“Thanks, Billy,” Darlene whispered to the patron, an overweight man in his early forties dressed, as always, in a blue seersucker suit straining at the seams, his multiple chins quivering as he blushed at the glancing whisk of her finger across his cheek. “You’re the best.”

Darlene straightened, picked up the slinky outfit she’d shed during the act, waved to the patrons and gave a sly wink to Billy the Voice, her only friend in the audience, the rest a bunch of scumbags and scuzzers, their peckers tapping the underside of the bar while they thought filthy things about Darlene and the other girls. Her shift was over and she could head for home, pop an oxy, and wash the stink from her skin.

She was stepping from the stage when a man approached, a yokel in a cheap brown suit and a tie the color of baby shit that was knotted like a length of rope. His hair was combed and parted and shiny with gel. He was drenched in old-timey slop like Aqua-Velva or Old Spice.

“I’m off the clock, hon,” she said, trying to keep her nose from wrinkling. “Next act starts in ten minutes. Get a cocktail and get seated.”

“I come to give you this,” the yokel said, holding out a folded bill. Darlene snapped it from his fingers to find five hundred dollars.

“I don’t do that, mister,” she said, reluctantly returning the money. “I just dance, see?”

“Oh my gosh no, Miss Hammond. I meant nothing like that.”

She looked at the bill and gave her visitor a dubious eye. “Then you must really like my dancing.”

“The money’s not mine. It’s from someone says you used to know her.”

“Who?”

“Sissy Carol Sparks.”

Darlene froze at the sound of the name, only then realized the yokel had used her true name, Hammond. Customers never learned it; only Billy the Voice knew. She stared at the bumpkin, prickles rising on the back of her neck.

“How do you know about—”

“I met Sissy in church. She told me your name, that you’d be here. She told me a lot of stuff.”

“Church? What the—”

“I preach the Word. Don’t worry, I ain’t about to start spoutin’ gospel. But preachin’s how I met Sissy.”

Darlene gave the man hard eyes. Religious types were bad enough, but preachers were the worst of the lot. “You must be kidding, mister. If Sissy Sparks went near a church it’d get struck by lightning.”

“There was a time that might have been true, ma’am. But Miss Sissy found the spirit, praise God.”

Darlene stared. Was this strange, monkey-faced man telling the truth? “Jesus …” she said. “I mean, I’m …” fucking shocked? Blown-the-shit-away? Darlene fought to find words that didn’t contain swearing. “I’m surprised, mister. But what’s all this have to do with me?”

“Sissy wants to see those she’s wronged. To unburden her soul.”

“Listen, mister, the last person in the world I want to see is Sissy Carol Sparks.”

The man nodded. “Then that’s all I need to hear. I’m sorry for taking your time, Miss Hammond.” He turned for the door. Darlene watched as he shuffled away. For a bible-thumper he seemed decent enough.

“Wait, mister …” Darlene called. “She … Sissy … she’s truly changed?”

The man turned. “Far along the road, Miss Hammond. I guess you remember how Miss Sissy used to be, probably the same the last time you heard from her.”

Five months back, Sparks bumped into Darlene at a grocery, talking about doing outcalls, escorts. Making fun of Darlene for dancing in clubs and living in the same fleabag walkup while Sissy had moved into an apartment in Wynwood. Wynwood.

Bitch.

“Last I saw Sissy she hadn’t changed, mister.”

“That was her old life. She’s even moved into an apartment in the church, small but clean. You’re prob’ly thinking when she still lived in …” the man snapped his fingers, trying for the answer.

“Wynwood. She was in Wynwood.”

“That’s right. Over on uh …”

“Twenty-ninth Street. The Reef condos.”

The man closed his eyes like stashing something in memory. “That’s it. Like the coral stuff. Reef.”

“Sissy always came out on top, mister. Even when everyone else came out on the bottom.”

“Like I said, she’s not there no more. She’s living behind the church and giving her life to the Lord. She feels the call to make amends. Money don’t mean a thing to her no more.”

Money?

The yokel started away again. “Hang on,” Darlene said. “Amends? Money? What does that mean?”

“Sissy made a lot of money in her … other life. Now she thinks it’s the Devil’s money. She tried to give me ten thousand dollars for my ministry.”

“Hah! The Devil let you take it, I hope.”

“I let Miss Sissy buy new pews. If the money does good it burns the Devil’s hands.”

“Sissy’s giving away cash? Am I getting that right?”

“To those she thinks she wronged.” The odd preacher looked at his watch. “Anyways, that’s the story. I’ll tell her you said thankee, but no thankee.”

“No thanks to what?”

“She’s making amends to those she wronged. You were one of them. I heard that she was like your boss at—”

“Where’s Sissy now?”

“My humble church, just a few miles yonder. She’s praying my mission will be successful.”

“I think I’d like to see her.”

“You don’t have to do that, Miss Hammond. Miss Sissy understands many folks can’t stand the sight of her.”

“No, I mean it, uh … what did you say your name was?”

“Dredd. Pastor Dredd.”

“Lemme get changed, mister. Sissy’s handing out cash … what did you call them, amens? I think I’d like to see her.”

Roland Uttleman entered the Schrum house, nodding at the security guard on the back porch, less to keep overzealous faithful from trying for an impromptu meeting than to keep lower-level workers at the network from finding the great man wandering drunkenly in his underwear.

The house was quiet. Uttleman took the elevator to the third floor. He stepped into the hall and listened. Was Schrum asleep?

No … beneath the muffled outside prayers and singing he heard footsteps. Schrum was up and pacing. Uttleman tried the door to Schrum’s sanctorum, locked. He rapped it with his knuckles. The door opened, Schrum leaning into the opening, the white hair tipping sideways. The television at the far end of the room was turned to a YouTube offering, Uttleman recognized a face on the screen.

“Willy Prince? Don’t tell me you watch that gasbag, Amos.”

“I want to be alone, Roland.”

“Cut the Garbo. Hayes and I may have found a path out of this mess.”

Schrum switched off the television and turned to Uttleman with a keep-going eyebrow. Uttleman sat at his desk, fingers tented before him.

“The project continues without you being a part of the daily operation, Amos. Hayes and I think we can get Eliot to accept a, um, site manager. Someone there every day to put his hands on the materials, to …”

“To speak mumbo-jumbo into the air,” Schrum grunted.

Uttleman’s hand slammed his desktop. “Dammit, Amos, you built this shitpile. We’re trying to shovel it away gracefully. Give us a fucking break, will you?”

“Sorry, Roland. I’ll listen.”

“A specially selected construction manager handles the daily needs of the project. When the event is ready, you arrive and give your blessing. Twenty minutes and it’s over. Eliot will be happy and you can return to the living.”

Schrum took a pull from the syrup bottle and wandered to the far end of the room. “I’m assuming Eliot has someone in mind to be this, this … manager.”

“Eliot’s thinking Galen Mobley.”

For the first time in weeks, Uttleman saw Schrum laugh. “Not gonna happen, Roland. Mobley’s as mad as a hatter.”

“Who would you pick, Amos? You know the, uh, spiritual requirements of the project.”

Schrum crossed to the tables of flowers and displays, plucking dead blossoms and tossing them to the floor.