The kid was as simple as a rock, Uttleman thought, but a true believer. He affected his most sincere look and put a hand on the singer’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be back at the studio in Jacksonville, son? Getting ready for a performance?”

“I’m proud to say the Reverend’s asked me to stay here, sir. He says I’m a …” Tears began to well in the singer’s eyes and his voice wavered. “I’m a … comfort in his illness.”

And an on-call entertainment system who asks nothing, Uttleman mused, can talk for hours without saying anything, fetches what’s needed, and is utterly loyal. Not bad.

“Bless you, Andy. You’ll be rewarded in Heaven.”

“I’m rewarded every day I’m with the Reverend.”

Uttleman patted the singer’s shoulder before heading to the elevator. Upstairs, he found Schrum up and peering through the front drapes. “A big truck just pulled up, Roland. They’re unloading a portable stage and lighting.”

“The network’s doing a remote broadcast, Amos. A tribute to you, broadcast to twenty-one million of the faithful.”

“Hayes’ idea, no doubt. Cash in on my infirmity.”

Uttleman raised an eyebrow behind the wire glasses. “I can call Hayes and have it cancelled, Amos.”

Schrum pretended to not hear, peering round the curtain, a half-full glass of “syrup” in his broad hand. He studied the crowd for several minutes as the verses of “Shall We Gather at the River” drifted up from the street, then pushed back the shock of white hair and turned to Uttleman.

“Maybe I am dying, Roland.”

“Please, Amos. We’ve been through this before. You have a mildly enlarged heart, early congestive failure. It’s easily managed and I expect you to be complaining ten years from now.”

Schrum leaned unsteadily against the wall and drank. “If I’m not dying, Roland, then maybe I’m decaying. Like a tree rots from the inside out.”

“You’re feeling sorry for yourself, Amos. There’s no reason for it.”

Schrum glared, but said nothing. He picked up the glass and the remaining liquid diminished by half. “I’m stuck here,” he said, changing course. “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because you told Eliot Winkler you could—”

“Yes, yes … I know. I ran from the project like a scared cat, fleeing a promise made in a moment of … What the hell is that fancy word for encompassing pride, Roland? I can’t remember anything any more.”

Uttleman sighed. “Hubris.”

Schrum poured the remainder of the liquor down his throat. He reached to place the glass on the table, missed, the glass falling to the floor.

“Sit down, Amos,” the physician said, anger in his voice. “You’re getting inebriated. Mistakes can happen.”

Schrum’s head flashed to the doctor. “What’s that verse again, Roland?” Schrum hissed, the famous voice as cold as death, a sound never heard by the faithful. “Something about sins and stones? What’s the fucking phrase, Roland? I need to hear it.”

Uttleman looked down, his voice diminished to a whisper.

“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

Schrum stared with barely veiled condescension. “Exactly, Roland. Maybe it’s best we both remember it, right?”

18

Roland Uttleman turned into the parking lot of the Key West Marriott at ten p.m., finding a dark Towne Car parked near the door and pulling into the adjacent spot. The windows on the car were darkened, but Uttleman knew he had been watched from the moment his vehicle had entered the lot.

He exited and knocked on the window of the Towne Car. It rolled down.

“Good evening, Hector.”

“Buenos noches, Señor Uttleman.”

“How long has Hayes been here?”

Machado looked at his watch, Rolex, a recent gift from Johnson. He held up a hand, thick and powerful fingers spread wide. “Five minutes, sir.”

“Hayes tells me you found a new home for your sister, Hector.”

Machado froze for a split second, nodded. “It is a good place, Señor Uttleman. The people there are making her comfortable.”

Uttleman started to turn away, but paused. “The place she was before, Hector … did I not hear of roaches? Rats, even.”

Machado’s eyes fell to the floor. “It is past, señor. Juanita is safe now.”

“It’s what we do for family, Hector. Good care is expensive, but keeping our loved ones safe is a duty we are handed by God Almighty.”

Uttleman stared into the dark eyes of Machado, waited for the flicker of assent, then turned to the door of the hotel, entering the lobby and looking into the lounge. A hand waved from a booth in a far corner and Uttleman angled that direction, sitting across from Hayes Johnson. A waiter appeared and Uttleman ordered a Scotch. Johnson had half a martini in front of him to accompany the lone candle on the table. Alcohol was not condoned by the Crown of Glory network, but few of the viewership would be among the Marriott’s customers and wouldn’t have known Uttleman and Johnson from Adam. They looked like a pair of businessmen planning sales strategies over cocktails.

“I was watching the news earlier,” Uttleman said. “It’s as full of stories about Roberta Menendez as it was last week. Non-stop. Every few minutes they ask for information on one of those anonymous tiplines.”

“A sad case,” Johnson said. “Tragic.”

“I saw Hector outside,” Uttleman said, peering over the top of his glasses. “How’s he doing these days … with the sister problem and all?”

“It’s no longer a problem. His sister moved from a rathole nursing home in Homestead to one of the finest facilities in Orlando. She’s getting the best care available and Hector’s a grateful man.”

Uttleman absorbed the information. “Good to hear.”

The doctor’s drink arrived. Johnson let Uttleman take a long pull before speaking. “How’s our old friend doing, Roland? What you wanted to talk about, right?”

Uttleman looked side to side, as if fearful of spies, voice lowered. “He’s no longer sneaking drinks, he’s pounding them. Christ, even the choir boy’s noticed.”

A frown. “Any problem there with Delmont, uh …”

“He’ll never breathe a word. The kid worships Amos.”

“Has Amos said anything more about completing 1025-M?”

A snort. “He’s currently pretending it doesn’t exist.”

Johnson leaned forward. “Eliot Winkler called. He’s been thinking about what Amos said, about lacking the strength to handle the daily requirements of the project. Eliot says the words gave him a revelation.”

“A revelation?” Uttleman shook his head. “Eliot wants an understudy?”

“He thinks another man of God might take over the, uh, assembly of the event.”

“I thought Eliot believed only Amos capable of such a thing.”

“Eliot’s desperate. He now thinks a lesser man of God can assemble the event. When it’s ready, Amos steps in and blesses the project. Displays the miracle to God, so to speak.”

“Does Eliot have someone in mind to supervise the project? Did that arrive with the revelation?”

“Eliot’s thinking about Galen Mobley.”

Uttleman stared. “The lunatic from Tennessee? Mobley started off handling snakes, for crying out loud.”

“The Reverend can manipulate Eliot to a different choice, Roland. It’s what he does. Eliot gets his event and Amos gets to stay in Key West. He steps in for the finale, and it’s done.”

Uttleman gazed into his drink for a ten-count, nodding as a half-smile came to his thin lips. “Eliot might have actually stumbled on to a rather tidy solution.”

Johnson lifted his glass in toast. “All we do is sell it to the Reverend.”

19

Bass-throbbing dance music filled the Overtown strip bar, deep notes rattling the bottles on the shelves. Darlene Hammond spun twice more around the pole, bouncing the boobs for the droolers drinking below, several there since the joint opened at eleven a.m. The music raged to a concussive conclusion and Darlene – Delilah Dawn when she was working – unwrapped from the pole, put on her most salacious, lip-tonguing smile, and bent to gather tributes from outstretched hands: ones from the pikers, here and there a fiver and a twenty from Billy the Voice.