"It's a damned ad for Burma Shave," she countered, "not for a specific philosophical point. The date is vague, done in is a colloquialism"-she turned to stare the man directly in the eyes-"and I could write better jingles on a Scrabble board."

The man harrumphed, retrieved his portfolio, and departed. Back to shaving cream, I suppose.

"Next," I said to the crowd.

One nervous young man gulped and rose. "I can see you're no match for me."

He left without giving us a show.

"Next."

A heavyset, ruddy man turned a sketch pad my way. Tasteful blue letters on a gray background read

God Is Not Dead…Yet!

"Not bad," I said.

"It's a negative," Ann said through a barely stifled yawn. "We need a positive statement that god will die. And the date."

"Is she with you?" the huckster asked.

"Next."

A short, plump, woman aged a few years older than I volunteered next. She peered at me cheerfully through thick eyeglasses set in a black pair of men's frames.

"So," she said, smiling, "you want to tell everyone that God's dead." She spoke with a mild Russian accent. Her hands made dramatic flourishes as she pulled a poster from a thick cardboard tube.

"Here's what's going to catch their eyes!"

The poster unrolled to reveal a carefully watercolored image of a crucified skeleton. It looked hauntingly lonely. On its shoulder perched the tiny skeleton of a dove. Beneath the scene-in lurid yellow letters-shouted the logo

The Year of Our Lord 2000Won't Be!

The woman smiled with pride. She seemed to be the sort who probably had a lovely garden in her front yard and made cookies for all the neighborhood kids.

Ann cleared her throat as gently as she could. She looked in my direction, imploring.

"Uh-it's very nice," I said, "but it's, um… a bit obscure. It'll go right over most people's heads."

The woman nodded with a resigned smile. The watercolor disappeared into the brown tube. She shouldered her purse, headed for the door.

"Oh, well," she said, "win a few, lose a few-so it goes." She waved at everyone remaining in the office. "Ta!" she said, sparkling merrily.

At least she had a good attitude.

I gazed over the remaining faces. Judging by expressions alone, there wasn't much hope left. Except for one.

A tall, chestnut-haired woman sat bent over a sketch pad, making quick motions with a colored pencil. She glanced up at me, then at Ann.

"I'll go next," she said in a voice as low, cool, and sharp-edged as chilled dry wine. "It'll save you time, and you can send the others home before they embarrass themselves."

The rest of the candidates muttered like discouraged coyotes.

"Over whose heads in particular do you not want to go?" she asked us."Over anyone's," I said.

Ann gave her the once-over about five times. "It's an idea-saturation campaign. We want to reach everyone. People who aren't open to rational arguments. People who only respond to emotional assaults, such as the illiterate-or the intellectuals."

The woman nodded and resumed her sketching. The other contenders watched in agitation. Her dark hair caught bits of light from here and there in the room to reflect a rich red-brown hue. As she scribbled, she spoke.

"If you want maximum impact, stick to simple symbols and wording. Now, what exactly are you trying to convey?"

I watched her long fingers at work. "We want as many people as possible to get the impression that God will die on the first day of the year two thousand A.D."

She wrote something at the top of the pad with swift, precise strokes. Several of the advertising hacks leaned over to see what she'd drawn.

One of them sighed, picked up his belongings, and made tracks.

After a moment of considering the finished product, she turned the sketch pad over to show Ann.

"I think that's it," Ann said with a smile. "Dell?"

The woman turned it toward me. Large letters blazed in sharp angles of crimson.

On the First Day of the Year 2000God Will Die…

I nodded. She knew what to give the customer. Then I looked at the drawing below the slogan.

It was a fair likeness of God from the Michelangelo painting on the Sistine Chapel. A good choice. Most everyone in the Judeo-Christian world and a good deal of people outside it have seen that image in one form or another.

A black circle surrounded the Godhead. Rifle crosshairs intersected at a point directly over His left temple.

"That says it." I stubbed out my cigarette. "Thank you all for showing up," I said to the others.

As they wandered out, Ann and I walked over to the woman. She stood. She was taller than I was.

"That symbol is going to be plastered all over the world," I said. "Whom do you work for, sister?"

"Nobody," she said. "I own an agency called McGuinneCorp. And my name's Kathleen, not `sister.'"

I could see it would be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

"That's outrageous!"

Emil Zacharias glared at me with such utter, raging hatred that I had to clench my teeth in order to remain smiling.

He sat behind his desk at the Culver City office of Hallelujah House. I hadn't figured on finding him there-I'd only wanted to leave a note about what I was planning. His secretary, though, apparently had been expecting me. I was ushered into a munificently well-appointed office about the size of a small cathedral. There he lounged, as calm and pouty as a pampered cat.

He didn't stay that way for long.

"I refuse!" he screamed. You can't force my hand on this one, Ammo!"

"I think I can." I lit a cigarette slowly, letting him stew for a moment. "The contract, as I recall it, was for five hundred a day plus expenses. All the bills I'm running up are legitimately involved in the fulfillment of that contract."

Zack leaned forward, palms flat on the desktop.

"I urge you once more, Ammo, to cancel the contract and quit this game. Give it up. I can't guarantee your safety otherwise."

"I'm not here to debate," I said. "I just want you to know that there may be a drain on your finances that I'm certain you'll find a way to replace. Hand over your checkbook."

He stared at me as if I'd asked for certain portions of his anatomy that (rumor had it) he already lacked.

"Don't bother signing them. I'm sure your bank will make good." I held out my hand.

With a feral growl, he pulled a large leather check register from the top drawer of the desk. It slid across the mahogany to my side.

"Thanks, Zack," I said, hefting it under my arm as I rose. "You'll be seeing the results over the next few weeks." I turned back at the door to nod toward him. "If I don't see you again, have a happy New Year."

"Drop dead."

"That," I said perhaps a bit too cockily, "is contractually excluded."

The billboard faced west on the Sunset Strip, visible all the way from King's Road to the top floors of the buildings lining the intersection at La Cienega.

A man in smudged white overalls applied paint to the last letter of the slogan. He lowered the scaffolding and stepped off, taking his brushes and paints with him. One last glance at a proof of the ad confirmed to him that he'd made a perfect copy.

He probably thought it was a promotional teaser for a new film or rock album. Had he known that there were thousands of people such as he painting or pasting up the same message around the world (on Hallelujah House's tab), he might have thought otherwise.

Ann looked at the sign, arms folded. Her golden hair streamed glowingly over the dark blue business outfit hugging her form. She gazed silently at the billboard.

In the lower right-hand corner, a faithful rendition of Michelangelo's God pointed His finger toward Sunset Boulevard. The rifle crosshairs painted over Him intersected His left temple. The official slogan blazed in crimson above Him.