aiming at now was so far beyond that she could barely fathom it.

Malcolm Crews swayed to the music, eyes half closed, voice cracking, a tall, lanky scarecrow, veins on his neck standing out in the red and purple lights. "Do you
feel
it?" he called, looking right at Jinx. The first lady raised her hands over her head, swayed and almost fainted. Her bodyguards helped her out the private exit, out into the cool night air. Malcolm Crews barely noticed. The Man in Black, that's what they called him, preacher man in a shiny black suit and black string tie, his hair twisted into a dozen braids like Blackbeard the pirate. "Do you feeeeeeeeeel it?" he shouted, finger pointing at the crowd, braids flying about him as he bobbled and twitched across the stage.

Baby felt it, all right. Must have been ninety degrees in that tent--her long dress clung to her, her skin spotted with perspiration. She lifted the back of her long hair, trying to cool off her neck. Not a breath of air in that tent, not a breeze in sight. Georgia in September was hotter than a pot of bubbling grits. She dabbed her forehead with a tissue and imagined having sex with that muscular young man two rows ahead of her, a big old boy with a milky white face and smooth cheeks.

If Baby had come a long way in the last year, so had Malcolm Crews. He led a ragtag army of end-times psychopaths once upon a time, an inbred mob Crews set loose to rape and pillage. They had terrorized the area for years before Crews bit off more than he could chew, gone up against the Colonel and that was that. His army annihilated, Crews and a small band of true believers melted away, and he took to preaching in the hill country, where his incandescent oratory quickly gained him a following. Wanted by the law for various atrocities, he moved constantly.

Six months ago, when Baby found out that Crews's traveling tent show had set up outside Atlanta, she talked to Janice Rae, wife of the president's chief speechwriter, and another of the Old One's daughters. Baby told Janice Rae to bring the first lady and her son, Todd, to a prayer meeting. Then Baby contacted Crews. Give the man credit, he was open to possibilities and the risk didn't bother him a bit.
We're all going to hell anyway, why not enjoy the ride?
That's what he told Baby.

A few days later, in the middle of the service, little Todd, always sickly, had an asthma attack. His inhaler proved useless, as did the emergency injection Jinx Raynaud gave him. The child might have died, but Malcolm Crews laid hands on him, and moments later the boy pinked up and began breathing normally. Within a week, Crews had a full pardon from the president, and his revivals, which had appeared only on local television, went national. It quickly became the most popular show on TV.

"Cornpone Christianity, that's what the eggheads call my ministry." Crews leered in the spotlight. "Well, brothers and sisters, I was once a tenured professor, a Ph. of D. in American literature at Duke University. I was considered an intellectual, an educated man, a Brahmin in the high church of bullshit, and I'm here to tell you...I
love
cornpone. Can't get enough of it."

The crowd screamed their agreement.

The Old One caught Baby's eye from the aisle, gave her a wink, then the black woman put her hands on his waist and twirled him like a soda straw. He shook his finger in the air as he spun to the music, dancing as if it were playing just for him.

Baby was used to having to explain things to men, to lead them to the truth, but the Old One...she had barely started talking about her idea and he just
ran
with it. The Old One, it was like he had some huge puzzle he was putting together, and Crews was a piece he had been looking for, a piece he hadn't even known he was missing until Baby showed him. He had kissed her on the forehead, said she was a blessing from Allah, and Baby, who hadn't cried for real since she was a child, Baby had wept until her eyes bugged out.

Baby watched the Old One making his way back to her, still shaking to the beat of the choir. He squeezed through the people who thronged the aisles, shouted "Amen!" and "Hallelujah!" his face glistening with sweat. She had never seen him look so happy.

"Look where we come to," said Crews, "look where this mighty nation, this new Jerusalem has ended up. Busted into pieces, coming apart at the seams. Don't blame the Muslims,
we
did it, brothers and sisters, we did it to ourselves. We trusted our ministers and pastors and they let us down. These supposed men of God sketched the line between good and evil with chalk instead of India ink, so when the wind kicked up, and the troubles came, that line got blown away. While we all stumbled around not sure what to do, the Muslims said, '
This
is right and
this
is wrong.'" Most of the crowd nodded in agreement, but there were plenty who looked shocked.

The Old One looked at Baby.

"I gave Malcolm a few suggestions for his sermon," said Baby. "Spice it up a little."

Crews leaned over the pulpit. "So why should we be surprised that millions of good Christians tossed aside their Bibles and said, 'If Pastor Jones don't know if sodomites and fornicators got a ticket to heaven or not, if Pastor Smith don't know if killing babies in the womb is a sin or not, then I'm going someplace that
is
sure.' And they did. And that someplace was a mosque." He lowered his voice and the crowd went silent. "Well...this is one pastor who's going back to that old time religion, a right-and-wrong religion." He cupped an ear. "Who wants to come with me?"

"AMEN!" shouted the crowd. "AMEN!" People had rushed the stage, stood there below him, arms raised, the sick and the desperate, the lonely and the lost.

The Old One beat time with the music on his knees.

"Don't hate the Muslims," said Crews, looking out at the crowd. "They at least have the decency to believe their own good book. The ones you should be hating are the shilly-shallyers, the shuck-and-jive God hustlers who can't give you a straight answer if their life depends on it."

The people in the tent swayed back and forth.

Gravenholtz pushed his way down their row, sat beside the Old One. "I talked to one of the deacons. Peckerwood over there says he's Crews's driver. He didn't want to cooperate at first...but I convinced him to pass on the message to Crews you want to talk with him."

"Shhh," said the Old One.

"Some of you folks know my history," said Malcolm Crews, "my dark pages. I've done things that only Jesus Christ Himself could forgive. Evil things. Ugly things." He looked out over the crowd.
"Monstrous things."
His teeth gleamed in the spotlight. "Yet...here I stand before you...pure as a newborn babe."

"Amen!" shouted a woman in the front row, and the cry was picked up and echoed across the room. "A-
men
!"

"I been washed clean, brothers and sisters. Washed clean as snow, clean as ice, clean as springwater." Crews capered onstage. "Washed in the blood of the lamb."

People sobbed, held their Bibles up in affirmation.

"Give me a fucking break," muttered Gravenholtz.

Black suit flapping, Crews skittered to the side of the stage where the maimed and the infirm had lined up. He jerked, slammed his right palm into the forehead of a white-haired lady--
"Heal!"
Knocked her backward into the waiting arms of his ushers.

If Baby didn't know better she would have believed it herself.

"Congratulations, Anthony, that's great news," said Rakkim. "Marie must be thrilled."

"Yeah, well..." Colarusso took a bite from the hot dog, chewing with his mouth open as they walked down the busy downtown street. "She's happy he's marrying a Catholic, but she'd be a lot happier if Helen was Italian."

"When's the big day?"

"Couple of months." A gob of mustard hung on the side of his mouth. "They're in a hurry. I told him..." His tongue snaked out, grabbed the mustard. "...said you got your whole life to be married. What's the rush?" He folded the rest of the hot dog into his mouth, the crowd parting as they barreled down the sidewalk, giving way as much to Colarusso's bulk and aggressive posture as the gold chief-of-detectives shield on his suit jacket. The highest-ranking Catholic in the police department. "I told Anthony Junior to wait, but she's got a pair of Johanssons--"

"Pair of what?"

"Johanssons. Cans.
Funbags.
Jesus H., don't they teach you young guys anything?"

Rakkim smiled back at the three moderns waiting outside a coffee shop, businesswomen with high heels and blue streaks through their hair. "Well, mostly we pay attention to see what you old guys do and then we head in the opposite direction."

"You been married, what, five years? Might as well be five minutes. You'll find out." Colarusso wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I tried talking to Anthony Junior but he don't listen to me. Never has.
You
he listens to. No fucking justice."

"Not in this world."

"Not in the next one either, that'd be my guess." Colarusso pushed a bit of hot dog bun back into his mouth with his pinkie, a drop of mustard falling onto the toe of his shoes. He wiped the offending stain off on the back of his trousers, kept walking.

"You find out anything for me, Anthony?"

Colarusso cut across the street to the park, Rakkim beside him, neither of them glancing at the traffic that screeched to a halt. A horn blared but Colarusso stopped that with a look, kept walking, finally sat down on a bench at the edge of the park. A good spot. One that offered a view of the lunchtime crowd eating on the grass and the passing sidewalk parade. Colarusso spread his arms across the back of the bench, enjoying the sun. "Did you know that Anthony Junior wants out of the Fedayeen?"

"Yeah. It's in the works. Should take another week for the approval to go through."

"You did that?"

Rakkim shrugged.

"Honorable discharge?"

"Man was cited twice for conspicuous bravery under fire, Anthony. What do you think?"

"You sure? His commander said no way they were letting him go before his seven-year commitment had been met. Said they invested too much money in his training."

"It's true. The genetic boosters alone cost close to a million dollars."

Colarusso belched into his fist. "Commander offered Anthony Junior another promotion. Said he could have his choice of posting. Gave him the God-and-country speech."

"It's a good speech. Works most of the time," said Rakkim, watching the people passing by the park. "Anthony Junior...is he sure?"

Colarusso nodded. Quiet now. Rakkim gave him time. "He said...he said he was done with it all. Just...
done,
" Colarusso said finally. "I think something happened in that little town in Colorado during the last Mormon counterattack. He won't talk about it, but I think it turned things for him."

"Then it's time for him to pack it in." Rakkim watched a kid, a moderate Muslim, walk between two moderns engaged in conversation, the kid lightly bumping them, apologizing profusely. "That kid in the green silk jacket...he's good."

"What do you mean?"

"He pulled off a double play on those two moderns, which is a tough move, but what's really nice is afterwards he never changed his pace. Most boosters make a score like that, they tend to bolt."

Colarusso squinted after the kid. "Never a cop around when you need one, is there." He turned to Rakkim. "That was you once, right?"

"Right."

"Then you lifted Redbeard's wallet and he caught you."

"I was nine and I was overconfident."

"You're still overconfident," said Colarusso. "Redbeard must have liked that, though, bringing you home and everything." He dabbed at his upper lip with the handkerchief as Rakkim stayed silent. "Had to be a reason. Not like he thought a thief would be a good playmate for Sarah. Probably just wanted a son. Man needs a son."

"If that's what he wanted, he gave up on that idea soon enough. I think...maybe I was a project for him. See what he could teach me. What he could turn me into."

Colarusso laughed. "Well, fathers and sons...one way or the other, they always disappoint each other."

"I asked you a question before about Senator Chambers. Would it help if I bought you another hot dog? Maybe throw in a side of chili fries?"

"No." Colarusso patted his ample belly. "I'm watching my weight." He waited until a bus passed, the rumble of the diesel echoing. "Senator Chambers looks clean."

Rakkim tracked the security blimps drifting over the city, sunlight gleaming off their electronic arrays. "Looks?"

"Only thing that caught my eye was in the last eighteen months, two of his longtime servants retired." Colarusso blew his nose into his napkin. "Both of them are dead now. One had a heart attack. One drove his car into a bridge abutment at a high rate of speed." He put away the handkerchief as the bus pulled away in a cloud of black smoke. "Wouldn't have thought anything of it...except you're asking questions."

"How old was the servant who had the heart attack?"

"Forty-seven. They say the good die young. Guess you and me, we'll live forever."

"You have the details?"

Colarusso slid a datastick into Rakkim's hand. "Full run-down on both of them. Any chance you'll tell me what this is all about?"

"Did you cover your tracks?"

"No, I been gobbling pretty-colored paint chips so now I'm retarded," said Colarusso.

"Sorry."

"You and Sarah got plans for tonight? Marie's planning on ruining a piece of meat and you're welcome to share."

"Can't do it. Sarah's dragging me to the university for a meet-and-greet."

"Sounds painful."

"You want to go in my place, I'll gladly eat Marie's food."

"Hard decision, but I'll pass." Colarusso scratched at a dried blob of something on his suit jacket. "I appreciate your help with Anthony Junior."

"He did his duty. If he thinks it's time to come home, then that's what he should do."

"He wants to be a cop. You believe that?"

Rakkim shook his hand, lost in Colarusso's mitt. "That's great."

"Yeah..." Colarusso beamed, lightly ran his fingers over his badge. "He said he likes the discipline and the camaraderie of the department, reminds him of why he applied to become Fedayeen. He said he wanted to do something that would help people, but he worried about the killing part. I told him most cops go their whole career and never draw their sidearm...and the ones that have to, well,
somebody's
got to stop the bad guys." He nudged Rakkim in the ribs. "Although I
did
tell him to forget that nonsense about helping people. That kind of talk will get him laughed off the force."