Scarecrow Gods (7 page)

A lot of work had been done on the old Bible College since he’d last seen it. Not only had all the buildings been painted and repaired, but there was grass growing everywhere. Flowerbeds framed each sidewalk with a mix of small cacti and multicolored perennials. They were on county water so it wasn’t costing them much.

Then of course there were the Indians, especially the crazy Papagos. The Church was right on the banks of the dry bed of the San Pedro River. It had once been deep, wide and swift. He remembered seeing pictures of barges that were used to allow horse traffic to cross. Pretty difficult to imagine when you saw it as it now, nothing more than a wide, dusty ditch. The Papagos blamed the white man. They said that they’d insulted the great serpent who would make the waters disappear. Like everything in the world, this was yet another thing to be blamed on the white man—nevermind it had been an earthquake that had sent the river underground.

Ortega had fallen significantly behind. The redhead was holding the door. He quickened his step and strode into a cool, air-conditioned cafeteria. The room was about half full, most of the people reading or playing games. There seemed to be an energetic board game going on in the far right corner. Two men were arguing loudly and it appeared that at any moment there’d be some blood.

A slight man disengaged himself from conversation at another table and headed towards them. He had closely cropped brown hair. He wore blue jeans and a white t-shirt.

Ortega crossed his arms and wondered if the display was for his benefit, to maybe keep his attention while they whisked some illegals away. He’d play along, but out of the corners of his eyes he checked outside.

The man held out a hand and smiled. He had a goatee. A gold nose-ring looked slightly out of place in the left nostril. Bright blue eyes gathered him in as the voice embraced him.

“Welcome, Agent Ortega. Welcome to the Church of the Resurrection. I am John. How can I help you?”

The man’s voice was a complex mix of masculine surety and feminine concern. Ortega felt immediately comfortable. The man had a genuine talent. Ortega accepted the handshake, at the same time wary of a double-cross.

“Sorry about the delay in speaking with you. Some of the members had a small argument about capitalism.”

“Capitalism?” asked Ortega, finding himself following John back to where the man had been arguing.

“Yes, capitalism. A true evil that sets man against man, man against woman and people against God.”

“By capitalism, you mean money, right?”

“Yes and no. Money is certainly the way people keep score, but the root of the evil of the system is what they used to call
one-upmanship
. The old,
I am better than you
. Where do you think the term
Little People
came from? Some Swiftian Lilliputian ideal? Or maybe tiny winged fairies scampering among the flowers and squatting on toadstools? No. Of course not. The
Little People
are the downtrodden. The ones who are left behind. The ones without all the money. You know, those
Poor Suckers
.

“Ah. Here we are. This is Mr. Plumpkin, Mr. Goldman, Mr. Hoffenbach and Mr. Adams.”

Each man nodded in Ortega’s direction and returned to their game. Although haggard, their determination was evident. By the gnashing of their teeth and the hard lines of their jaws, one would imagine they were playing with real money. Then Ortega noticed the wrinkled green bills on the Monopoly board. He was shocked to see they
were
playing with real money. Stacks of crisp hundreds, tens, fives and ones were in front of each player.

“They just joined our community this month. Mr. Plumpkin and Mr. Hoffenbach were both successful insurance salesmen. Mr. Adams, here, was a broker and Mr. Goldman was doing admirably well selling Corvettes in Las Vegas. Did you know that more Corvettes are sold in Las Vegas than any other city in the country?”

“They’re playing with real money?”

“That’s right. We figure that if they play with their own hard-earned cash, it makes them play harder.”

“You mean that’s their money?” Ortega glanced over at the bank and ogled the mounds of cash. Stacks upon stacks of banded bills were on the adjacent table. He noticed the unshaven faces and the bloodshot eyes. The full ashtrays and the stained coffee cups. “How long have they been playing?”

John glanced over at the redhead who held up a hand showing three fingers.

“Three days and the playing is quite fierce as you witnessed earlier.”

“Three days! But how? I mean the longest game of Monopoly I ever played was maybe three or four hours.”

“Ah, but that’s regular Monopoly. Take a closer look, Agent Ortega. Our game is a bit different.”

Ignoring the looks of irritation from the players, Ortega leaned in and invaded their space. The game
was
different. Where
Go
should have been were the words
Tithe
and below that were the words
10 Percent
. Instead of collecting, they had to pay ten percent. Ten percent of what? Their cash?

There were also no railroads. In their place were different pictures of church facades: Catholic, Muslim, Protestant and Jewish. As he watched, Mr. Adams landed his quaint metal wheelbarrow upon the Muslim space and shook his head, cursing under his breath. He counted out three hundred dollars and placed it in the middle of the board, which had an already impressive pile of cash. Ortega examined the square closely, but could see no other writing to indicate the amount to be paid.

“How do they know how much to pay?”

“They decide,” said John, spreading his arms and smiling. “The limit is three hundred dollars unless otherwise specified.”

“What do you mean, they decide? Why not just pay a dollar then?”

“If he wants to pay a dollar, then he can pay a dollar. No one cares.”

“But that’s crazy.”

“Do you think so?” asked John.

Ortega forced his attention back to the board again. Mr. Goldman landed on Community Chest. There were eight of them, something else that set this version of Monopoly apart from the original. As he picked up his card, Ortega moved behind and read over his shoulder.

Your ex-wife’s boyfriend is arrested for possession of a controlled substance. She calls you and asks to borrow ten thousand dollars for bail. Do you pay it?

Mr. Goldman laid the card on the board for all to read. Grinning happily, he began counting out his cash.

“Mr. Goldman?” asked John, “Is that what you’d really do or are you in maybe too much of a hurry to attain salvation?”

“Sure. Sure,” said the man counting out the bills. He glanced at the other men and chuckled.

“Mr. Goldman?” asked John softly.

The man slowed, then stopped his counting.

“There is no fast and easy way to be a human being,” said John.

Mr. Goldman sat back, paused and licked his lips. With a sigh, he grabbed the bills he’d just recently counted and placed them back on his stack.

“Fuck him,” he said, to the laughter of his fellow players. “I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.”

Ortega recognized it as the truth, but was confused by the sadness in the man’s voice.

The other players clapped him on the back. They laughed, agreeing that they would have done the same.

“Be true to yourself, Mr. Goldman. You are well on your way.” John turned to Ortega and gestured for them to leave.

“We lost our humanity when we gained capitalism. Too much money and too little concern.”

“But he didn’t show any concern for the ex-wife or the boyfriend.”

“That’s because it’s how he feels. It wasn’t the money that kept him from paying, it was his hatred. Hatred is a true emotion. One thing capitalism does create is the necessity to mask feelings. It makes people solve problems with money, to hide behind the almighty dollar. It is so much easier to throw money at a problem than to just examine yourself.”

“Wait a minute. It seemed like he was trying to give more money than he was allowed to give. Am I right?”

“Exactly.”

“And each of those men, Goldman, Adams, and the other two are trying to give away their money? Is that how they win?”

“Yes. And maybe. You see, they’d already asked to join. In fact, they were going to give their money to me when they arrived.”

“Then why. . .”

“If they give it away, what have they learned?” interrupted John. “This way they at least give it away for good reasons. As long as they’re true to themselves, they’re learning.”

“So what does the winner get?”

“Who is the winner?”

“Based on your rules, I suppose the one who gives his money away first.”

“That’s what they think too,” said John laughing a husky body laugh. “It really doesn’t matter. You see, they’re learning about themselves. A lot of it isn’t pleasant.”

“Then who wins?”

“They all do.”

Agent Ortega left with his head spinning. He’d anticipated an easy strong arm, maybe a few extra bucks to take care of his wife’s credit card bills. Instead, he’d been given a dissertation on capitalism and humility.

As Ortega pulled into the parking lot of the Sorry Gulch Saloon, he decided that he’d go back sometime when he was off duty. He hadn’t the money to play Monopoly, but maybe there was something else for him. As he pushed through the tavern doors he realized he’d never asked about illegals. Somehow he’d forgotten.

* * *

John watched the agent leave. Instead of heading back to the cafeteria, he headed for the nearest dormitory. The man was sadly confused. Then again, who wasn’t? John’s message was not for the meek. There were many who’d rather see him lying beside the edge of the road bleeding rather than have him improving the state of humanity.

Before he opened the door he pressed a button secreted in the wall. He counted to ten, then entered. He entered and was immediately surrounded by several women, each wanting to touch him, feel him. John smiled and grabbed their caressing hands, forcefully yet gently pushing them aside.

The room was like an army barracks. Along both walls, single bunks were separated by two-door wall lockers. At the foot of each bunk were white wooden footlockers which held any excess that couldn’t fit inside the lockers. And that was it. The women, like the men, were not allowed any more space for their material goods. They’d come to the church to concentrate on their souls, not their bodies. In many cases, this had caused problems, but given the choice to leave with it all or to stay with less, they almost always chose to stay.

This dormitory was primarily for the unwed. The few married women who called it home were the ones he’d separated, the ones he considered an imperfect match for their husbands.

John moved his way around the long room, passing soft words, quick prayers and the occasional embrace. He was the ruler of his domain and the women of the dorm treated him as they would never have treated their husbands. As they would never have treated their fathers. John was their spiritual lover, their confidant and their master.

When he’d almost reached the back of the room he came to the bunk of a young woman, thirtyish and slightly overweight. He’d recently taken her away from her husband, his word stronger than any court dictated separation, his wish their true divorce. While all the other women had welcomed John to the dormitory, this one had remained curled up atop the surplus army wool blanket wrapped in a cloak of loneliness.

John turned, indicating he wanted privacy. He approached the bed and knelt beside it, whispering, his hands stroking her short hair, her ebony skin, words soothing. Three minutes later they stood and walked to a door at the rear of the dormitory. John glanced back at the women who were pretending to be busy. Smiling, he followed the woman into the room where they could be alone for awhile.

* * *

The Alexian Brothers’ Retreat House, Arizona

Simon pulled the 1978 Lincoln station wagon out of the gravel parking lot of the Retreat House shaking his head in disgust.

“Too many rules. Too many damn rules.”

Since he’d finally decided to get serious about religion, he’d found himself, more often than not, called on the carpet by his various supervisors of the faith. The Father at the Salus Place in St. Louis, Missouri had been the worst and had almost ended Simon’s career before it started.

“You don’t seem to be fitting in,” he’d said from behind a massive oak desk. “And honestly, you don’t even have any medical training to speak of. By all reports you’re scared of the sight of blood, which is particularly detrimental to our mission of healing. I’m constantly getting complaints from different department heads that you waste most of your time asking inane questions. For the life of me, Brother Simon, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

“But I’ve done everything you asked. I pray. I assist the orderlies. I must have emptied as least a thousand bed pans since I’ve been here. I’ve…”