Poor Butterfly (8 page)

“No they don’t,” the plaid shirt said. “I work with a guy from London or someplace, and he don’t talk like that.”

“Like it rare or what?” the grill guy asked me.

“Or what,” I answered.

He nodded.

“Know the church down the street?” I asked. “Church of the Enlightened Patriots?”

The plaid guy laughed.

“What about it?” The grill guy stopped to wipe his hands on his apron.

“The guy who runs it,” I said. “He ever come in here?”

“Nah,” said the grill guy, sweeping my burger and onions onto a bun and putting them on a waiting plate. “But I see him coming, going. Looks a little like Robert Taylor, only he got white hair.”

“Another nut church,” the plaid shirt mumbled through a mouthful of burger. “They come. They go. He opened about a year back. Before him was … What, Eddie?”

“Baptists,” said Eddie, putting a toothpick in his mouth. “They was Baptists.”

“Lot of people go to the church?” I asked. “Good burger.”

“Thanks,” said Eddie the grill man through the toothpick. “Not too many. Mostly old people. No Chinese. Chinese don’t go for that stuff.”

I finished my burger, considered ordering another one, but looked down at my gut and decided to be righteous. I dropped a half buck on the counter, pulled out my notebook, and made a note about the expense.

“Take it easy,” said Eddie.

“Only way to take it,” I said, scooping in the change.

I nodded at the plaid shirt, who moved his head a little to acknowledge me, and I was back on the street heading for the church. Something in the window of a store I passed caught my eye. I tried the door. It was open. A young girl was cleaning up, getting ready to close. This was the fringe of downtown, not the heart, and this was the kind of shop men with flat noses didn’t usually visit.

I calmed her down by asking how much something in the window was. She told me and I pulled the cash out of my wallet. She wrapped it and handed it to me with a smile. The second I was out the door, I heard it lock behind me.

I dropped the package on the floor of the front seat of the Crosley, locked the doors again, and headed across the street for the Church of the Enlightened Patriots. A curtain on the first floor of the church moved as I crossed the street, and I caught a glimpse of one of the women who had been picketing in front of the opera—the woman who had left early. As I hit the sidewalk, the curtains parted and a man looked out at me. He was big, lean, and wearing a black suit with a white turn-around collar. His hair was bushy and white, and he smiled a confident smile he made sure I could see.

T
he door of the Church of the Enlightened Patriots was open before I hit the top wooden step. The Reverend Adam Souvaine stood inside, hands folded in front of him, smooth face beaming at me. His eyes were green and wide, and his white mane of hair looked as if belonged on an older man, or a show horse. Behind him on the wall was an orange cross about the size of Mickey Rooney.

“Mr. Peters,” he said, voice deep and steady. “Welcome to our church.”

His hand was out. I took it. Firm grip. Palm and fingers hard. Behind him I could see into the small entryway.

“Reverend Souvaine,” I answered.

“Please come in,” he said, letting go of my hand.

The door closed behind me. Standing behind it was a man about my height but a hundred pounds heavier. The man’s face was round and dark, black hair combed back. He wore a gray suit with a white turtleneck sweater. He looked like a turtle—hard, cold, slow, and determined. He also looked as if he didn’t like me. I hoped it was the look he greeted all converts with.

“Mr. Ortiz is deacon of our congregation,” Souvaine said, beaming at the medicine ball of a man blocking the door.

“He must give a mean sermon,” I said.

“Mr. Ortiz functions best as collector of tithes, tender of the meager possessions of our church, recruiter for committees and causes. You will not believe it, Mr. Peters, but our Mr. Ortiz has had a number of careers, including that of professional wrestler, and not so long ago was a criminal in his native country. Mr. Ortiz has done some things in his day which God had difficulty forgiving, but Mr. Ortiz’s sincere contrition and genuine repentance have earned him forgiveness.”

A python ready to strike but kept in check by the soothing voice of his trainer, Mr. Ortiz’s expression did not change. At no time in those few moments did I recognize anything on that dark, round, leathery face that resembled repentance or contrition.

“Let’s continue our visit in the sanctuary,” Souvaine said, taking my arm and guiding me out of the small wooden entryway and toward a room to the left. Deacon Ortiz entered the room behind us and closed the door.

The sanctuary was nothing special—an uncluttered desk and chair in the corner away from the windows, a black leather sofa, and two matching chairs with little round black buttons all over them. Jammed but neat book shelves covered the long walls. The wall behind the desk held a large, not very good painting of Jesus Christ, flanked by an equally bad painting of George Washington on the right and a much worse painting of Abraham Lincoln on the left. Below the painting of Christ was a photograph of a sober-looking man with a bushy black mustache and a collar that dug into his double chin.

“Who’s the guy on the bottom?” I asked.

“That,” said Souvaine, looking at the photograph of the uncomfortable man with reverence, “is J. Minor Frank, departed husband of our major benefactor, Mrs. Bertha Frank. This room,” he said, with a wave of his right hand as he sat on the sofa, “is the J. Minor Frank Sanctuary. Please sit down.”

I sat in one of the leather chairs. It squooshed as I sat.

“Is there anything I can get for you before we begin?” Souvaine asked smoothly. “I’ve asked for some lemonade.”

“You can have Mr. Ortiz take a seat or lean against the wall or stand somewhere I can see him,” I said.

Souvaine chuckled, amused by unfounded suspicions.

“Mr. Ortiz,” he said. “Please take a seat at my side.”

Ortiz looked at me as he moved next to Souvaine and sat straight on the edge of the sofa, both feet firmly on the ground.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Now that we are comfortable,” said Souvaine. “I assume you have some questions you would like answered. I will be happy to oblige. In fact, it is my obligation to the church and God to respond to all honest inquiry.”

“How did you know my name?” I asked.

“I suppose you would not believe it if I told you God gave me your name in a vision,” Souvaine said.

“I would not.”

“And you would be correct.” Souvaine laughed, looking at Ortiz. “I’m trying to find Mr. Ortiz’s sense of humor. It is buried deeply by misfortune.”

“Do I get fifty bucks if I make him laugh?”

Souvaine laughed again. “I’m afraid I cannot spend our Lord’s money in such a manner,” he said. “When Mr. Ortiz and God are ready, Mr. Ortiz will laugh.” He looked at Mr. Ortiz with satisfaction. Mr. Ortiz continued to look at me.

“Your automobile,” said Souvaine. “We simply had one of our parishioners who is employed by the local government make a call to the State Automobile License Bureau. We knew your name and the fact that you are a private investigator before you left the Opera building.”

Someone knocked at the door and Souvaine called for whoever it was to enter. In came the old lady who had spotted me from the window. She was carrying a tray, which she placed on a table in front of us.

“Bertha,” said Souvaine. “How thoughtful of you. And of the kitchen ladies.”

Bertha straightened up and looked at me. She wasn’t sure what her feelings should be. I confused her even further.

“You’re J. Minor’s widow, aren’t you?” I asked, reaching for something that might be lemonade. There were two other lemonades on the tray. When Souvaine reached for the one in front of him, I put mine back on the tray and took his. He shook his head and accepted the trade.

“I am,” Bertha said.

“Is that the best picture you have of J. Minor?” I asked, turning to look at the uncomfortable man.

“My departed was fond of that photograph,” she said, beaming at the photograph through her thick glasses. “I think he looks very stately.”

“I think he looks like a man with constipation,” I said.

“Mr. Peters,” Souvaine said with just a touch of what might have been warning. “Is it necessary to insult the dead?”

“No,” I said, “but Puccini is dead, too. Your people, including the widow Bertha, are standing in front of the Opera insulting him all day.”

“He did suffer from constipation,” Bertha said.

“Puccini?” I asked, surprised.

“No,” said Bertha, flustered. “J. Minor suffered from constipation.”

“You have a picture somewhere where he looks less in eternal pain?” I tried.

“Mr. Peters, I must …” Souvaine said gently.

“Only the one at the beach in his bathing suit with Errol and Faye on my birthday,” said Bertha eagerly. “I think I could find it. Would that be acceptable, Reverend?”

“If it is your will and that of God,” he said, turning to Bertha and taking her hands in his as he stood. “If God doesn’t mind J. Minor Frank being witnessed cavorting on the beach in his briefs, then I certainly do not mind. It is between you and God.”

“I don’t think I’ll do it,” she said, looking down at me. I sipped my lemonade and shrugged.

“Good lemonade,” I said.

Souvaine ushered Bertha to the door while I toasted Deacon Ortiz, who watched me without taking his drink. When Bertha was safely out, Souvaine went back to his couch and smiled, showing perfect white teeth.

“You are good,” Souvaine said.

“Not as good as you,” I said. “At least at this kind of game. I play other games better.”

“Our Mr. Ortiz in his youth played many games,” Souvaine said, patting Ortiz’s ample leg. “I think he is capable of playing them again. Is there anything else you wish to alter in the sanctuary?”

“Those paintings,” I said. “Bertha must have done them.”

“No.”

“Then whoever sold them to you took you for a ride.”

“You don’t like our Jesus,” he said sadly. “Or our Washington or Lincoln. You have no empathy for the heartfelt primitive artist.”

I leaned forward. “You got junk on your wall, Rev,” I whispered. “What do you think?”

“Mr. Ortiz painted those pictures,” the Reverend whispered back.

“A man of many talents. Let’s get down to business,” I said.

Mr. Ortiz took his lemonade and drank it down in two gulps.

Souvaine leaned back and examined the backs of his hands before he spoke.

“Gladly,” he said. “This nation was founded under God, trusting in God. It is part of our heritage. The principle of separation of Church and State is not possible. It is neither possible nor right. God does not forsake any part of his dominion. There are conflicting forces in our nation. There is a new burst of religious understanding. Do you know what the
New York Times
best-selling novels are this week?”

“
Mother Finds a Baby
by Gypsy Rose Lee and
Love’s Lovely Counterfeit
by James M. Cain,” I guessed.

“
The Robe
and
The Song of Bernadette
,” Souvaine countered triumphantly. “This nation has not forsaken its Christian foundations.”

I wasn’t sure that religious fervor accounted for the popularity of best-sellers, but Souvaine was into a sermon now, pacing the floor.

“But you are right, too, Mr. Peters. There are godless books, godless candidates. The Japanese are a godless race. To allow the presentation of a play which sympathizes with a Japanese harlot and makes a Christian American naval officer seem heartless would be to play into the hands of the enemy. And let us be clear about this. Japan is not only the enemy of the United States but the enemy of our God—for God and the United States must remain inseparable.”

“Whose God?” I asked.

“There is but one true God,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a clean, ironed handkerchief to wipe his brow and palms.

“You know who killed the plasterer?” I asked.

Souvaine looked at me, disoriented.

“Plasterer,” I repeated. “Or who tried to strangle Lorna Bartholomew this afternoon … or plant an ax in my chest?”

“No.”

“Might it have been God?” I tried, looking at Mr. Ortiz, who had put his lemonade glass back on the tray to give me his undivided attention.

“God does not condone murder or violence except to protect the …” he began and then stopped. “I do not know who did such things. I am not at all sure that I believe such things have been done. It is my understanding that the plasterer fell.”

“Maybe.” I said. “Have you got a live wire in the pews? Someone who might decide to give God a little help?”

“No one,” Souvaine said, with righteous indignation. “None in my congregation.”

“How about Mr. Ortiz?” I said, looking at the deacon. No reaction.

“Absurd,” said Souvaine. “I’m afraid you see the righteousness of our cause and are—with Satan’s help, whether you know it or not—trying to discredit us. It shall not be, Mr. Peters. Know you that it shall not be.”