Book of Nathan (6 page)

“This is a really important question, Maurice,” I said. “Was
Kurios dead when Zeus showed up?”

Tyson asked and came back with an answer. “No.”
 

I blinked. “No?”

“No.”

“But Kurios was dead when the cops arrived on the scene a
few minutes after?”

“That’s right.”

“So, Zeus was with Kurios before he died.”

“Yeah. He seen him pass.”

Which must have been one of the most upsetting moments of
the homeless man’s life.
 

“Maurice, ask Zeus if Kurios said anything before the police
showed up.”

Another quick response. “Yes.”

I leaned toward the TV screen. “Kurios actually spoke to
you, Zeus?”
 

“Yes.” Maurice interpreted.

“You sure
about
this?”

Another “Yes.”

“So what did he say?”

“Father Nathan.”

“What?”

“He say, ‘Father Nathan,’ ” Maurice repeated.

“That’s it? Just Father Nathan?’ ”

“He don’ remember nothin’ else.”

Miklos Zeusenoerdorf wasn’t into lying, but he was easily
confused. Maybe he did hear Kurios mutter something before he died but was the
evangelist delirious? Did Zeus mistake what was being said? I tried to
formulate my next question but was distracted when I picked up part of Twyla’s
conversation with Beuford Krup. Something about barnyard animals.

“Tell the truth, Mr. Krap—what’s the wildest thing you ever
did?” Twyla asked.

I put Zeus on hold and craned my head around the video
station divide.
 

“An ostrich!” Twyla squealed with delight. “Oh, that is
so
naughty!”

“That’s it!” I shouted and ordered Yigal to get Twyla off
the phone. Then I turned back to my designated cubicle and used Maurice to
press Zeus for more details about the necklace worn by the driver of the blue
sedan. Zeusenoerdorf came through with a slightly better description of the
silver chain and medallion. “Says the round silver thing fell off the necklace
durin’ the fight,” Maurice reported.
   
 

I couldn’t be certain, but Zeus’s verbal sketch seemed to
match a picture of a medallion I had seen before. A group of pro-life
demonstrators had picketed a Central Jersey abortion clinic earlier in the
year. One of the regional newspapers gave the incident a day’s worth of
coverage, including a sidebar story about the pro-life group that mobilized the
protest. I didn’t remember the Latin name of the organization, but I recalled the
photo of the emblem that was included as part of the story, a silver cross set
inside an engraved silver circle.

I was about to push Zeus for more information about Father
Nathan when the interview came to an end. Doc, Twyla, and Beuford Krup were
trading jokes about llamas when a guard with no sense of humor informed us the
Visitor Center wasn’t a comedy club. We were told to leave. Immediately.

Twyla waved at the camera. “G’bye, Mr. Krap.” The TV went
off, and we were ushered out of the center.

“He looked so sad,” moaned Twyla.

“Beuford?” Professor Waters asked.

“No. Mr. Zeus.”

She was right. Zeus looked unhappier than usual. Worse, I
also spotted something else in his droopy eyes. Defeat. It took a lot of years,
but it seemed to me like life may have finally ground Zeus down.

“Careful out there,” said the same guard we had met in the
main lobby a half hour earlier. He motioned to a small but boisterous crowd
standing outside the entrance of the center.

“Who are they?” Doc Waters asked.

“They’re the real pissed-off fan club of the late Dr.
Benjamin Kurios.”

I checked out the agitated group of about fifty
people—mostly women. They marched in a slow circle about a hundred yards from
the entrance to the Visitation Center.

“Those people want your boy’s head,” the guard went on. The
crowd’s placards underscored his point.
 

“Would be nice if they waited until Zeus had a chance to
defend himself,” I mused.

“Wait until what?” the guard asked. “Until his counselor
here tries to get the nutcase off on an insanity plea? If that happens,
there’ll really
be
hell to pay.”

The way he talked, I knew that given the chance, the guard
would join the band of unhappy protesters in a nanosecond. The blood lust for
Zeus was becoming an all-American phenomenon.

With Yigal in the lead, we marched out of the Visitation
Center into the noisy, banner-waving crowd.
  

I zeroed in on a woman carrying a three-foot-by-three-foot
poster board that read:

God’s Messenger—Benjamin Kurios
 

Matthew
5:21

Two young boys stood on either side of the woman. One held
up a sign that read:
 

Whosoever
Shall Kill Shall Be in Danger of the Judgment

Matthew
5:21
 

The other pumped a placard up and down like he was at a
political rally. When the kid gave his arm a rest, I got the message:

The wages of sin
=D
EATH!

Romans
6:23

Chapter 4

“Jesus,
Doug,” I shouted into my cell phone an hour after leaving the Orange County
Jail. “Have you seen
Manny Maglio’s niece? She walks, talks,
and dresses like a hooker.”

“That’s because she is
a
hooker!”

“Well, why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Furious, I walked
toward the front office of a nondescript motel called the Wayside. Twyla, Doc
Waters, and Maurice Tyson were out of earshot to my rear, seated in a
Mitsubishi that I rented in Orlando.

“And get stuck listening to another lecture about how
prostitution is anything but a victimless crime?” Doug laughed. “Don’t think
so.”

“No more surprises,” I griped. “What else should I know
about her?”

“Nothing.” Doug’s tone was so soothing I knew he had to be
lying. “I don’t know why you’re pissed. Think about it—the woman’s trying to
find a better life. You’re helping her get on the right track. This is what you
do,
Bullet.”

I should have told Doug that hand-holding hookers was not
what I did. But it was six o’clock and
I was famished. I moved to the main reason I had called.

“Tell me again—isn’t the objective of this fiasco to get
Twyla a job at Universal?”

“If you get her there, that’s what’s going to happen—yes.”

“Maybe not,” I warned. “If she goes into that interview
wearing anything close to what she has on now, even Frederick’s of Hollywood
wouldn’t sign her on.”

A long wait. “Damnit, there’s always something,” Doug
wheezed. “All right, maybe we can fix the problem. There’s a Nordstrom’s
department store in Orlando—at the Florida Mall. Maglio’s in tight with one of
Nordstrom’s board members. I’ll see if I can get this fixed. Figure out a way
of getting Twyla to the store before her interview tomorrow afternoon.”

“Nordstrom’s? What am I, a personal shopper? This isn’t part
of the deal.”

“Yeah, well keep remembering those free plane tickets I got
for you,” Doug said. “And think of me tonight when you’re lounging around that
comfortable motel room. You’re paying a small price for a boatload of big favors,
my friend.”

I snapped my cell phone shut and walked into the Wayside’s
office, where the manager gave me an ice-cold reception. He told me the four
rooms reserved in my name by Dr. Kool’s secretary were freebies—in-kind
donations the Wayside had reluctantly offered to Harris & Gilbarton in lieu
of making a cash contribution to one of the charities the firm represented. The
manager said he had been told the rooms would be home-away-from-home for a few
visiting nonprofit dignitaries. “Instead, I’m forkin’ over four rentable rooms
for two goddamned nights to a bunch of Yankee yo-yos.”

I was tempted to tell the manager he needed a reality check.
The $59-a-night Wayside wasn’t a place for VIPs. But I kept my mouth shut when
he shoved four keys into my hand and jerked his thumb toward the seediest wing
of the motel.

I walked back to the car and passed out the keys. Maurice
and Doc grabbed a couple of vinyl bags, which they had converted to suitcases,
and headed to their respective rooms. Twyla decided to check out the Wayside’s
murky pool before unpacking her pink and yellow polka-dot carry-on that was
still in the trunk. I picked up my beat-up American Tourister at the same time
Twyla called my name. She had been at the pool for no more than two minutes but
was already carrying on a conversation with a family of four who looked like
they belonged at the Wayside.

“Bullet, come over here!”

Mr. Logical, the voice in my head I ignored far too often,
screamed don’t go there
.
But I was too tired to come up with an excuse to keep my distance. I trudged to
the oversized puddle that the Wayside passed off as a pool.

“This is Conway Kyzwoski and his wife, Ida,” Twyla bubbled.
“They’re from South Carolina.”

I flapped my hand and muttered an exhausted hello.
 

“And these kids are Noah and A-Frame.”

“Ephraim,” Ida Kyzwoski corrected. “It’s from the Bible. The
name means fruitful.”

Although Ephraim couldn’t be more than ten, the way he was
studying Twyla Tharp suggested that fruitfulness was in his future.

“Sit down,” Conway Kyzwoski ordered. He reached into a brown
paper bag and pulled out two plastic cups. “Not supposed to have no beer by the
pool but hell’s bells, we’re at a ree-sort, for God sakes!” Out came a can of
Miller Lite.

Twyla pulled me into a moldy folding chair next to an even
moldier patio table. I gave in to the forces around me, took the cup of beer,
and tried to figure out how Conway could see when one eye pointed left and the
other tilted toward the cracked concrete that surrounded the pool.

I was certain I had never seen Conway before, but Ida and
her two offspring were another story. No question about it—they were the sign
holders I had spotted at the anti-Zeus rally outside the Orange County
Jail.
 

“We come down here from Goose Creek,” Conway informed me. He
held out a can of Skoal. “Want some?”

“Thanks, but I don’t—chew.”

“We’re here to do God’s work,” Ida said, studying both Twyla
and me. I was sure Ida had seen us at the Visitation Center, but for some
reason, she made no mention of it. Instead, she launched into a
mini-inquisition. “Why are you in Orlando, Mr. Ballot?”

“Actually, it’s Bullock,” I corrected. “Rick Bullock.”

“But everyone calls him Bullet,” said Twyla. “You know,
because he shoots straight.”

Conway reconfigured the compliment with a snicker. “A
straight shooter?”

“Somethin’ wrong with that?” Twyla reaction was surprisingly
sharp.

It was my first inclination that there was more to Manny
Maglio’s niece than makeup, a well-proportioned body, and compromised morals.
If my wife were still alive, she’d be telling me not to judge Twyla by just her
exterior. There could be a lot more to the woman than meets the eye, Anne would
undoubtedly say. It would take a while, but I would come to find out that my
wife was absolutely right.

“Still don’t know what brings you to Orlando, Mr. Bullet,”
Ida persisted. I had a feeling she already knew why.

“Business.”

Ida blew back my answer with a snort and turned away. She
was one of those women you never noticed unless you worked at it. Unlike her husband
who was beer bellied and tattooed, Ida was one hundred percent bland. Her hair
was short, brown, and flecked with gray. She wore a tan muumuu that covered her
pudgy body from neck to toe. If there were anything at all distinctive about
her, it was the silver medallion about the size of quarter that dangled from a
thin choke necklace. I recognized it immediately—it was identical to the
pro-life emblem Zeus claimed the driver of the mysterious blue sedan was
wearing.